There’s a beautiful song by Donovan in which a human sings to a “little pebble upon the sand” and in turn the pebble sings to the “little human upon the sand,” and gives its blessing: “Now you have my blessing, go your way.” It’s light and lovely with the sentiment that we all are part of the circle of things.
This week I’ve joined a new circle. The setting is a quiet beach. The clean sand shifts at the whim of the winds to reveal broken shells of once active and unique creatures. Yes, I’m on holiday but not in the Caribbean. I’m vacationing this week in lovely Lincolnwood, helping my dad adjust to his new home in an assisted living facility. The small community of about 25 residents is clean, quiet and attractive. The residents too are clean, quiet and attractive, shells of their former selves. They are mostly overlooked, unappreciated and easily obscured by the sand. Once in a while, someone comes along, picks one up to see its shine and unique beauty.
There’s Lucille, a tall, pale woman who dozes in her wheel chair during a silly stretch and ball toss activity. At first glance she’s dull and empty. But when Betty, the little white dog with black button eyes is placed on her lap, Lucille lights up, smiles at me and holds little Betty. “I don’t think she likes me,” she says sweetly. She doesn’t know how to hold the dog, but if I pet Betty, she’ll stay in Lucille’s lap for a bit.
I carry Betty over to my dad who doesn’t especially want to hold her. He just wants to see her face and laugh. She’s a funny little thing to watch.
We move to Faye, a 99 year old woman who sits in her wheel chair next to her 100 year old husband Charles in his wheel chair. Charles lets go of her hand reluctantly so Faye can pet Betty. A huge smile replaces her previous grunts and she says thank you. I didn’t even know she could talk. Charles tells me he was a dentist and oral surgeon. Their personal care aide tells me they’re like one and if Charles goes first, Faye will not make it another week.
At lunch, Shirley, one of the few who initiates conversation, whispers to me, “Don’t know when the last time was I got to have lunch with three men.” I laugh and tell her, “You’re living right, sister.” One of the men is my father, who reaches out a hand to meet Max, a man who speaks only when spoken to, like most of the residents. Max is hard of hearing and doesn’t know Shirley is talking at the same time. He tells the air over the table that he and his wife lived in the independent living apartments. When she died he had to move in here. He complains about the food along with Shirley. Shirley tells me that she still likes to read novels but “they don’t have anything good here to read.” I promise to bring her some from my parents’ untouched library at their home. Shirley grins, maybe not so much with the hope of reading a new novel but more so with the pleasure of being taken seriously.
Edna, a spunky gal who walks without a walker, answers a question about traveling to Paris. When I ask if she went with her husband and children, she says, “Well, we were with a group,” she tries to explain. With the same perky expression she ends with, “But that was in the past.”
Little John, nearly blind, pops out of his room across from my dad’s room. I cross the hall to see if he needs something. “Can you help me?” He coaxes me into his room and I’m worried he’ll ask me to do something I’m not supposed to do. “You see, I’m all alone here and no one is helping me.” “What do you need?” I ask. “Well, this for instance,” he says, handing me his razor and the detached chord. Then he shows me his nearly empty drawer, his empty cookie jar, and the items he touches in their places on his counter: a Halloween sized chocolate bar, his sunglasses and his cap. We do this several times.
Another woman is rolled in for all group activities. I don’t know her name. No one talks to her, asks her questions or throws her the ball. She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t have a private care aide like Charles and Faye, or like Olga. Olga is one of the luckier shells on the beach. Her English is good but she and her aide spend much time speaking Ukrainian together. She’s not eroding as quickly by the coarse sands as the ones left alone.
In one more week I will be back at work. I worry that my daily advocacy will be forgotten along with my dad. I worry he won’t be spoken to. I worry no one will pick him up for activities every morning in spite of my repeated asking. There are too many shells and only a few beach combers. I worry he’ll just hide out in the sand with Judge Judy and Doctor Phil, if he can master the remote. I worry no one will appreciate the unique and vital qualities that still inhabit this shell. I worry for them all.
While I’m still a limited little human upon the sand, I’ll do my best to pick up the shells. I can polish them with books, or questions and jokes, hand holding or puppy passing. It’s only a moment in their vast lives, but here near their passing, the moments seem more important. Maybe by doing so, other little humans will pick up a few more shells and appreciate the shine and shape that still remains. Soon these shells—Lucille, Edna, Max, Shirley, Charles and Faye, Olga, little John, my dad—will be pebbles and we, the shells resting on them. The inevitability of this circle is sad, but with a bit more giving, maybe not as much.
Last night I made a soup with Edna’s spunk and Lucille’s sweetness. Both are qualities easy to appreciate in a soup that’s easy to make.
Sweet Potato Pepper Soup
3 c. chicken stock (or vegetable if you’d rather)
I T. freshly cracked pepper
1 small onion cut in chunks
3 medium sized sweet potatoes cut in chunks (I uses organic and didn’t peel them.)
Salt to taste
Boil all ingredients until soft, about a half hour. Pour half at a time into a blender to make a smooth soup. Compliment this soup with ocean caught salmon salad on toast to combine EPA oils with beta carotene, making the best of the healthy oil.
So kind and heart warming. Living with reality with humanity. Thanks, again.
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