Ten-Finger Exercises

the conversations, continued

When I walked in June's room, she was dozing. She wakened easily, greeted me, and asked me how I was. After the ordinary exchanges, I reminded her of my last visit. Two other people had been in her room, and I hadn't had enough time to wait them out. So I told her I had talked to her daughter, and she asked me to tell her mother, among other things, that she loved her. That's the part I wanted to repeat.

June responded, "There were too many people in the room today. Six of them, in different groups. Which group are you?"

I replied, "I'm the chaplain from hospice."

Now here's where it breaks down, because I can hardly remember sentences that don't make sense. "You're the group with them together nurses daughter."

Not knowing what to say, I repeated, "Your daughter asked me to tell you that she loves you."

"You talked to my daughter? Where?"

"I talked on the phone to her. I told her about the society that accepts body donations to use for research. I told you about it the other day." No response. "Do you remember?"

"You," she said forcefully. "I want you to climb over to the next one. Will you get it for me?"

Then she pointed toward the window. "Can you put those out?"

"Do you want me to close the curtains?" I asked. "It will be dark in here if I do."

"That's too many groups." She grabbed the curtain behind her that was pulled slightly for privacy and opened it. Not the curtain she'd been pointing at. Her words were confused enough that I reached for my pen and pad to write them down.

Just then a friend came in with a blanket she said she'd brought from June's house. She'd written June's name on the label, and she showed her. June's responses were appropriate, and just then a friend of Bill's called me from the hall. I talked with him for a while, and the visitor came out of the room looking perplexed. "What's a whizbat?" she wanted to know. She hadn't seen June in several years, she said, and didn't know what she was talking about. She seemed relieved to hear that June wasn't making sense to me either. Then she began to talk about her husband's death. He had been a hospice patient too.

"I had to go out to do some errands," she said. "Of course I never would have gone if I'd known he was going to die right then. I had to blah blah, and go to the blah blah, and then I needed to stop at the blah blah blah. When I pulled in the driveway, my son was standing there, and he said, 'He's gone.' Well, I tell you, it hit me like a ton of bricks lifted off my shoulders. I couldn't do anything without him asking me what I was doing and where I was going." blah blah blah.

That's a very unusual way to be hit by a ton of bricks: "lifted off my shoulders." I'm glad I was paying attention or I wouldn't have replied appropriately either.