Cards and cigars. John loved both. So everyday when I visited after closing the Gift Shop I would meet him at the nurse's station. He would have a smoke, almost crying like a baby when the nurse was late with his match.
"Want to turn over a few?" he always asked after his smoke, raising his bushy white eyebrows , holding up a pack of cards.
Then we headed for the day room for some cards. John ordered a few residents ,who were either sitting in their wheelchairs or laying their head on the round tables. to "Beat it."
Cards were a bright spot for the old man. Finally having someone to play with was big for him.
He taught me how to play Pinochle- or at least I thought it was Pinochle. One afternoon a nurse was watching our game and asked what we were playing.
"Pinochle..Why?"I replied.
"That's not Pinochle," she said, giggling. "I have no clue what you're playing."
As it turned out, neither did we.
Seems like John got confused and taught me versions of Pinochle, Rummy and Whist, all rolled into one. The blind leading the blind. It didn't matter. We were having fun, which was the main objective of our games.
When John caught pneumonia the following winter I visited him in the hospital. I brought him a box of his favorite cigars and a brand new deck of cards.
"We will save these for when you get back," I encouraged as he lay in bed, hardly able to talk.
"My buddy," was all he said, recognizing me through misty eyes.
The nurses at the nursing home had informed me that on the days I couldn't make it in, John would lament about where I was and when I was coming back. He looked forward to my visits more than I knew.
John never made it back. He died that night. Out of the hundreds of residents I would meet down the road ,I never forgot John. He was the first resident I spent time with, the first who touched my heart, as he touched mine. He gave me a purpose and showed me that I could really make a difference in someones life by a friendly hello, a visit and taking the time to listen and to care.
John didn't know it but he had a major impact on my future.
Wheelchair Willie was one of my best friends on the CB radio. He was involved in a car accident several years earlier which left him paralyzed from the waist down. He was a young, husky guy, cut down in his prime when he totaled his car on a rain-slicked highway. "Me and a tree had an argument," he surmised. "The tree won."
He went through the usual stages of denial and anger before finding acceptance. Once he did there was no stopping Willie. Hell on wheels, literally.
I always thought it would be tougher to adjust to a new disability. Willie had a taste of able-bodied life, which I never had, but I was used to my life, whereas he needed to suddenly adjust.
I remember visiting a close friend back in those days. His name was Matt and he was a lot like Willie- a party-guy, heavy into drinking and having a good time on weekends. A good-looking young guy in his late twenties, could have any girl he wanted, living life to its fullest. My Mom was long-time friends with his mother so that's how we knew each other.
Matt dove off a diving board one summer at a public swimming pool. He noticed a little girl below him in the water. It all happened in a split-second. He twisted his body to avoid hitting her and ended up hitting his head on the edge of the concrete pool, breaking his neck. Paralyzed from the neck down for life.
One moment a healthy, robust guy with everything to live for- the next a quadriplegic. It's true that having a disability is one club that anyone can join at any time.
Now everything had to be done for him. Feeding, bathing, toileting, dressing. His mother took care of her only child. I used to visit him when I could, talking, listening to music, encouraging and trying to provide a source of understanding.
But no matter how hard anyone tried Matt was shrouded with depression, which was understandable. But acceptance was not possible for Matt. He wouldn't allow it. He gave up.
At age 28 Matt stopped eating and let go. Complications - bedsores, pneumonia and losing his will to live- did him in.
In a way I was lucky. I knew God had plans for me. I just didn't know what they were back then. Often I felt like Matt and wanted to give up. But I never did. Maybe it was my parents. Yet I could see how easy it would've been to lose faith.
Willie was a guy who didn't sulk with his new lifestyle. It had to be like a nightmare you can't awake from but he never complained about it. He was everything I wanted to be. He was a true role model for someone like me. He drove a specially-equipped, revved up green van with a hydraulic lift and hand controls to drive. With his other car, a beat-up Chevy, he just climbed into the driver's seat, throwing his folded up chair into the back seat and took off.
He was going to college to become a Social Worker. He was independent, unlike me. He wasn't above getting under his van to fix it or plopping out of his chair to the dirty ground to garden. He reminded me of everything I was missing in life- shooting pool, wheelchair basketball, picking up girls. He showed me that I was limiting myself by thinking I was handicapped. He didn't preach, he simply showed me by living . Challenge or not, my life could be so much better than it was.
In many ways I wanted to be like Willie but in some other ways I was afraid. Like when Willie strapped himself in his chair and used himself as a human bobsled to plow down a snowy hill. I did have brittle bones, after all.
I admired his fierce determination and will to enjoy life. He came so close to death when he had his accident. It took that brush with death to make him live life to it's fullest. What did he have to lose?
Willie knew how much I loved working at the nursing home. He put the idea in my head that I could actually get paid doing what I loved to do.
I had no clue what Social Work was or what a Social Worker did. I did some research about the field- the academic qualifications, the salary. I needed to earn my college degree, at least a Bachelor's degree. That's four years of school. A Master's degree would give me more options, but one step at a time.
Did I really want to invest the time, the money, and the dedication it would take? Did I have it in me, both the smarts and the desire?
It just so happened the current Social Worker at the nursing home was a young guy ( a rare thing, as I would find out). I asked Jack for his advice, the first time I expressed this crazy idea to anyone.
"You'll never make a lot of money in Social Work, he replied honestly. "But some things are just more important than money."
Great advice. Plus, to my surprise, he didn't laugh at my crazy dream.
After the Penn debacle an intense desire and determination was burning inside me to prove to everyone , myself included, that I wasn't a failure, a loser or a quitter. God gave me a reasonably good mind. Why not use it? I had so much more to give.
I wanted to prove so many people wrong, wanted to make Mom proud for sticking with me, wanted to make Dad proud too.
I also wanted to show Vocational Rehabilitation I could do it. When I expressed my plan to them they were leery. I once threw away a great career and a promising future. Would I do it again? Why should they invest their faith and money in me again?
I did need help with grants and loans. I was making peanuts at the nursing home helping out . I needed my disability benefits and was limited to what I could earn. How could I afford school without help? I couldn't. What about the cost of textbooks and gas to travel back and forth to school/?
I took that hard first step to independence. I applied for every grant and student loan I could find. Huge amounts of red tape and paperwork. Vocational Rehab saw I was serious this time and agreed to help me.
One of the toughest steps was just saying I was going to do it. I needed to try, after settling into a comfort zone of doing nothing with my life for so long. So when I brought up the idea of college to Mom and others, it surprised many people. There were doubts as well as encouragement from family and friends. I'm sure many thought I wouldn't stick with it anyway.
Mom, always supportive and protective, didn't want me to get hurt again. But she reluctantly agreed. I wasn't sure if she even had total faith in me. but I was glad to have her blessing. Maybe she knew, deep down inside, this was the first step to independence, and, in a motherly way, even though she wanted the best for me, she was just as scared as I was to let go.
There was one main difference between college now and Penn. This time I wanted it so bad. The idea of becoming a Social Worker and helping others in need was perfect. I already knew what a difference I was making in someone's life, as I had with John and the rest of the residents I helped at the Manor
Earning a degree and getting a good job would give me the respect and dignity I craved. A degree would change my life and make others look at me in a different light. It would give me the self-confidence I needed to excel in all aspects of life down the road.I would make more money and could afford more things in life for me and Mom.
So I went for it.
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