bob

Seeing those women a couple days ago reminded me of an old friend. Bob came to us about eight years ago while receiving chemotherapy at a local hospital. He was in his seventies when I met him, a dapper and slightly wizened man with thinning white hair and excellent posture. He was staying in the nightly program but after awhile we were able to guarantee him a regular bed for a few months.

Time rolled by. Every morning I'd go to work and see Bob sitting out front with a hello young lady as I walked past. Bob never complained, back and forth to the hospital for treatment on the bus, recovering from the chemo at the shelter and never once did I hear him say one cross word.

After a period of time he achieved a sort of status; he'd counsel the young guys about how to navigate the programs, how to stay out of trouble, who could get what done in the easiest way. He was always charming; would notice if I wore something new, or if we'd made some sort of minor change to the facility. He had a keen eye and would offer suggestions in an easy way that made everyone want to take him seriously. He put effort into his appearance; his clothes were old and worn but always clean, a smart hat perched on his head. He'd carry chewing gum for the ladies.

After some time we noticed Bob getting sicker. Frail, a bit of a stoop to his back. The nurse on site told us that things were declining, that he probably didn't have much more time. She started talking to him about hospice and he refused to hear it. This is my home, he'd say. This is where I live. You are my family. This is where I live.

No one had the heart to tell him anything different; so instead we broke our own rules and kept him in the program, rationalizing it was the right thing to do. That no one could care for him better than we could. True or not, we did our best.

As he continued to decline, a wheelchair replacing the walker that had replaced the cane; I felt more compelled than ever to see if there was anything more we could do. He claimed to have two sons, but didn't want them to know he was dying. Years had passed and he said he'd done some things wrong. He didn't want to bother them and refused to let us intervene. His pride and decorum was part of who he was and there was no swaying him. I tried hard to convince him but he wouldn't budge. I can honestly say I loved him as I loved my own grandfather. I still do.

He kept getting sicker. The doctors decided there was nothing else they could do. He couldn't eat, had trouble sleeping. The nurse arranged for hospice care, she too cared deeply for him and pulled strings to find him a bed. I was with the nurse when she told him about the hospice bed; and it's the only time I ever saw him get angry. No. Please don't make me go. This is my home. I live HERE with all of you.

We were all crying that day, the day we all realized he needed more than we could possibly offer, even after the meals we brought to his bed, the other men assisting him in the bathroom. He needed around the clock care. We were never sure if he'd be alive when we got to work.

Bob moved into hospice and I visited him there the next day. He said he was left lying in bed since he arrived, that it was a horrible place to be. I hate it here. Please take me back home to the shelter. I helped him up and wheeled him out into the sun. We talked again about the past, about his life, I told him I loved him. He said it was the last time I would see him, he didn't want to live in this place, without us and his home he didn't want to live.

Bob died the next day. The nursing home called us and I went with another person to say goodbye. I smoothed what was left of his hair, we kissed his brow and tucked the blanket around his feet. I cried like a baby, my co-worker and I clutching each other sobbing in the middle of the nursing home.

We held a memorial service for him at the shelter and we made sure his remains (in a pauper's burial) were given a name and a space at a local cemetery. I needed to make sure he was remembered somehow, and at the time that meant a lot to me. But I know now it meant little, because he lives in my heart. He'll always share a room there.

Seeing those women reminded me of Bob, and the majesty of an old man who ended his long life in a homeless shelter; changing our lives. I hope he knows how blessed I was to know him, how his example, his quiet dignity, changed me forever.

It's time for our fifth Just Post Roundtable. If you have a post of yours or one you've appreciated that was written by someone else, please send them my way to girlplustwo (at) yahoo(dot) com by May 7th and I'll send you the button. Go on. It's good for the soul.

We'll link all posts and anyone who refers one (or more) in our Just Post Roundtable on the 10th. If this is new to you, please feel free to check it out here or at the JP buttons to your right.