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Love That Lasts
#1 · April 14, 2003, 11:50 am
Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>
<>< Love That Lasts ><>
It's six A.M., gray and still. Thelma Wright, a sparrow-sized woman
of seventy-seven, sits on the back step watching the sunrise.
Overhead two purple finches circle. Thelma is often up before the
birds. Up at midnight to care for her husband, Wilbur, she seldom
drops back to sleep. Instead she scrubs the bathtub or dusts a few
shelves. In the ten years since Wilbur's stroke she's had little time
for chores in daylight.
Indoors, there is a bit of sparrow in her movements, the plucky
hip-hop of arthritic joints. On the kitchen counter, the coffee
machine gurgles. Thelma peers at it through her thick-lensed glasses.
By instinct more than sight, she navigates the familiar kitchen spaces, cupboard to refrigerator to drawer, mixing Wilbur's strawberry
drink, carrying his bran flakes and white-scalloped bowl.
When Thelma enters the front bedroom, the clock on the mantle ticks toward seven. Her husband's breath puffs in - out, in - out,
his eyes closed.
From an apparent sound sleep, Wilbur says, "I'm awake."
Thelma smiles. "I'll get your washcloth and eye drops."
One-handed, Wilbur rubs the wet warmth over his face. Since 1961,
when his left arm was severed in an industrial accident, Wilbur has
done everything one-handed. Then six months ago, poor circulation
reduced his right foot to pain so incessant the leg was amputated.
"There really isn't much of me left, is there?" he said one day.
"Hey, buddy," replied Thelma, patting his chest, "the best part is
right here."
Bathing done, Thelma says, "Ready to get up?"
Wilbur nods.
With a Hoyer lift, Thelma moves her husband from the bed.
"One of these days," says Wilbur, "I'm going to get up and give you
a ride in this machine."
Wilbur's eyes follow Thelma the way iron filings follow a magnet.
Thelma pumps the hydraulic lever on the hoist, her husband rises from
the bed, then is lowered into the wheelchair.
Nowadays Wilbur and Thelma need each other. She is his movement.
He is her reason for moving.
"You okay?"
"You haven't dumped me yet."
"No, sir, after thirty-three years I'm not about to dump you."
In the bathroom, Thelma shaves and grooms her husband. Together
they arrive at the kitchen table in a swirl of scent - hot coffee and
cool aftershave. Wilbur shoves the right wheel lock into place. Thelma locks the left.
Over bran flakes and milk, Thelma and Wilbur link fingers and pray
in unison, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done..."
Halfway through, tears track down Wilbur's cheeks.
Two quiet cups of coffee later, he says, "If you'd known all this -
how bad it was going to be - maybe you wouldn't have said 'I do.'"
Thelma looks at him through double-ringed lenses. "You know something? Just to see your smile and those blue eyes looking at me, it's worth it all.
I wouldn't change any of it - except maybe one thing. If I could take six months of the year - divide it up with you - I'd take your place and let you switch with me."
By Barbara Seaman
of seventy-seven, sits on the back step watching the sunrise.
Overhead two purple finches circle. Thelma is often up before the
birds. Up at midnight to care for her husband, Wilbur, she seldom
drops back to sleep. Instead she scrubs the bathtub or dusts a few
shelves. In the ten years since Wilbur's stroke she's had little time
for chores in daylight.
Indoors, there is a bit of sparrow in her movements, the plucky
hip-hop of arthritic joints. On the kitchen counter, the coffee
machine gurgles. Thelma peers at it through her thick-lensed glasses.
By instinct more than sight, she navigates the familiar kitchen spaces, cupboard to refrigerator to drawer, mixing Wilbur's strawberry
drink, carrying his bran flakes and white-scalloped bowl.
When Thelma enters the front bedroom, the clock on the mantle ticks toward seven. Her husband's breath puffs in - out, in - out,
his eyes closed.
From an apparent sound sleep, Wilbur says, "I'm awake."
Thelma smiles. "I'll get your washcloth and eye drops."
One-handed, Wilbur rubs the wet warmth over his face. Since 1961,
when his left arm was severed in an industrial accident, Wilbur has
done everything one-handed. Then six months ago, poor circulation
reduced his right foot to pain so incessant the leg was amputated.
"There really isn't much of me left, is there?" he said one day.
"Hey, buddy," replied Thelma, patting his chest, "the best part is
right here."
Bathing done, Thelma says, "Ready to get up?"
Wilbur nods.
With a Hoyer lift, Thelma moves her husband from the bed.
"One of these days," says Wilbur, "I'm going to get up and give you
a ride in this machine."
Wilbur's eyes follow Thelma the way iron filings follow a magnet.
Thelma pumps the hydraulic lever on the hoist, her husband rises from
the bed, then is lowered into the wheelchair.
Nowadays Wilbur and Thelma need each other. She is his movement.
He is her reason for moving.
"You okay?"
"You haven't dumped me yet."
"No, sir, after thirty-three years I'm not about to dump you."
In the bathroom, Thelma shaves and grooms her husband. Together
they arrive at the kitchen table in a swirl of scent - hot coffee and
cool aftershave. Wilbur shoves the right wheel lock into place. Thelma locks the left.
Over bran flakes and milk, Thelma and Wilbur link fingers and pray
in unison, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done..."
Halfway through, tears track down Wilbur's cheeks.
Two quiet cups of coffee later, he says, "If you'd known all this -
how bad it was going to be - maybe you wouldn't have said 'I do.'"
Thelma looks at him through double-ringed lenses. "You know something? Just to see your smile and those blue eyes looking at me, it's worth it all.
I wouldn't change any of it - except maybe one thing. If I could take six months of the year - divide it up with you - I'd take your place and let you switch with me."
By Barbara Seaman
<>< + <>< + <>< + <>< + <>< + <>< + <>< + <>< +<><
<>< ATTITUDE <><
The 92-year-old, petite, well-poised and proud lady, who is fully
dressed each morning by eight o'clock, with her hair fashionably
coifed and makeup perfectly applied, even though she is legally
blind, moved to a nursing home today. Her husband of 70 years
recently passed away, making the move necessary.
dressed each morning by eight o'clock, with her hair fashionably
coifed and makeup perfectly applied, even though she is legally
blind, moved to a nursing home today. Her husband of 70 years
recently passed away, making the move necessary.
After many hours of waiting patiently in the lobby of the nursing
home, she smiled sweetly when told her room was ready. As she
maneuvered her walker to the elevator, I provided a visual
description of her tiny room, including the eyelet sheets that had
been hung on her window.
home, she smiled sweetly when told her room was ready. As she
maneuvered her walker to the elevator, I provided a visual
description of her tiny room, including the eyelet sheets that had
been hung on her window.
"I love it," she stated with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old
having just been presented with a new puppy. "Mrs. Jones, you haven't
seen the room just wait." "That doesn't have anything to do with it,"
she replied. "Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time.
Whether I like my room or not doesn't depend on how the furniture is
arranged. It's how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love
it ..... "It's a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have
a choice; I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have
with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and
be thankful for the ones that do. Each day is a gift, and as long as
my eyes open I'll focus on the new day and all the happy memories
I've stored away, just for this time in my life...."
having just been presented with a new puppy. "Mrs. Jones, you haven't
seen the room just wait." "That doesn't have anything to do with it,"
she replied. "Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time.
Whether I like my room or not doesn't depend on how the furniture is
arranged. It's how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love
it ..... "It's a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have
a choice; I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have
with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and
be thankful for the ones that do. Each day is a gift, and as long as
my eyes open I'll focus on the new day and all the happy memories
I've stored away, just for this time in my life...."
Old age is like a bank account ... you withdraw from what you've put
in. So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in
the bank account of memories. Thank you for your part in filling my
Memory bank. I am still depositing.
in. So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in
the bank account of memories. Thank you for your part in filling my
Memory bank. I am still depositing.
Have a Blessed Day
Dave and Barbara
Dave and Barbara
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