"Damn Dummy!"

Today’s hospice patient, just a fill-in, a one-time thing, is not shy about expressing his feelings.

His wife greeted me at the door, a seemingly cheerful woman in her sixties, and when I walked in there he was, in the hospital bed facing away from the door, and he craned his neck around to see who was coming in.

“Hello,” I said to him, though I’d been warned he wouldn’t talk to me, and if he did, he would most likely yell and call me names.

He kept looking at me as if he were seeing a bug he might recognize, but isn’t sure.

I ask, anyway, “How are you?”

No response, just angry eyes from the man with the white hair and beard. He bears no relation to Santa Claus, not being the least bit jolly. An unhappy Santa, perhaps.

His wife said, “He doesn’t talk, unless he wants something.”

I smiled back at her and told her it wasn’t a problem. She showed me around the tiny little house. Showed me where the supplies were, should they be needed, what to do should he need to relieve himself. He’d need help, of course. I hoped he wouldn’t be needing anything during my stay. I really really hoped. The television was on, and she said he liked to have it on to distract him, but that I could change the channel. Nope, not me. I change nothing that seems to be working. Besides, I always bring a book to read and a book to write in, and my G1 for texting.

The wife left, after thanking me again for staying with old sourpuss.

That was mean of me. Strike that.

I sat on the couch, which faces the back of the house. His hospital bed also faces the back of the house, fortunately, so he didn’t have to look at me. And he slept.

Occasionally he’d move a bit, lift a hand up and examine it, as if looking for something. Then it’d fall back down, and he’d fall asleep. Or ignore me. I could usually tell when he was sleeping because his breathing would change.

Once, during one of the afternoon judge shows, he laughed. I thought it was a laugh, but I could be wrong. Maybe it was a snort. Maybe it was disgust with the human race. Then he fell back asleep.

I looked at the pictures on the wall. Framed photos of husband and wife, the wife always smiling, the husband, not so much. Pictures of children, but whose? The wife has no support from anyone other than hospice. There is no family to help, no friends. I’m told he drove everyone away with his anger. Maybe he wasn’t always like this, maybe the brain tumor isn’t helping matters much, but I don’t think he was ever much of a people person.

He’s just mean.

He woke up after a couple of hours and threw off his covers. In my experience, which is, admittedly, limited, this does not lead to good things. He then said something that sounded like his wife’s name, Sandra. I got up and went over to his bed where he could see me, and I told him, “She’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Monique, I’m here to help you while she’s gone.”

“Who?”

“Monique. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“I want Sandra.” I think that’s what he said. It was a bit . . . muffled.

“I know, and she’ll be here in a little while.”

“No! Now, I want her now!”

He was quite adamant.

“I know, and she’ll be here soon.”

“DAMN DUMMY!” He twisted his head to give me the full on effect of his anger and continued, “I want Sandra NOW!”

And dog help me, for I like to think I’m a compassionate and kind person, but I started to smile, because as much as he might yell for Sandra, she’d get back when she got back, and not a moment sooner.

“Well, she’ll be here in a while.”

I walked back to the couch and sat down, and tried to maintain my composure, no giggling at the patients. There wasn’t much point in continuing the conversation, since all he wanted to do was insist on the immediate appearance of his wife.

The man is dying, there’s one person present who can help him if he needs help, get him whatever he asks for, and he calls her a damn dummy? I’m used to, much too often, calling myself similar epithets, but when a 68 year old dying man calls me that it only amuses me.

Apparently unsatisfied with my performance, he began to moan and groan. “Ahhhhh, ooooooh, arrrgghhhh.” If it were anyone else, I would ask if there was anything I could do, but I’d already tried that. So I continued to watch Judge Joe, or Cops, or whatever was on at that moment, and he continued to moan and groan. It had no effect on me. I checked my email. Sent some texts.

I’m heartless.

When Sandra came home she said the doctor told her she needed to lose weight. Her husband, ever helpful, said, “Better get started then!”

When I left she thanked me for sitting with him, and I wanted to tell her something, but I wasn’t sure what. Good luck? I’m sorry? I hope your entire life with this man hasn’t been a living hell? Instead I told her it was no problem, which it wasn’t. I’m not the one who has to be there all the time, after all.

This patient is the polar opposite of my favorite patient, Fred, who’s still hanging in there, and having me write down the life stories he always wanted to write. We do a little bit at a time because he runs out of air quickly. But does he like to talk! Fred likes everyone. In his stories, he’s always saying how nice people were, how grateful he is, and how much he appreciates everything he’s had.