Taking Care of You
You’ve been old for so long, although you’re only 72. Years of working every day in the men’s department of a local department store have taken their toll on you both physically and mentally. Some days, you don’t know who you are. Other days, you just want to end it all, but you never actually have the guts to follow through. Your wife has her own issues as well. She doesn’t get around much any more. She’s a recluse and hasn’t been seen outdoors much over the last thirty years. It wasn’t always that way. She used to be the life of the party. Perhaps when she came to the realization that she’d never have children, she began backing away from everyone and everything, except you.
You never made much money in your job, and it wasn’t socially appropriate for your wife to hold down a job. Yet despite it all, you managed to scrimp and save enough to buy a simple ranch house in a quiet neighborhood. Your only true love, your dog, died of complications from old age last year, and you’ve been more alone than ever since that day. Your neighbor has a pretty dog that reminds you of your love. Every day, you call to her from your back steps and over the two fences. She always comes to her fence and wags her tail and smiles at you. In many respects, it’s that daily moment that keeps you going.
You’ve been sick. While the department store didn’t ever have any benefits like health insurance, you’ve always relied on the VA. Your days in the Army serving your country in
The VA has always accepted you in times of crisis. When you ran away and slept in your car for a month at a local home improvement store parking lot, it was the VA that took you in and provided physiological assistance. When you got the gout in your leg, the VA took you in and treated it. When your wife fell ill, they came to her aid as well.
You expected and received help when you got dizzy and fell a couple of weeks ago. The fall really hurt, and you did something to your ankle. Of more concern is what caused you to fall. Over the past few years, you’ve picked up a lot of pounds, and your wife is always hounding you about losing the weight. But there’s really nothing you seem able or willing to do. Getting out and walking seems to difficult, and going to a gym is simply out of the question. The medications you take to control your depression seem to pile on weight. It’s all just too much to cope with really, and you feel lost.
The ambulance came that morning you fell, but they simply taped up the ankle and left. You suppose that they were shooed away by your wife since she didn’t want you to go away from her again. By the afternoon, however, it was apparent to both of you that you really needed to be treated at the VA Hospital. So despite not being sure how you were going to be able to pay for the ride in the ambulance since you barely made ends meet as it is on your veteran’s pension and social security, you ask to be taken to the hospital.
Two weeks go by. They hooked you up to machines and tested you seemingly with every test in existence. They hooked you up to oxygen to help get your oxygen levels up. They thought that maybe you fell because of that. They’re worried about your heart; perhaps you have congestive heart failure. This scares you, but deep down you know that you really need to be cared for right now, so you don’t fight the diagnosis.
As you pass the time in semi-wakefulness, sometimes you think that you’re back at the department store selling suits and ties. Other times, you travel back in time to when you were a young man growing up on your parents'
Slowly your eyes come into focus. You’re sitting in your Subaru Outback in the passenger side staring a brick wall. The engine is running. The heat’s blowing a full gale, and it's way too warm. You have no clue where you are or why you’re there. It must be some kind of dream. As you glance slowly away from the wall, you see a rusted silver fence and an overgrown yard. Home. You are looking at your backyard. The car’s running. Your door is locked. The car’s running. Time slips away from you.
A rustling sound jars you. Someone is out there, walking in the pile of leaves by the fence. You can see him outlined in the dark night sky. He’s telling you to unlock your door. You fumble around trying to find some kind of switch or knob. Finally, your hand finds it, and the door clicks.
The door opens and a face pops inside right next to you. It asks you something. It’s your neighbor, the owner of the dog a couple of fences away. He says he’s going to help you into the house. You agree. You untangle yourself from the oxygen bottle that takes up the back seat, and he gets the walker from back there and places it in front of you. At first, you’re wobbly and nearly keel over from the dizziness in your head and weakness in your legs. But the neighbor has you in a firm grip. You hear him tell you to lean forward, and you take one-step at a time.
Events and details come slowly into focus after you get hooked back up to your bottle of oxygen. You simply don’t understand why the VA kicked you out. Why couldn’t they send you to a rehab unit if your hospital allowance had expired? Who’s going to take care of you now? Your wife is almost as frail as you. There’s no family. What kind of country is this? Is this how your country repays you for your service all those years ago? It’s a good thing the recliner is comfortable.
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