#Truth – Sittin' Ugly Sistahs

When people ask me, “What are you doing with yourself these days?” They never expect me to say that I volunteer for hospice. The response is predictable: “Oh, I could never do that.” Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I could either, but I wanted to, and in the last twelve years I have not looked back.

Ever since my father passed away thirteen years ago, I have been drawn to hospice care. My dad did not want to go on hospice, thinking that it would be like giving in. Giving in to death. But, as time went on, he prayed to die and yet, according to him, that didn’t work either. “Why won’t God let me die and get out of this mess?” The praying for death went on for months, but it was not until he gave in and decided to go on hospice care that a change occurred. He gave in to the inevitable, yet as we all know, our timing is not necessarily God’s timing. I happen to believe that we all have a beginning and ending date that we are not privy to knowing ahead of time.

What brought my dad to the praying for death was his inability to accept reality. The nursing home and all that it entails was not what he had in mind for his end of life. He wanted to be at home, his home, and not among the forgotten. My stepmother was unable to care for him, and daddy did not want to pay for nursing care around the clock at home. He did not want to live with my brother or me, he wanted to live and die at home without any hassle or extra expense. He had a plan, but it simply could not be executed. He was too sick and a little too stubborn.

“They’ll park me in the hallway with the rest of the wheelchair people and forget about me. I’ll just be lost with all the others, drooling in our bibs.” His attitude and gloomy description of how it would be did not help him acclimate to his elder-care facility. And so, for a long while he refused to leave his private room, preferring his own company to anyone else’s. He would prop up in bed and pretend to read the newspaper for hours. He would religiously watch Wheel of Fortune and reluctantly participate in physical therapy. When my brother or I visited we would bring him a Blizzard from Dairy Queen, as per his request. “Nothing tastes good except ice cream,” he would say, but after a few bites, he would tell me to put it in the freezer in the nurse’s station for later. “Be sure to put my name on it so no one will eat it,” he’d say. And I would walk down the hall to the freezer knowing that when I opened it, there would be at least five uneaten Blizzards with his name on them, waiting in line to be thrown away.

When I have had hospice patients in the nursing home, my visits become routine. My last patient, Eunice, I visited every Tuesday at 9:30 a.m. After her breakfast, which she liked to sleep through, I would arrive and we would ‘get to doing,’ as she would say. I painted her nails, we talked about her husband and daughters, and when she was feeling feisty, we would join the group for bingo in the recreation room. Sometimes we would sit on the patio and just feel the breeze on our faces and hear the faint sounds of traffic or children playing down the street. And sometimes, when she was feeling brave, I would record her inner thoughts about life and love in a spiral notebook her girls would read one day after she was gone.

But Daddy had a point about being forgotten. Even though I was there for Eunice, and my brother and I were there for my dad, there are a number of people who have no visitors. There are forgotten mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles. The forgotten who are parked in a wheelchair by the big screen T.V. playing old black and white movies all day long or lined up in the hallway waiting for lunch. The forgotten who slowly morph into the invisible.

When I would visit Eunice every Tuesday, there were other residents that looked forward to my smile and cheerful banter. I could feel the stares and see the usual neighbors wheeling by us, just to say hello. “Is this your daughter, Eunice?” They would ask every week. They watched me, hoping I would come over to where they were, and oftentimes, Eunice would tell them to go away because we were trying to visit. She was jealous of our time and wanted it all to herself. I could see the rejection in their faces and the deep longing to be remembered.

Being invisible doesn’t happen overnight, it is a slow process of being over-looked, being put on a shelf, or being sat down, both metaphorically and physically. There are mirrors over the sink in nursing homes, but if you’re in a wheelchair you might not be able to fully see yourself. Sometimes our invisible ones have not looked into their own eyes in a very long time. To see yourself as you once were and as you are now, is a reminder that you are still here. Still the same on the inside, even though the outer shell is changing.

We are who we are, until the end.

There are still mean girls and want-to-be jocks in the nursing home. Another of my former hospice patients, Marilyn, was scorned at the ‘popular girls’ lunch table. “We already have four sitting here. This is our table,” they said, so Marilyn was going to wheel herself back to her room for lunch alone. On the way to the door, she passed a table of three men who stopped her and said, “Don’t let those old biddies get to you, sit with us! We’re much more fun and twice as nice.” And so, she did. Marilyn became the darling of the men’s table and gave ‘the old biddies’ something to talk about.

There are still women with daddy issues and men who are suffering from PTSD. There are still grateful and happy people and there are plenty of people preferring to be bitter and resentful, angry at life. Even the invisible have issues like my dad did, but if you’re lucky, one day it will change.

I guess we may never know what the true catalyst of change was for Daddy, and truthfully it doesn’t matter. One morning he told my stepmother and brother that he would sign up for hospice, that he wanted to look into getting a motorized wheelchair, and that he put his name on the list to play Bridge. “I guess if I’m not going to die, I better get busy living,” he said. And we all celebrated the victory with a big sigh of relief.

Twenty-four hours later, my daddy died.

Daddy was never forgotten, but it was something he feared. He had been an officer in the Navy, and an electrical engineer by trade, strong and capable all of his life. He did not want to be invisible. No one does.

Why do I volunteer for hospice? If you had met my little friend Eunice, or Ms. Marilyn, you would need no further explanation. You would have raised your hand high and said, “Pick me! Pick me!” As much as I know my visits brightened their days, those visits taught me to ‘get to doing,’ be grateful, and love life until the end.

It truly is a blessing to walk beside someone whose end of life is near. It is an honor to share the sacred space of spirit and to be able to provide comfort and companionship. It is a privilege to help grieving families or simply to listen.

Not everyone who is on hospice care is elderly, but everyone who has lived long enough will face a certain truth, death. The road traveled will be different for all, yet with the same outcome. We all have to go sometime, but how we live out our years depends on attitudes, beliefs, family, circumstances, and how we are treated as well as how we treat others.

Keep your eyes open this week and look for someone who needs to be seen, who needs a hug or even a smile. Watch out for those mean girls and invite someone to sit at your table, and above all else, ‘get to doing!’

Recently I called my brother to ask, “Did we go trick-or-treating when we were little?”

“Surely we did. Didn’t we?”

“The only thing I remember is one time Daddy drove us to the ‘rich’ neighborhood so we could get good candy.”

“Oh yeah, but our paper sacks were a dead giveaway that we weren’t from their hood.”

I’ve never been one for spooky stories or movies. I don’t like spiders, ghosts, or demons. I don’t listen to scary sounds or scary music, and I like the lights on. No pitch black for me.

I’m not afraid to be a scaredy cat.

Right before the sixth grade, we moved across town, in Amarillo, to a newer neighborhood and a new school. That year I was eleven years old, and sixth grade was a conundrum of emotions and hormones. I was already 5’6” and filling out, shall we say, so there was no hiding the fact that I was the ‘new girl.’ I was the tallest kid in my class and had just gotten braces on my teeth.

In spite of my newness, I was invited to a Halloween party at Tim Parker’s house, one of the cutest boys in 6^th grade. I may not have known everyone invited, but I knew they were the IN crowd and that I should be happy I was included. The invitation was a little loose on details: Meet at Tim’s house at 7:00 p.m. to play games and go Trick or Treating! Conveniently, Tim Parker lived right down the street, so I planned to walk over at 7:00 p.m. and join the fun. There was just one catch. I knew my daddy, J.C. Claughton, Jr., would not let me go to a boy/girl party IF he knew about it. So, I told him I was going trick or treating with my best friend and her brothers. He would never understand that this party was a matter of life and death as far as my popularity was concerned.

For some unknown reason, my daddy didn’t check out my story, and at 7:00 p.m. that Halloween night, I walked over to Tim’s house ready to bob for apples, eat candy and laugh with my new friends. I pushed down the guilt over not telling the truth and promised myself that next time I would do better.

I rang the doorbell and could already hear laughter coming from inside Tim Parker’s house, then everything got quiet. The front door opened slowly but no one was there, and after waiting a couple of minutes, I took two steps inside calling, “Hello? Hello? Tim?”

“BOO!” screamed voices from inside, and I jumped three feet off the floor.

Everyone was laughing and after I gathered myself, I pretended to laugh, too.

“Come on, we’re all in the basement,” Tim said.

In Amarillo, as other West Texas towns, a lot of homes have basements in case of tornadoes or excessive hail. Most basements are finished out with carpet, ping pong tables, and other activities for the kids, as well as blankets, flashlights, and safety equipment. As I followed the others back down the stairs to the basement, I was already starting to feel that I might have made a poor decision. The room was dark, except for a candle lit in the middle of a circle of kids, and the stereo was playing House of the Rising Sun, by the Animals.

Two couples were slow dancing in the corner and everyone else was sitting in a circle with a candle and an empty bottle of Coke.

I walked over to the circle and Lisa Claythorn patted the floor, “Sit by me,” she said, and just as I did, the music switched to The Beatles, She Loves You. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

“Let’s start the game,” I heard one boy say. “Spin it!”

As unworldly and immature as I was, I still knew what Spin the Bottle meant. A bottle is placed on the floor in the center of the circle. A player spins the bottle and must kiss the person to whom the bottle points when it stops spinning. The problem was I had never kissed anyone before.

A girl with long, red hair took the bottle and twirled it so hard, the bottle literally slid across the floor. It landed pointing at a boy named Steve, who was in my class. They both laughed and the circle of kids howled. “Oooooo! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” This red-headed girl, whose name I did not know, shook her head, flicking her red, glistening hair away from her face, and rose up on her knees. She leaned forward and as she did, Steve leaned in for the kiss. Oh, my goodness, how I wished I was dressed in a silly costume yelling “trick or treat!”

After the first spin, I was relieved yet nervous that I might be next. I started to sweat and tried to calculate the odds of not having to spin versus who I would have to kiss.

“If you don’t kiss, you have to go through the spider webs in the closet and stick your hand in a bowl full of brains,” Tim said.

As I sat calm on the outside, heart pounding on the inside, I thought about the whole kissing thing. Lick my lips or stay dry? Did the red-headed girl lick her lips? Mouth open or closed? Quick or slow? Eyes closed or open? What about my braces?

“Where’s the restroom?” I whispered to Lisa.

“Upstairs,” she said, and I jumped up saying, “I’ll be right back.”

I lingered as long as I could without seeming strange and made my way back to the circle. In a haze of slow motion and fearful dread, I sat down in the first empty place. Pat Fite, the absolutely cutest boy in the world, spun the bottle looking right at me. As soon as my eyes locked with his, I diverted my gaze to the bottle which was beginning to slow down. What am I going to do if it lands on me? Why did I even come here? My throat is dry and probably my lips. What if the bottle doesn’t land on me?

My mind was racing, my heart was pounding, and my stomach felt as if it was ready to regurgitate everything I had ever eaten. The bottle was creeping to a standstill. I could see it pointing directly at the girl next to me, yet it continued to move in half-inch increments. It stopped right in front of me and when it did, the lights started to flicker, and we heard loud steps bounding down the stairway.

Tim’s big brother and two of his friends landed in the basement yelling, “Come on you guys! It’s time to do some tricks!” Everyone jumped up and our kiss was quickly forgotten.

“Let’s go, come on!” Tim’s brother said. “Everyone has to steal a pumpkin and smash it!”

Still sweating, but trying to play it cool, I said I had to be home by 8:15, and started moving toward the door. Pat Fite touched my hand and said, “Maybe next time,” and the turntable played Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Crying by Gerry and The Pacemakers.

Once outside, the group went one way, and I went the other. Pat Fite called, “See you in Homeroom!” And I waved goodbye. Waiting until the group was at the corner, I ran the rest of the way home and as I breathlessly closed the front door, I heard Daddy call, “Did you get any good candy?”