Nancy Bartholomew

Yesterday was Nursing Home day and my friend, Buzz, wasn't doing too well.   Buzz is young, only 65, and he's dying.  He wound up in the nursing home after he arrived at the emergency room disoriented and dehydrated, a complication that arose after he got confused about his medications.  His wife had died 2 years before.  His son lived out of state and wasn't that involved anyway.  So Buzz was out of options.  He had to come live out his last few months in the nursing home.

Buzz wouldn't talk about dying but he would play cards.  When I saw a Pinochle deck lying out in his room, I said, "Oh, Buzz, you play Pinochle?"

"Why, sure I do, don't you?"

A farm boy from Kentucky playing what I thought was a game played mainly in the North or the Midwest?

So I pulled his empty wheelchair up to his bedside table and sat across from his throne-like armchair and dealt out the first hand of what became our weekly routine.

Only Buzz couldn't actually play Pinochle.  

The cancer had metastasized to his brain.  His short-term memory was failing him.  And he was trying desperately to hide it from me. 

If he admitted he couldn't remember, admitted how badly he hurt, took the pain meds his nurse offered constantly, it would mean he was dying.  Dying and alone.  

All Buzz wanted was to die with honor- his definition of honor.  He wanted to be brave.  The way Buzz saw it, dying wasn't so bad.  It meant being reunited with his beloved wife.  But showing weakness- that wasn't acceptable.

So we played "Pinochle" every Tuesday.  I quickly learned Buzz's memory and thinking weren't totally shot.  Instead, his brain functioned like a toaster with a short.  Sometimes his connection to the world was spotty.  Other times, he was all the way there.  Like when he beat me two weeks in a row, then decided I was "letting" him win and threw the game to "let" me win for three weeks after this. 

We were playing a modified version of War, with a deck containing only 9s,10s, Jacks, Queens, Kings and Aces. 

Buzz wouldn't admit he hurt and stared at me blankly when I decided to confront him about his prognosis.  "So, why is Hospice here then?" I asked him, hating myself.  Finally he shrugged.  "Dunno but they act like I'm already dead and I'm not ready!"

I went back to doing what felt right- plain old love.

Buzz sang to me, flirted outrageously and even proposed marriage.

Then, last week, he didn't feel well.  He was weak, his face drawn and gray.  "No, I don't hurt.  Deal out the cards," he told me.

But yesterday, he was on oxygen and for the first time, unable to get out of bed.

"His fever is 103.9," Nurse Alice told me.  "The dammed hospice nurse is useless! She won't give him anything stronger because she said 'He says he doesn't hurt.'" Alice stood right outside the room where the hospice nurse sat charting, her drill-sergeant voice loud enough to pierce through the thick wooden door.  "I'm his damned nurse! I know the man and he's in pain!  Screw her! I'll just work around her!"

And she did.

I went in to see Buzz and knew he was dying.  I sat beside him and patted his leg.  "Buzz, do you hurt?" I asked.

He was gasping for breath, despite the oxygen.  He was gripping the sheets with his one good hand, trying not to cry out in pain, but "No," he said, "I'm not in pain." He gasped, trying to breathe.  "Buzz, can I get you anything?"

"Yeah," he grunted.  "Get the cards...Play pinochle."

But the cards were gone.  They weren't in his room anywhere.  So I sat with him, promising thought I knew it wouldn't happen, that I would bring new cards next time.

"Do that," he whispered.

I got up to go and he cried, "Wait! Don't go...I need to tell you..."

I went back to his side, sat down, and held his hand.  "What Buzz?"

"Francine's pregnant..."

I didn't know who Francine was, but thought he meant his son's girlfriend.   He was finally going to have a grandchild.

"That's great, Buzz," I whispered.

"Now, I'm going to take a nap," he murmured, as Alice's pain medicine kicked in.

I left then, thinking I would never see him again.  

Last night, I awoke at 3:30 a.m, terrified by a bad dream in which something, some one was chasing me.  Just before I woke up I felt a hand on my shoulder.  The pursuer was catching me!  He gripped my shoulder, I steeled myself.  A hand softly caressed my cheek as the specter passed me. 

I knew then that I didn't need to be afraid.  I had the sense that my pursuer was not an evil force.  I couldn't fall back asleep for a long time.  It was strange this thought that Buzz had said goodbye, but I made a note of the time anyway, you know, just in case...

Today the nursing home social worker called to leave me a message.  "I thought you'd want to know," she said.  "At 3:30 a.m. Buzz left us."