“This is Grandma’s tablemate. The man that they just mentioned in the eulogy. The man who encouraged her to fill that empty seat across from her in the dining room in her moments of somber frustration“
-Jenny Miner McCombs- The Addict Empath
I pulled up to the curb and set the car in park. I hastily released the hatch of my minivan and grabbed an old wheelchair. I tried to avoid smearing black grease from the wheels on my pale mint green blouse, exentuated by my Colombian strands of mint and gold gifted from long ago. He had a habit of tucking an extra brief underneath the contoured pad of his wheelchair in case of emergencies, which I discreetly tucked inside and out of sight.
“Do you want me to tuck in the back of your shirt?”
I whispered in his ear as I wheeled him into the chapel, recognizing a slight nod in the affirmative. His grey suit coat was loose, but he looked incredibly sharp and eager. I greeted the smiling man who stood opening the door for us, whispering in his ear with a distinct aire of pride,
Wheelchair Grease on my Hands
“This is Grandma’s tablemate. The man that they just mentioned in the eulogy. The man who encouraged her to fill that empty seat across from her in the dining room in her moments of somber frustration.”
I waved him off, ensuring that he made it safely into the lobby. I parked in the back of the lot past the dark pavement and into the dirt lot. I pulled the dark sunglasses off of my face, and a fleeting thought entered my mind that I should bring them inside the chapel with me; for no apparent reason, as I slid them into the crook of my clutch.Â
Four Hours Earlier…
The unmistakable blare of a bathroom light sounds loud and clear. Red and flashing alongside a switchboard that indicates an upmost emergency.
If there was one thing that I could change about the facility in which I work, it would be the sound of the bathroom lights. The longer you work with the same residents, the better you know their routines. Depending on the time of day, your instincts begin to kick in, just as anyone else in their profession who takes a certain degree of pride in their “tricks of the trade” whether it be the discreet insertion of a stretch brief up the pant leg in order to save a couple minutes of time or the odor neutralizer at the ready in my charting pouch, the same sense of recognition presents itself from time to time as a healthcare professional who is widely known to preform a large degree of the unsavory work. I heard the call light. I looked at the clock. It was 12:47 in the afternoon, and my “spidey sense” went off.
“I bet it’s 1**.” I thought to myself. I rounded the corner and gazed briskly at the call light switchboard. 1**Â “Ha! I was right! Good old *Leroy”
“Every time I would lift him up, there would be a predictable snap, crackle, and pop of his joints. Over time, I affectionately referred to him as my rice crispy man.”
-Jenny Miner McCombs-The Addict Empath
*Leroy. Always late to breakfast. And always the last one to linger in the dining room far after the crowd of residents have departed. We use radios at work, and we use their room numbers to identify them over the walkie to be discreet. We have codes for emergencies and such. But on a regular given day, the whole lot of employees who carry radios do not need to hear discreet references for full linen changes that implies who knows what along with medication requests. I strolled over to room 1** and saw him scooting over to the bathroom in his wheelchair. He was wearing an oversized grey suit jacket that hung loosely on his thin frame and a crisp white shirt and black tie. A stark contrast to his comfy grey sweats that garnsihed his lower half.
“I am going to a funeral today.” He told me, his eyes growing wide with anticipation. “I want to wait until the last minute until I put my suit pants on.”
“I’ll be there as well,” I told him, as I wheeled into the bathroom. “She was my Grandma.”
He was a one assist stand and pivot. Easy enough. *Leroy just had problems with balance, along with a propensity to get chatty in the watercloset. I helped onto the toilet and reminded him to use his call light to give him privacy. Nearly every time I lifted him up I could count on a snap, crackle, and pop of his joints. Just about every time without fail. Over time, I affectionately called him my rice crispy man. He talked to me about my Grandmother. He was an old family friend.
He knew my Grandma’s husband pretty well. He passed away in 2002, merely two years before I met and married their oldest grandchild and My Former Sweetheart, to whom Book Four of my Series is named. All I heard were the stories that solidified his legend. A man that prided himself in his work ethic. A man who was a firm foundation in his faith, carrying many responsibilities and callings. And a man who was never afraid of the responsibilities of a man’s duty to his family and to his God. I’ve seen a few pictures of him with my Grandma in their youth. Grandma with her dark raven hair and Grandmpa leaning casually to his side hand propped casually on one knee, hair waved and gazing into the lense with an uncanny smolder reminiscent of a movie star. But it was Grandma that convinced him to join our faith and to become baptized.
“We got baptized right there in front of her house in the little pond.” He told me. “Myself and three of my children. It was her that convinced me to join the church.”
He paced around anxiously this morning while I was duitifully getting the other residents out of bed and ready for breakfast. I was set to leave at 9:00 am so that I could go home and get ready for the service myself. Unbenownst to me, and what I would learn the next day was that he had slept poorly the night before. *Leroy had a pre-existing nerve condition that left him susceptible to sudden and intense bouts of stabbing head pain, similar to the conditions of an intense migrane, but without warning.
On the other side of the building, I aided a woman at the facility who was my grandmother’s cousin. I will call her *Lane. She, too, chose to wear her favorite pant suit ensemble of soft mint green that she often wore when she went to special occasions; a rarity as she hardly ever desired to leave the well known comforts of her bed. A woman with the worst hearing in the building; and yet, the bet memory. As an unfortunate result, she was always hesitant when I offered her a bed boost, as I was guilty of giving her a wedgie several weeks before. She had had her hair done the night before, and one of my co-workers was teasing it delicately and applying copious amounts of hairspray, which prompted me to leave the room with due haste.
When I got home, I opened my jewlrey cabinet and noticed my Colombian treasure. My gold and mint green strands gifted to me by my mother and father in law years ago when I was still able to call myself a wife, and before I knew just how difficult it would be to be stripped of that title. I wanted to pay homage to them in some discreet way, hoping that they would pick up my gesture of peace. A subtle and discreet sign that I still want to belong to the clan. That is why I call her my grandmother. Not my ex Grandmother in law. The technicality of the title was meaningless. As it turns out, my Former Sweethearts Grandmother had the privilege of being mine longer than my own paternal grandmother, who died when I was just twelve years old. I called her Grandma for almost twenty years. And I have no doubt that she loved me as such. Such sentiment was repeated multiple times over when I sat down in the service, and she opened both her home and her heart to everyone who needed to feel welcome.
I entered the lobby just in time to see the solemn assembly of family members lined up alongside the kitchen and down the side passage, as they prepared to enter the chapel. I spotted my Former Sweetheart, a head or two above the rest, with the rest of my children. I watched each face as they marched past me. Many were from out of state who had traveled for the occasion. Many were wiping away tears. Many let them drip freely. And in that moment, I wished that I, too, were able to cry. But I knew better; perhaps better than many, as I recorded in my Journal, that effectivley cutting out or effectivley numbing; as I have, the painful parts of our lives also deprives us of feeling anything close to what we can genuienly call Joy. Months of instinctual repression had robbed me of the ability to grieve the deaths of over half a dozen residents who had passed away at our facility with rapid succession. A sudden stroke. A sudden illness. One day I as laughing about forgetting one’s teeth while I strolled her to the dining room. Three days later, she was dead. While my co-workers shed tears of respect, I had found; to my own dismay, that I could not feel the much desired release of feeling moisture upon my own cheeks. I merely stood there quite aghast, feeling somewhat defective. A quintessential cyborg. In healthcare, sometimes you have to be just that to get through a typical twelve hour shift. Always dynamic. Always changing. And yet, many of them were my dear friends.
I sat directly behind my Former Sweetheart, with his distinctive shaggy hair mixed with aging grey. What he used to refer to as his “strands of wisdom.” My six year old instinctivley clung to him, and I knew that she was comforting him. Quickly, and discreetly, I snapped an image of the embrace on my phone, knowing that he would appreciate the sentiment and wondering if I should text it to him. And in that moment, I found myself wondering, despite our disagreements and hositility that had been tumultous from time to time, if the man I married was crying as IÂ had wished to in that moment. I remember feeling envious of him early on in our marriage that he could cry so easily, almost at will, or so it seemed. He was tender. He was pure. But one thing was for certain, He was tremendously close to her. Her oldest grandchild. Grandma had seven children and a great line of posterity. Each one of them gave a beautiful eulogy of their mother. When the third child stood up to the pulpit to speak, I was briefly torn away from my propensity to people watch among the crowd, as I heard my phone vibrate. I discreetly looked down at my lap. It was a text from my co-worker that I had just left an hour ago. I looked at the clock. It was 10:12am.
“Hey, is someone going to pick up *Lane and Leroy?
I responded. “I don’t know. Are they still there?”
“People here are saying that no one is giving them a ride. No one called to set up a ride for them…Someone needs to come get them. They are going to be heartbroken.“
-A Friend and Co-Worker
I could feel my heart sink immediately; followed by a quick surge of adrenaline, purpose, and a profound sense of urgency. I bolted from my seat before I really had a plan and sprinted to my car, hastily probing for my keys as I detatched them from the brass ring attatched to my clutch.
“Are they still there?” I quickly texted her.
I anxiously strummed my steering wheel, looking this way and that. He was my grandmother’s lifelong friend. She, my grandmother’s cousin. And yet both of them had somehow been unable to get to the service. There was no reason why I couldn’t do something about it.
“As I drove closer to the facility, I knew instinctivley that it was the right choice. My higher power confirmed it to me with both a strength and conviction that I can not describe. But it fueled my resolve. This was something I knew I had to do.”
-Jenny Miner McCombs- The Addict Empath
*Leroy was weight bearing and could easily ride in my passenger seat, as I hastily folded his wheelchair and folded it into the back of my car. *Lane; however, was largely non weight bearing and needed a lift at the facility, so the maintenance assistant took her in the company van that folllowed swiftly behind us.
Yet by the time we arrived, looking down at my grease smudged hands upon entering the lobby, the solemn audience were beginning their mass exedous out of the chapel and into the gymnasium where a hearty display of cookies and Hawaiian Haystacks awaited them. And so we resigned ourselves to stay behind for a moment right there in the lobby; he and I, as I knelt down by his wheelchair and looked right into his blue eyes.
“I want you to know something. They mentioned you in the eulogies. Her family, did you know that? We both know that my grandmother was an incredibly stoic woman. But she did have moments of vulnerability during her stay that she rarely voiced. And you helped her. You sat next to her at every meal. You gave her a reason to get in that lift once more. A reason to eat when she did not have an appetite. And a reason to be present in a moment that she may not have wanted to be, despite her strength. You did that for her. You were more than you may have known. You were her tablemate.“
-Jenny Miner McCombs-The Addict Empath
The lobby was adorned with images that celebrated a life well lived and paintings that once felt the warmth of her delicate brushstrokes. *Leroy gazed upon the memories. Her brown and white striped cookie jar, complete with spiced ginger cookies and glazed icing, adorned the display. I slipped a crisp memorial program into his front pocket for a keepsake of turquoise and cream. I made sure that *Leroy had a table next to mine as I wheeled him up to the crisp white tablecloth and began to lead my toddler; my girl in the pale pink dress, down the assembly line of various toppings to lay upon sweet rice and creamed chicken. When I had returned to table sometime later; after chastizing my young ones for eating far too many cookies, (although if truth be told, I had made sure to meticulously fold three sugar cookies with sweet vanilla cream icing gently into a napkin before placing it discreetly on the shelf above the coat rack. An evening meal for the self admitted single person’s diet that is not ideal.)
I glanced over to my left and noticed that *Leroy was hunched over and clutching his head, and that my Former Sweethearts uncle, husband to the second youngest of Grandma’s children, and also a physical therapist, was leaning over him as well with a look of concern. Having a knowledge of *Leroy’s pre-existing medical condition, I took it upon myself to intervene, as I had driven him there. Briefly explaining the situation to my uncle and meeting up with my cousin’s wife. We wheeled him into the side room off to the right of the stage where it was dark and quiet, as his neurological condition left him with symptoms indicative of a severe migrane. With sensitivity to light and sound.
I must admit that despite my eight years as a healthcare professional, in that moment, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I felt that my cousin for all intents and purposes, as well as the director of the facility in which I worked ought to know about what was happening to him, feeling that he may feel a sense of duty to his care. When I found him helping his own young children, I discreetly whispered the situation to him and where he was located, and then I promptly returned to Leroy, finding him quite alone while others sought help. Suddenly, he started to scream in earnest. Sharp, piercing screams that would leave one feeling quite helpless, as I felt in that moment. Quite instinctivley, I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders as he began whimpering, just as a child who was in the worst of pains.
“‘Are you my friend?‘ He kept on asking me as I let him squeeze my hand through the pain. ‘Yes.’ I kept telling him, whispering in his ear as my fingers began to prick and tingle. With my other hand I squeezed the thinning hair of his scalp, drawing intense heat away from his head and into my tightened fist. ‘I am your friend. And I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.“
-Jenny Miner McCombs- The Addict Empath
It wasn’t long after that both my cousin and uncle returned to that shadowy dark room only feet away from the light, noise, and what could only be called the sounds of a celebration of a life; as I drew heat from his brow. As he squeezed blood from my hand. We rocked. He whimpered. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming for me. It is not easy, being an Empath. It is not easy being an Addict. But put the two of them together, and you’re in for a unique blend of distorted biology and psychological disregulation that can wreak havoc on the strongest of temperments. It takes a strong person to suffer as I have with this disease for nearly two decades. And it is a superpower beyond most to be an empath. To blend, absorb, and adapt the feelings, pains, and grievances of others. Often inadvertenly and against your will. My job is tiring. Not only physically. But psychologically and emotionally.
I walk past bleached and empty rooms where days before there was life. I walk past cards of sentiment over and over again at the nurse’s station when one passes from this world and into the next. I sign them. I wish families well. I kiss the newly added images of those I drew close to upon the wall next to the physical therapy room. When cheeks were flushed and fuller. When smiles were not so strained. I did so today. Her name was *Antonia. She loved horses. And she flew. She flew up, up, and away. Or so they say. And now, her room is occupied by another. Tacks will once again pierce the newly dried spackle. The smell of the power wash tiles will soon fade. I went in there last week to pay my last respects to her empty room. I breathed in deeply. In and out. I closed my eyes and remembered our last conversation. I played an enchanting song of strings and brass next to her pillow as I sqeezed a sponge of thickened water on her tongue. I made sure she could swallow. I remembered how much she hated getting her hair combed. I remembered she loved the Golden Girls. I opened my eyes. And then, the day went on.
Leroy looked up at us. “Can I have a blessing?” He asked us, as we four shared a collective faith. My cousin and my uncle honored his wishes. And I was worn. I was tired, as I crouched down on the floor in that dark room while words of comfort were given. But I felt that I had done what I was meant to do on that day. And for me, it was more than enough. And just like that, arrangments were made, and Leroy was to be taken back to the facility. I sighed heavily. The time was so short. “Did I do enough for him on this day?” I could not help but wonder.
I accompanied him down the primary corridor that led to the nearest exit. My uncle was rolling him backward down the cement landing and to the corner of the parking lot as I waved him off to the facilities awaiting van. I looked down at my hands. They were still smudges of black, where some twenty minutes ago, if I had to guess, I had rubbed them against the grease of his chair, quite anxious for him to create a memory of his own. Twenty minutes with Leroy. I leaned down to him once more.
“Remember Leroy. You were there for her today. You were honored. You were her tablemate.”
He smiled. I squeezed his hand reasuringly once more. And yet, he winced with pain as the intense light of the burning sun hit his face. I looked down at the sunglasses I held in my hand. The ones that I had felt inclined to bring with me into the chapel, and for no apparent reason. My stride lengthened. My toes pinched mercilessly in my rarely worn pumps as I caught up with him. Lifting them to his own eyes and placing them gently onto his head.
-Jenny Miner McCombs – The Addict Empath
*Indicates that names have been changed in order to ensure the privacy of those involved in my story and to respect Hippa privacy policies for those with whom I work per facility regulations.
Drowning in Madagascar 