RICHARD

I knew things would never be the same when I first met Richard.  Richard was a hospice patient.  He was dying.  And he lived alone.

My first meeting with Richard took place at the hospital.   I had only been in my job less than one month as a marketer for our hospice company.  I was new and very nervous.  I worried about how I was going to approach the subject with him.  I was still uncomfortable with the subject of death, let alone talking to someone who just received the news that there was no longer any hope for recovery.  I visualized sadness, and family around asking all sorts of questions.

But it didn’t go like that.   Richard was alone.  He was tall and slender and except for the fact I knew he was going on hospice, he looked well rested and vibrant.  “Hello, are you from the hospice company?” he asked.  He asked questions, I answered.  And in the end, he said that it sounded good to him.  Richard wasn’t afraid of dying.  He was afraid of going back to the nursing home. 

The next few months, I began visiting Richard on a volunteer basis, almost daily.  He and I became fast friends despite our very different lives.  On Richard’s Seventieth birthday, he and I celebrated by eating way too much cake.  Richard had a love for sweets. 

The time with him flew by too fast, I wasn’t ready to see his decline or accept what I knew all too well was coming.  It seemed to hit him suddenly one day.  He started to be confined to his bedroom, then bedridden.  We increased his daily aides, but it was apparent that he was no longer safe at home alone.

The nurse came to talk to him about moving to the nursing home on Monday.  Richard wasn’t going.  But he didn’t have a choice, he wasn’t safe at home.  My heart broke; I knew this was his biggest fear.  In the end he agreed to leave on Thursday.  The hospice nurse allowed him a few more days at home.

Wednesday morning I got a call.  Richard was active, this meant he was dying.  I knew he planned it this way.  He wanted to be home and die and he was getting his way.  A week later after Richard passed; I had this very intense feeling.  Richard was in the room, I didn’t see him, I felt him and I heard him in my heart.  “Thank you Coy.  I am ok.”

Uncle Bob

Everyone in their life has had one of these days. My Uncle Bob has dementia. He is a sixty year old male with a thirty something year old wife, that conveniently took off the same time his memory did. With other family members “too busy” I mainly take care of him. It interferes with my life sometimes, and today just happens to be one of those days.

It starts off with a phone call from the local police. “Ma’am, we have a gentleman here…” I don’t need to hear anymore. I can only imagine where this conversation is heading. Bob is known to go for long walks. And when I mean walks, I really mean wander off and get lost. “I’ll be right there.” I sigh into the phone while scrambling for my keys and purse.  

Driving to the police station I begin to feel like a parent picking up my unruly child from the principal’s office. Approaching the station, I’m already tempted to push on the pedal and drive off. Leave him and let him be someone else’s problem for a while. It’s a lovely thought; a five second daydream before snapping back into reality and realizing I’m already parked and walking towards the front door of the station. “God help me.” I pray while swinging open doors.

Walking inside I am greeted by a lady at the front desk who takes me around back to an officer. The young—just out of the academy— officer looks at me with serious eyes. “Hello ma’am, is this your uncle?” he says eyeing over to the chair next to him. That’s when I realize Bob is in his winter coat in the middle of a hot blazing July day. Trying not to act embarrassed I hesitated before replying “Yes.” “He claims you stole some items from him?” I wanted to laugh and try to explain to this young officer that my dear sweet uncle often accuses me of stealing his treasures. Uncle Bob enjoys shopping for these priceless items out of the local tan dumpster by his apartment. “Sir,” I began, “My uncle has dementia. He often forgets things and accuses people of this type of stuff all the time.” The officer looks at me with questioning eyes trying to decide if I’m the one telling the truth or not. Looking over his notes he glances at Bob who is now playing with a dirty stuffed animal—one he pulled from his coat pocket—then glances back at me. “You can have him.” He finally speaks.

Getting to the car I situated Bob in the passenger seat. Shaking my head I’m already regretting walking into the station. Fixing myself in the car I watched Uncle Bob play with his grimy blue bunny stuffed animal—one that looked like its seen better days—before driving off and heading home. Laughing to myself, I knew this would be another crazy story to tell to the family. A wild story about how Uncle Bob ventured off and claimed I stole his prize possessions to the police. I can only imagine how the next few days will turn out. Driving Bob back his place I’m already expecting another call tomorrow to pick up my lovely Uncle from the station.