A MEMORY TO SHARE
When I was in the hospital for 15 days, 10 of them were spent in Rehab where the only difference from the hospital floor was that we got dressed in shorts and T-shirts each morning. We also were expected to all eat together, sitting in our wheelchairs pulled up to a long table. There were usually about 7 or 8 of us, some there having just had a knee replacement (like me) or a hip replacement; others a victim of a stroke or an automobile accident.
One morning, I sat across from a gentleman who was around 40 years old, black with a gold tooth. He was being fed and I noticed he would not respond to any attempts at conversation. He seemed lost in his own world, not able to use his arms for much other than to roll his chair a short distance.
That same afternoon, I saw him again as I wheeled past him to return to my private room after a grueling Physical Therapy session. He looked lost in thought, each sneaker untied, his hair uncombed, a bag of urine in need of emptying. I smiled and spoke but he just looked right through me. He sat there all hunched over, leaning to one side, staring at a TV that was always kept on in the common area where we congregated three times a day to eat.
The next day, I observed him again while his nurse was trying to engage him in any kind of stimuli as a means of therapy. He was totally unresponsive and sullen. It was obvious he had suffered a stroke as silent tears ran down his dark face.
That afternoon, I encountered him once again when I wheeled myself to the ice machine in the common room. He was sitting in front of the TV again, looking up with his usual blank, distant stare. I smiled, said "Hello"------ nothing. I started to wheel myself back to the solitude and privacy of my own room when I turned around and got his attention. I asked the gentleman "Do you like baseball?" I had to repeat my question twice before he softly and slowly replied "Why, sho."
Ten minutes later, he was still telling me how Hank Aaron should not be fired; that he is the best manager the Atlanta Braves ever had; that Jackie Robinson should be in the Hall of Fame and how he’d love to meet Micky Mantle; he wondered if he was still Marilyn Monroe’s husband? I never bothered to correct anything he said; it was obvious he was still living in the past and that was perfectly fine with me. At least he was talking!
After that, the Nursing staff started talking baseball to him and he would light up just like a Christmas tree. Before I checked out, I asked my family to buy an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and when I gave it to him, he wept. He wore it even to bed; I know because I could see it as I wheeled by his room to say good-bye on my last night there. I found him sound asleep, cap askew on his half-bald head, TV playing to no-one; the baseball game long ended.
I’ve often wondered if he can feed himself yet? Does he have a family who cares? And is he still talking baseball?
When I was in the hospital for 15 days, 10 of them were spent in Rehab where the only difference from the hospital floor was that we got dressed in shorts and T-shirts each morning. We also were expected to all eat together, sitting in our wheelchairs pulled up to a long table. There were usually about 7 or 8 of us, some there having just had a knee replacement (like me) or a hip replacement; others a victim of a stroke or an automobile accident.
One morning, I sat across from a gentleman who was around 40 years old, black with a gold tooth. He was being fed and I noticed he would not respond to any attempts at conversation. He seemed lost in his own world, not able to use his arms for much other than to roll his chair a short distance.
That same afternoon, I saw him again as I wheeled past him to return to my private room after a grueling Physical Therapy session. He looked lost in thought, each sneaker untied, his hair uncombed, a bag of urine in need of emptying. I smiled and spoke but he just looked right through me. He sat there all hunched over, leaning to one side, staring at a TV that was always kept on in the common area where we congregated three times a day to eat.
The next day, I observed him again while his nurse was trying to engage him in any kind of stimuli as a means of therapy. He was totally unresponsive and sullen. It was obvious he had suffered a stroke as silent tears ran down his dark face.
That afternoon, I encountered him once again when I wheeled myself to the ice machine in the common room. He was sitting in front of the TV again, looking up with his usual blank, distant stare. I smiled, said "Hello"------ nothing. I started to wheel myself back to the solitude and privacy of my own room when I turned around and got his attention. I asked the gentleman "Do you like baseball?" I had to repeat my question twice before he softly and slowly replied "Why, sho."
Ten minutes later, he was still telling me how Hank Aaron should not be fired; that he is the best manager the Atlanta Braves ever had; that Jackie Robinson should be in the Hall of Fame and how he’d love to meet Micky Mantle; he wondered if he was still Marilyn Monroe’s husband? I never bothered to correct anything he said; it was obvious he was still living in the past and that was perfectly fine with me. At least he was talking!
After that, the Nursing staff started talking baseball to him and he would light up just like a Christmas tree. Before I checked out, I asked my family to buy an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and when I gave it to him, he wept. He wore it even to bed; I know because I could see it as I wheeled by his room to say good-bye on my last night there. I found him sound asleep, cap askew on his half-bald head, TV playing to no-one; the baseball game long ended.
I’ve often wondered if he can feed himself yet? Does he have a family who cares? And is he still talking baseball?
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