He Smiled
It didn’t happen often. Rodger was a dour man with a deeply furrowed brow and a face rutted with frown lines. The landscape of his life, mapped out on the parchment-thin skin of the elderly, was a map of negative emotions. Fear, uncertainty, frustration, disappointment and suspicion all left clearly marked passages across his countenance.
There were no laugh lines framing his mouth or little crinkly fans of mirth around his eyes. A smile never came easy for him. Sometimes, when someone told a joke or shared a funny experience, I imagined one lying in wait, ready to spring out if only he’d drop his guard for a moment.
That day it happened and I was there to see it. For a moment in time he forgot to worry and ceased to contemplate all the things that didn’t make sense.
What brought this on, you ask?
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It was nothing, really.
The day started as it always did with his slow walk down the steps to the kitchen for his breakfast and morning medication. I took his vital signs and sent them off to the clinic for review via the tele-health monitor and reassured him that there was no bad news.
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"Everything looks good, I smiled at him. It’s a good day to be happy.”
“Yeah, happy,” he grumped as he turned away.
“You look good this morning,” I tried again.
“Looking is different than feeling,” he insisted.
“Do you feel bad?” I asked, concerned that I’d missed something.
“No. I’m OK. That’s it.”
That’s it, I thought. That’s all there is for him. When there is nothing to worry about his slate is wiped clean. For a moment I felt like crying myself. He always looked so tired and sad. Then I remembered that he was fine and it was a day to be grateful. I refused to let his funk engulf me.
“Don’t worry, be happy,” I sang out, loud enough to startle us both. As the off key words bounced off the walls I started to giggle and watched for some hint of mirth in him. But no, he continued up the stairs and shuffled into his room for a nap.
When 11:00 am rolled around and he made his ever so punctual appearance for lunch I expected more of the same. So as I sat across from him monitoring his intake and reminding him to swallow so as not to aspirate, I was surprised to see his lips moving.
Is he talking to himself, I wondered, or responding to the voices that sometimes make it through the haze of medication designed to keep them silent?
And then I heard it, so soft and low I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my imagination. I sat very still and waited to see what would happen next. Before long he sensed that I was watching him and slowly lifted his head, seemingly surprised to find me in me in my usual place.
“What’s up?” he asked with all the disingenuous charm of a naughty three year old caught in an act of mischief.
“Are you singing?” I asked, nodding in approval.
“No, I don’t sing, he answered gruffly. “But don’t worry, be happy,” he said with a big grin. And he blushed a delicate pink as he said it.
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