The assisted living center was immaculate; boasting beautiful, short pile rugs, soft beige walls and skylights armed with sunshine. I found Mr. C’s room quickly and I was delighted to see him perched upon the side of his bed, obviously prepared for his 9 a.m. appointment with me. I greeted him with a handshake and we commented upon the delightful weather and the welcome warmth of May. Mr. C was a French Acadian gentleman who, at one time, owned his own lumber company in the St. John Valley area. I was more than happy to take as much time as he wanted to talk about his life and his family. He was a well-spoken gentleman and his anecdotes were flavored with success, happiness, heartbreak, and love.
After rich conversation, I gently redirected our focus to the business at hand. “Mr. C, how have you been spending your days here in your lovely home?” I asked, placing my hand upon his.
“I spend it waiting to die,” he said.
I could have brushed this comment under the plush carpeting beneath my feet with a wave of my hand and an awkward giggle, but I did not. I place great value and faith in such moments and I would not wound his vulnerability by dismissing such a profound statement. Mr. C’s children were scattered about the country and his beloved wife had passed away nearly 30 years ago. He was not bitter. He was not unreasonable. He was not in mental anguish. He was simply honest. He was 92 years old and he was waiting to die.
My response was as transparent and as forthright as his own declaration and it came from the depths of my heart. “Mr C., are you afraid of dying?” He hesitated. “I would be if I had something to live for.” He blinked his eyes rapidly, tears nudging their way toward the tender skin above his cheeks. “You have no idea, Mrs. Ouellette. You are still young and healthy; it is not your season.”
I removed my hand from atop his and sat back in my chair. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. C. I don’t understand. I very much want to live and I hate to think about dying.” I didn’t tell him that for a period of time, not so long ago, I had thought of little else. Battling cancer has a way of doing that.
He smiled at me then, brushing at his eyes and shaking his head. “I am sorry, Miss. You are not here to listen to the woes of an old man.”
I knew it was safe to laugh now. “Old man, indeed! I have watched you maneuver this hall many times. You are spry and in grand health. From now on, we will not utter the words old or death. Is that a deal?”
“You have a deal, young woman. Now, what is your next question?”
I paused for a moment. “Well, how about if you and I stroll on down to the recreation room and try to win some money? I think Bingo starts in just about five minutes and I can’t wait to try out these Jumbo Bingo cards.”
He rose from his bed, took my hand, and together we stepped out of his room and into the corridor; dancing our way through the sunbeams, toward our destination.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
