One of my book group list-serv buddies told me, "Christen, write EVERY DAY." (Okay, he didn't type it in caps like that, but still it seemed a stern admonition). The idea was, even if you don't think you've got a lot to say, you've got somethin' to say. So, bare with me, friends and foes of the blogging universe, cause this contemplative chick is thinkin' there ain't much here...
I have, however, been meaning to share with you all a little somethin' somethin' from a recent hospice jaunt (somehow "somethin' somethin'" and "hospice" don't work quite in the same sentence). Regardless...
It was Friday afternoon. It was my last visit of the day. I was tired. I was weary. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I was really looking forward to the end of the week...and a nice cold glass of chardonay with some baked doritos on the side (my snack of choice--I find the nacho cheesy goodness mixes well with the dry white grape succulence). My last visit of the day was to see a sweet woman who was in her 90s. This woman was also in rather good health, despite her status as a Hospice patient. She was a delightful woman, who reminded me a great deal of the wonderful grandmother of mine who died in the end of January. I found myself immediately smitten with Miss A. and kept asking more and more questions so I could hear her spin tales of her life growing up in Virginia. I adored Miss A.
Sitting on a beautiful antique chair, amongst Miss A.'s well-cared for houseplants and African violets, and her elegant Hummels and Queen Anne furniture, there was a strange anachronistic visitor. Sitting on that beautiful walnut chair, was a "Rock Star Elmo" (and believe me brothers and sisters, if I knew how to link things together I'd pass a picture on to you from a Toys 'R Us website of said creature). Elmo, as you probably know, is the furry red monster from Sesame Street who talks with a sweet little voice. Well, "Rock Star Elmo" is sort of Sesame Street Elmo's greaser counterpart (again, if there were a way I knew how to do that #@*&% link thing, I'd link you to an Outsiders movie website to compare the difference between "soc" and "greaser" types).
RSE (my new name for him) sat on the chair in all his rock star glory, eyeing me, the hospice chaplain...sort of like he was saying, "Yo, you think my lady's gonna die soon, punk?" I asked Miss A. where Elmo came from, and instead of answering she rose to carry him in her loving arms over to where I was seated on the aforementioned Queen Anne furniture. Whilst holding RSE, I was encouraged to squeeze his little hand (paw?) so that RSE could regale me with a few words of wisdom.
Upon the first squeeze, he sang me some 1950s rock ditty that I can't recall here. But, hark, on the second squeeze he said, in his little RSE voice, "Let's Rock the House!" The voice was filled with a joie de' vive that I cannot adequately express here apart from asking you to raise your voice to its highest possible decibal and repeat, happily and ecstatically as if you were just told that it wouldn't be long before Cat Stevens did indeed renounce his Islamic faith and begin singing again, "Let's Rock the house!!!!"
At first, I didn't understand exactly what Little Elmo was asking of me, and so I cocked my head and said, "Miss A.? What was it that Elmo said?" She smiled, adjusted her hearing aide, and shrugged saying only, "I think it says, 'What the hell!' But, what do I know?"
I love my job.