Ruben Frank rose this morning, as he does every morning, to the sound of rustling bed covers, running water and squeaking wheelchairs. All courtesy of the nursing staff, who come in to wake his dear bride of more than 50 years to bath, dress and ready her for the day. This was the daily routine before breakfast was served in the main dining hall of the assisted living community in which they now live.
During this time, as well as throughout the day, he sits in his recliner by the window. The blinds are positioned at just the right angle to allow perfect sight of any passersby in the corridor at the other end of the garden atrium, adjacent to his only remaining physical view of the world.
This was his “space”, an area large enough only to fit a chair, table and lamp. A place he seemed to have carved out for himself that somehow connected him to the outside world, if only by a window. Although this window seat had become a treasured possession, it was hardly a rivaled comparison to his Florida home of ample room, rich land and plentiful rivers which seem to sing a song of solace as their waters rush over the rocky banks.
As his nurse, I was able to talk with him on a regular basis during our weekly visits. Yet, as we chatted and I listened to him tell his stories of the life he lived, I began to realize that this small window view that he was so protective of was more than a connection to the outdoors. It was the last remaining vehicle he possessed in retrieving the precious memories of his past; his hobbies, his passions, his achievements and failures, his “pride-and-joy” moments and of course, his loves.
He has spoken of younger days living in Florida on the river as the party boats sailed by with their music flowing upstream to fill the air that pour into his bedroom window at night. He has also told with pride how he became a prominent pilot and expert welder as a young man trying to make his way. Each rendition shared revealed only a small section of his life, yet gave a little more insight to the man he was and the life he relished so. The most poignant were the stories of how he first met his sweet bride who doesn’t talk much these days and requires constant care and assistance for the simplest of tasks regarding her own personal care.
Even though she could give little if any response as he spoke, he would give her a glance and a pat on the hand as he said, “That’s my girl!”. Many of his stories would be followed by the phrase, “I miss my home. Florida-that’s my home. This isn’t home for me but I’m here because she needs to be here and ‘that’s my girl’”.
Then immediately, the story of how they met would come to his mind and he recounted the events as if for the first time, with a slight grin and a look in his eyes of wonder as to how something so incredible could have happened to him. He-the young, handsome military pilot and her-the beautiful student who fell in love almost immediately and have been together ever since.
Then immediately, the story of how they met would come to his mind and he recounted the events as if for the first time, with a slight grin and a look in his eyes of wonder as to how something so incredible could have happened to him. He-the young, handsome military pilot and her-the beautiful student who fell in love almost immediately and have been together ever since.
They shared a life of more that fifty years full of rough beginnings, triumphs, losses, children and grandchildren. Upon first glance, evidence of the fullness of their life consisted of only a handful of family photos; the usual holiday snapshots of the ‘kids’ with their ‘kids’. Three generations represented in a handful of pictures displayed in a room for two which, was no bigger than a walk-in closet. A closet they now called home.
One photo stood out among the rest. The one Ruben referred to frequently with great pride and a huge smile was that of his ‘girl’ the day they met. Of all his stories, he admitted, “She’s the best thing to happen in my life”. Many of the stories he told were the same ones he had told before. As I listened, I found myself wondering if his memory was really failing him to the extent of repeating his stories or was there more. Maybe, he was aware of his repetitive nature more than I realized. Maybe the comfort found in repeating those memories was worth the possible diagnosis of dementia he might have received.
The list of things we do for love is endless. They can take us away from the home and life we’ve always known. As Ruben put it, “I want to go back home. I can’t because she needs to be here where she can be taken care of. She’s here therefore I’m here. Where else would I be? That’s my girl!”
copyright Morning Glories 2009
copyright Morning Glories 2009
