immortalizing

My work place, my "community" has been blessedly stable for the past two years. As time has passed in relative ease, my little gray-headed dominoes have been lining up, waiting for the first one to fall. He fell. I'll call him The Thinker. I loved him because he said I was the smartest person he'd ever met. How can you argue with that? He'd asked me, prior to making that statement, what plans we had as a company in the event "the big one" hit. On the West Coast, or Left if you're worried about language which I usually am but not in this case, "the big one" is an earthquake followed by a Tsunami. I told him that, in addition to a loosely held agreement with the Catholic Church next door which would likely be flattened as well, we had three days of water and dry food, plenty of flashlights, batteries and sleeping bags for staff who do not run out screaming to find their own children and do the noble thing: endure the end of the world together. After I told him that, I told him the truth. We'd do the best we could. If I was there, I wouldn't leave and if I wasn't there, that I'd get there if I could. But sincerely, we'd be on our own for a bit. The Thinker thought about all that. "Does it scare you?" I asked. He shook his balding head and smiled a crooked smile. "No. I think it scares some of them." He referred to his compatriots. I agreed. "I'm just looking forward to beachfront property." I picture the sea leaping across the coast range and coming to rest at the edge of my back yard, complete with soft sand and sculpted boulders. TT was a vocal democrat. He and his wife and tablemates built towers of white paper medicine cups and stuck hand-crafted American Flags glued to toothpicks in the top cup with "IMPEACH" written boldly across the little flag. The idea spread to the next table. It was a terrible mess. I loved him. But The Thinker had a stroke. When this happens, we send folks to the hospital. When it gets a little less dicey, the hospital sends them to what we loosely and erroneously call ad "skilled care facility." What we used to call nursing homes. They have changed little since I cut my teeth on the type of human care that would become my life's work. My life's work. When TT was ready to come home, or back, because it isn't home, is it? the nursing home gave us a call and we trotted out to see if he was ready by our standards. I don't know what I was expecting. What I found was my dignified and brilliant friend naked, in unimaginable pain, writhing in a bed stripped of sheets or blankets. Was he ready to come back? No. But we busted him out anyway. (Annie, remember Alvina? Another story for another day.)Anyhow, we got him back under our care, finally got his pain under control, and he was able to die in relative peace. I am stunned at our capacity as a nation to trade lives for money. His insurance is paying at minimum 850.00 a day for this absence of care. A. DAY. We couldn't, my wonderful nurse and me, find anybody who gave a shit enough to get him some pain meds. I can't stand it. So TT went to heaven -- that's what I call it. I don't care what you think. Then my Catholic lady went away. I'll just call her Mary - she'd love that. She had been living in my Assisted Living section for a couple of years and is really old and frail. Her beliefs are more important to her than most. I guess it is faith. I'm not Catholic and not a fan, so I'm never really clear about faith/belief. ... By way of backstory, the property of the AL borders the high school practice field. Each morning, Mary would call to me from her spot in front of the fireplace. "I'm dying," she'd say. "I know," I'd answer. "I get a vision every night," she'd grin. "A firey cross." I'd nod and smile. "Does it frighten you?" I'd ask. "Oh, no!" Her eyes crinkled merrily. I use that hackneyed phrase intentionally. Her eyes crinkled merrily. They actually did. "Oh, no! Its from God." Okay. So I'm thinking she's losing it. She tells me this same thing once or twice a week and I think, well, if it isn't frightening or uncomfortable, then I'm good with it. Until I talk with the evening shift women. "Its the lights on the practice field," they tell me. Turns out there is there is this huge bank of lights that comes on every evening and lights up the world. How sweet she thinks it is for her. When her son moved her away to a smaller and less expensive care home, my heart broke. Her greatest concern was whether her vision would transfer with her. That's two. Seven more are on hospice. It is winter in memory care.