He came in and said, "Your name's not Mahr? You're not related to him?" I said, "I don't think so." Then he started talking about how much he enjoyed living at the facility and what good care they took of him. He was younger than the usual resident, late 60s, early 70s, and looked in fairly good shape. He mentioned that his house was visible from one end of the facility.
At some point, he made reference to what brought him there. "Just this January, this happened," and he dropped his head to show a large impression, like someone had stamped it, in his skull. His hair was just starting to cover it over. "I was just walking down the street and the next thing I know I'm waking up in March at the hospital. I had slid on some ice on the sidewalk and been knocked out. Brain bleed, coma, all the good stuff." He was pretty okay with it, he said. He had lived alone and didn't have any family and now he was here and they were making up his new family. He repeated that the food was good and they took great care of him.
I asked what he had done for work and he said he'd delivered packages. "Here 's the funny thing. I used to deliver to places like this and I'd walk in and I didn't know anyone. But pretty soon someone would come up to me and just start talking. I'd end up sticking around longer just to talk to them, you know, they didn't have any family or friends visiting, so I just felt good talking to them about anything. And now here I am, one of those guys I used to talk to."
Working in hospice, we often deal with people who have been ill for a while or whose ailment has been apparent and can be traced back. But it isn't always that way. Sometimes what changes our lives is as simple as an unseen patch of ice that puts us in the position of our patients. As with a lot of things, that's neither good nor bad. No warning, sudden change. It happens. I'm not suggesting we keep an eye peeled for the unexpected, that'll drive you nuts. Just being aware it can happen to us and the people we love is sobering.
