Way back when, it was Emma’s idea to come here for the first time. We were replacing the flowers on 2nd North at Carillon House, visiting with our elderly friends when Emma asked why we didn’t go to the 4th floor, too. I didn’t have a good answer. So up we went.

We’ve been going every week since.

True to her word, we are back the next morning. Emma and Annie are looking lovely in their high heels and fancy purple skirts that spin out beautifully when they twirl and dance, their number one criteria for the perfect dress.

The twins race to see who can punch the elevator button first. Up to the 4th floor. Vista Care’s inpatient hospice unit is located here. A wonderful facility with caring staff. I was impressed early on with how nurses Elizabeth and Kelli handled Annie and Emma’s questions. Not the least of which was Kelli’s answer to one of the girl’s most significant “why?”. Kelli said, “For some people this is the last place they come before they go to heaven.” Annie and Emma are good with that answer.

On this Saturday morning in addition to dresses and heels, the girls have accessorized their outfits with three bottles of bubbles. It makes perfect sense to them. What else would girls in purple dresses and high heels do? They blow bubbles, of course.

It’s pretty quiet on the floor. After chatting with the nurses, they say goodbye and head back down the hall. There’s an open door to the left. A family they’d left flowers with yesterday. The patient, a gentleman who does not look nearly old enough to be here, and two ladies sitting bedside who appear to be family.

I lean against the inside of the doorway, watching Annie and Emma…be Annie and Emma. Their 2nd grade dialogue about random and disconnected topics, engaging the ladies in their conversation. All the while blowing bubbles, watching them float and trying to catch them without breaking them.

Soon they involve one of the ladies in blowing bubbles, too. Smiles all around. Laughter. The laughter that feels and sounds so free; the unfettered laughter of an adult being a kid again. It’s fresh air in this room.

Emma manages a big double bubble. “Whoa! Look! It’s like a Mommy and Daddy bubble!”

Poof.

Annie says, “Daddy bubble just popped.”

More laughter.

“Try to catch them! See? Look!” With her wand, Emma slides underneath the giant bubble she just blew and raises it up. Against the back light of the window I see the shimmering surface tension just before it pops and disappears.

Here in this room that is the last place some people come before going to heaven, life is being lived to the fullest. I dare say there is nothing more or better that anyone here can do in this moment than to blow bubbles and laugh, to enjoy human companionship and the simple delights of children.

Watching the bubbles hover over the bed, I am reminded that God tells us our life is like a vapor. Just like these bubbles. Delicate and beautiful. Incredibly fragile. Floating and fleeting. And in the time it takes to “ooh” and “ah” and giggle…poof!

They are gone.

It’s time to leave. Emma and Annie hand their bottles to the two ladies. Emma says, “Now you can blow bubbles all day even after we’re gone!”

“Are you sure, girls?”, the ladies want to know.

“No worries”, says Annie, “we’ve got lots of bubbles.”

“LOTS of bubbles!”, Emma affirms.

When you’re 8, it feels like the bubbles will never end.

The man in the bed understands better.

The man in the doorway is understanding that better, too.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while then vanishes.” – James 4:14

 “Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12  

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Daddy, look! There’s Hazel!” Annie and Emma take off running to give her a hi and a hug.

At the other end of the long hall, sitting in her wheelchair, is Hazel. She came here a couple months ago after suffering a stroke. A Southern belle originally from Baton Rouge, her soft Louisiana voice is charm school sweet and dipped in Mint Julep.

During our first conversation the topic of her age came up. Her daughter told me she was 93.

“Hazel,” I said, “I’m gonna take you to the fair and make a lot of money having people guess your age because there’s no way you’re 93.”

“Why, thank you.” Her smile seemed to agree that I’d make bank.

Hazel’s memory has been affected by the stroke. Almost like a sporadic dementia. Some days we visit without difficulty. On this day, her short-term memory has stepped out for a bit. She is slowly wringing her hands; anxious, fretful and nervous.

“I’m hoping they’ll come for me. If I sit here I think I’ll see them. I hope they find me.”

Her daughter Nita is running errands and will be back in an hour or two. Hazel has forgotten that. She squeezes her hands together and leans forward in the direction of the elevator, anxiously looking for the familiar face that will put her heart at ease.

Emma pats her shoulder. “It’s ok, Hazel. We’re right here.”

Perhaps a distraction will help. “Hazel, I’m sure Nita will be back soon. You can hang out with us while we put out the flowers. Why don’t you come along with us to the rooms. Emma can push your wheelchair.”

“I can push you, Hazel.” Emma grabs the handles and Annie puts a hand on her shoulder.

Hazel is lost in her worry. “I hope they come for me. Because I’m here. I hope they come for me.” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”

“I know, Hazel. And we’re right here with you.” And we are. But we’re not sure if today is a day that Hazel can know that.

We begin putting out the flowers. Hazel doesn’t want to move, afraid she might miss whomever she is hoping for to come around the corner.

We make our rounds, visiting with our elderly friends while replacing last week’s roses with fresh ones. By the time we get around to Hazel’s room, a nurse’s aide has helped her into bed. Her demeanor is changed. She seems relaxed. At peace. I wonder what happened to make it so.

She points to Annie and Emma with excitement. “They found me! I was waiting for someone to find me. And they found me!” Hazel is happy now.

Making certain she has my attention, she points to Annie and Emma. “These are my precious little girls. They are my fairy princesses. I see their angel faces in my dreams.”

I don’t doubt that she does.

As I turn to leave for the next room, Hazel reaches up and squeezes my hand. Hard. With a relieved smile she says, “I’m so happy to be found.”

Sometimes we wander through our days oblivious that we are lost. Sometimes we feel lost and we’re fearful that what is comforting and familiar to us will never return. Sometimes we’re running hard away, knowing full well we are lost but afraid of what will happen if we stop long enough to admit it.

However it happens, being lost is scary.

Saying goodbye to the patient in the last room, I go looking for Annie and Emma. I hear crazy loud laughter coming from Hazel’s room.

Peeking in I see the three of them playing volleyball with a balloon. Hazel, laying down in her bed says, “Oh, girls, you’ve got to hit it harder than that. You’ve got to really smack it!”

Smack!

Hazel serves up a high floater.

The girls giggle and trip over themselves, whacking it back to her. The volley goes between them till Hazel’s return puts the balloon out of reach, stuck in the lamp.

“Hazel!”, the girls shriek, “What a shot!”

Hazel is proud. She showed them how to really smack it.

I step quietly away. It would be a sin to stop this game.

More giggles. More “smacks!”. More laughter.

Indeed, it is a happy thing to be found.

“Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep. I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

- Luke 15:1-7

- Todd A. Thompson   www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Every Thursday I pick up Annie and Emma from school and we drive here to see our elderly friends. It’s our favorite part of the week, something we look forward to. The girls help me put fresh roses on the dining tables and then we go room to room, pausing to visit as we replace last week’s rose with a new one for their vase.

There are 20 patients on this end of the floor. Making the rounds on this day, we’re sad and happy. Sad that we don’t get to see Mr. Billy. Happy because after six months he finally got to go home. The first few times I stopped by his room, he seemed like a tough nut to crack. A big burly man with a flat top haircut who wasn’t much for talking. Then several weeks ago I noticed a small Marine Corps sticker on his bulletin board. “Are you a Marine, Billy?” It was like I’d discovered the magic key that opened the door of conversation. For ten minutes he told me about what it was like to join the Marines at age 17. About fighting in the Pacific Theater during World War II. About being on Iwo Jima. He spoke of his two Purple Hearts and the shrapnel he still carries in his body. He held up the palm of his thick hand and I saw a scar from his thumb to his wrist. “That’s where I grabbed a bayonet that was coming at me. Almost cut my whole thumb off. That guy didn’t live long.” He said it not with braggadocio, but with the somber tone of a man who put his life on the line for freedom.

There is a suitcase on Kathleen’s bed. After being here for several months, she gets to leave tomorrow. She’s only half excited because though she’s leaving, she can’t go home. An intermediate step of an assisted-living apartment is required. In reference to dealing with the disappointment of not being able to go home she says from her chair, “I’ve got some adjustments to make in my attitude. I’ve got some growing up to do.” To hear this retired school teacher speak openly of our never ending need to grow and learn inspires me.

We go to the General’s room and find it empty. The light is on. Perhaps he’s down in the therapy room. Annie and Emma are concerned. They love the General. The first time we saw the name on his door, we thought “General” was a nickname. Then I saw the 8×10 photograph of General with Edwin Meese from President Reagan’s administration and realized the General is a real General. Air Force, two stars. 91 years young and a wealth of life experience. Last week I brought him a copy of his career biography that I printed from the Internet. He hadn’t seen it before. I watched him look it over and tried to imagine what it would be like to read the story of your life on two pages. Emma leaves a chocolate bar on his bed and returns several times to see if he’s back.

Wanda thinks she’ll be going home in a couple weeks. She’s trying to get strength back after a stroke. Word puzzle exercise sheets and color by number projects are on her table, part of her therapy to regain fine motor control in her right hand. She told me how good God has been to her, even in the details of her stroke. “Just a few days before I was thinking about how I don’t know how to use the speed dial on my cell phone. So I figured out how to put my son’s number in there. When I got dizzy and collapsed all I had strength to do was push that one button. Thankfully, he was only five minutes down the road.”

When I saw a new name on the door a couple weeks ago I figured Herbie would be a guy. But Herbie is an elegant professional woman, patiently enduring treatment so she can go home and get back to her real estate business. God willing I make it to 83, I hope I’m still hard at work like Herbie.

Phyllis paces back and forth down the hall with her walker. I feel for her. How frustrating when you can’t make the connection between your brain and your speech. She tries and I patiently listen. Inevitably she sadly sighs and shakes her head, wanting desperately to form the words. Then Annie and Emma come through the door and her face lights up like a billboard in Times Square. Just their presence seems to comfort her. She smiles and breathes easier and I stand there, dumb and humbled by the frailty of our humanity and the blessing of children.

From her bed, Gladys says,”I just love to see those little girls. And those roses are so pretty! You know that big pink one at my table in the dining room is still beautiful after a whole week.” Gladys loves roses. She has a big oil painting on the wall, a still life of roses in a vase. She leans forward a bit and extends her arthritic hand. “You know, I take care of that one out there. I put ice cubes in there every meal so they melt and keep the water full. And I think that’s why it’s doing better than all the rest.”

The hope of returning home. The desire to return to work. Striving to regain physical and mental abilities. We all need something to look forward to. A purpose that makes us feel significant. Today my friends at the care center, each in their own way, reminded me that there is no such thing as insignificant purpose.  

This week as I work and pray over my life struggles, wondering and worrying how it’s all going to turn out, Gladys is faithfully feeding ice cubes to the pink rose at her table, doing her best to keep it beautiful until next Thursday.

I can’t think of anything I’m doing this week more important than that.

- Todd Thompson

www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com