Anyone who ever went to a viewing at the Protestant funeral home in our town knows who he is. A man of average height and average build. He wore a black suit, of course, and was immaculate. You might not even notice him if it weren't for his face. It was distinctive. His features were chiseled, his nose large and angular and, of course, there was no smile. There was something a bit intimidating about him; you just knew he wouldn't be one to engage in small talk or -- God forbid -- banter. I kind of imagined that he had a wife who was a little bit afraid of him and three or four children who toed the line impeccably. Not that I thought him to be mean, no, not that. He just looked like someone who knew exactly how things should be done and, by cracky, they were going to be done that way.
But the voice that I'd never heard before, belied the image. He sounded fragile. Frightened. Vulnerable.
He was seated on the side of the bed and when I asked if I could sit down, he apologized for not being able to pull the chair over for me. As his eyes brimmed over with his tears, I took his hand and gently asked, "What's going on?"
His opening words undid everything I'd ever presumed about him. "I have a little doggy," he began. "And I love her."
We spent about forty-five minutes together, an unusually long time for a visit. He told me his life's story. He'd grown up upstate and learned his trade there. Upon completing mortuary school, he learned of a job down here and met with the owner of the funeral home. On first meeting they both knew it would work. He worked at that funeral home for sixty years. There was no cowering wife, no nervous children. Not much at all in the way of family -- a difficult hypochondriac of a sister and her son, Joel.
He was a sweet, gentle, and lovely man. Appearances, as they say, can be deceiving.
He'd come to the hospital unexpectedly, as so many do. And he hadn't planned on staying. But there he was, and his dog, Ember, was very much on his mind. On the day of admission, the nephew had gone over to his home, let the dog out, and fed her. He'd gone back again the next morning to tend her again. Then in the afternoon, the nephew and the sister had come to the hospital to see him. The visit hadn't gone well. The sister apparently had gotten out of a sick bed to come, and Joel hadn't been happy about having to transport her. They had words. The family had left in a bit of a huff.
And now my patient was worried that the nephew wouldn't continue to care for Ember.
My non-medically trained quick assessment suggested to me that this was no short stay. Mr. P. was shaky and frail and he admitted to being unsteady on his feet, although he had been able to open the door to let Ember out back to transact her business. I foresaw another day or so in hospital and then a stay in rehab. Mr. P. is 88.
I held his hand. I passed him tissues. And I listened. In due time, having gotten it all out, he focused on his main issue: his doggy's wellbeing. He seemed at a loss. We talked about what he might do and decided he would give Joel a phone call and say that he wasn't feeling good about how their visit had gone and just wondered if he and Joel were okay. If Joel was unable to continue caring for Ember, Mr. P. would ask him to take her to the kennel and pay him for doing so. We had a plan.
I had hoped to pop in again the next day before leaving, just to see how it all worked out. In my mind was the back-up plan of contacting my own dog boarder, a young mom from my church, who would make Ember feel right at home. But a trauma, and then another got in the way, and this turned into another one of those stories where I'll never know the ending. That's one of the unsettling parts of my work.
