Nancy Bartholomew

How rare is this? I'm home alone...not counting the 4 dogs and the cat.

All alone.

A. Lone.

For an entire night!

You might think, as I did, that alot would get accomplished.  Beds changed. Floors mopped. Perhaps dusting.  

Okay, so no dusting- but something I could point to with pride- "Look what I got done!"

Maybe even a poundcake.  

So what have I done?  I ordered an entire pizza, just for me, made just the way I like it- 6 cheese with veggies.  And I've been here in the big green easy chair learning how to use a new photo editing program I read about on Fred's blog.It's called Picknikand, as a photography neophyte,  I'm thinking I like it.  You can do cool little things with it BUT it is not the best use of my time, I'm sure.

Still, these pictures make me think of the cabin years ago...

 And  I want to take Joe's truck for a joy ride...

I can sit here and be mind-less and maybe let go of Tuesday at the Nursing Home where Fred is dying.  He's in denial and won't tell anyone that he hurts because it would mean his cancer isn't going away.  When he heard my voice, he came to his door and smiled down the hall until I felt the warmth and turned to see him waiting on me.  When I reached his room, he was already fumbling in his bedside table for the playing cards, looking like an out-of-work, too thin Santa Claus.

"How're you doing?" I asked, dealing out our first hand.

"Fine. Fine," he said, avoiding my eyes.

"Fred, if you're so fine, why's Hospice here?"

It was a first for us- me breaking the rules and pressing, trying to head-butt through his impenetrable wall but I had to try.  I had to know- is the cancer in your brain, too, or do you just not want to talk about it?

Fred scowled at his hand and didn't answer me.

"I came to see you last week but Hospice was in here with you.  What was that about?"

The frown deepened and my heart felt like it was breaking.  I was not going to ask a third time.  Inside, I could feel what I was doing was wrong.  Fred's wife died two years ago.  He just wants to get there- with her.  He can only be brave by playing cards and pretending I'm a pretty companion here to hold his hand no matter what.  So screw social work.  Do what feels right in your heart, I told myself.

"I don't know why they're here.  They act like I'm dead already."

I hear him say this and think of Maryanne, who lived at the end of his hallway up until a few weeks ago.   "I don't want them here,"  she told me.  "They're rushing me! I'm not dead yet!"  But a month later, she was.  Hospice won't take you if they think you'll last longer than six months.

I look at Fred and he meets my eyes now.  His sadness fills me, overflows until it fills the room and swamps us.

"Is it my turn or yours?" he asks softly.