When I was in residency, we lived in Flint. It was not as bad back then (13 years ago) as it has become, although parts of it were problematic. Where we lived was quite nice, though. It was our first house, a little 3-bedroom two-story with a yard the size of a postage stamp, in a quiet neighborhood that was comprised mostly of elderly people. We lived in the second house along on our block, and our neighbor on the corner was a crusty old man named Bill. We often saw him out in the yard, mowing, puttering, his stooped form picking up sticks or raking leaves.
At first I was intimidated by him. No, not intimidated - scared. He hardly said a word in passing, although he would grunt a "Hello" in my direction if I said it first. Then he'd turn back to work, taciturn as ever.
I don't remember how I got talking to him, or whether it was my husband who did first. Likely it was my husband, because he mowed the yard with the somewhat dilapidated push mower we got from my Dad. We figured the yard was so small, it would be "good exercise." Well, thankfully it wasn't I who had to mow it. The mower was too tall for me anyway, and that time period was long before I started exercising, so I didn't have the upper body strength to move it.
Anyway, somehow we got talking to Bill. The exchanges would go something like this:
"Hey, Bill."
"Hello, there."
"How are you today?"
"Never better."
And that was about the extent of it.
I don't remember the exact sequence of events. I think I was pregnant, or else we had just had our first daughter, but somehow I was invited into the house. It was about the same size as ours, except extremely neat, and decorated in the manner of an older person, with lace on the kitchen curtains and a few dustless knickknacks on the shelf. I think Bill had invited me inside to meet his wife. This astounded me, because I didn't even know he was married. I had never seen her outside, and of course he had never talked about her.
His wife (and I feel bad; I don't even remember her name) was a sweet little lady in a wheelchair. It only took a few moments of conversing with her to realize she was in an advanced state of dementia. She was able to speak pleasantly, but not with much meaning. I let Bill show me around the house - he was so proud - and I think I had a cup of tea with them. It was obvious how well cared-for his wife and house were.
I went home, and thought later about his always saying, "Never better." Here he was, probably in his late 70s, crusty as hell on the outside but tenderly caring for his wife. I never heard him complain. I never saw any sign of unhappiness or dissatisfaction with his lot in life (although sometimes it was hard to tell, because his outward appearance was, as I said, crusty). It made me think. Sure, residency is hard - one of the most difficult things I've ever done in my life, for certain - and stressful, and my fellow residents and I coped with it by venting and grousing and complaining, and then picking up and doing the work anyway. But although it was always done in the end, it wasn't always cheerfully done.
One day when our elder daughter was a baby, I noticed an ambulance on the street in front of Bill's house. Now, I hate emergencies (that's why I'm a family doc, not an emergency doc), but I stopped to speak to the paramedics to see if there was anything I could help with. They politely but firmly turned me away. I found out later that Bill's wife had died.
He was a little less distant with us after that. I can't imagine the loneliness that must have enveloped him, even as his "burden" of caring for her was over. I think they had some children but I didn't know if they were in the area or not. One day he saw me in the yard with our daughter, and he came over with something in his hand. It was a little yellow stuffed dog, rather cheaply made, with "God Bless You" embroidered in red on one back paw pad, and a red heart on the other. Bill said, "Someone from the visiting service gave this to us before she died. I want you to have it." I thanked him and put it up on the shelf in the baby's room, but never really wanted her to play with it.
Bill died sometime after we moved to the other side of the state; I heard about it through another neighbor when we were back in Flint, working on selling the house (it took us 13 months to sell it). In the neighborhood, there were few people moving in, and the older people were just hanging on. It was a sad thing to see, when we went back. I liked that neighborhood.
That stuffed dog has moved with us twice now. Our younger daughter is absolutely mad about stuffed animals, and she found it one day. She thought it was the cutest thing she had ever seen (every one is cuter than the last, it seems) and she promptly named it "Happycakes" and grafted it into her ever-burgeoning stuffed animal repertoire. She's such a sunny kid. Her middle name, from Tolkien, means "land of the sun," so I guess she's living up to that, and spreading the sunshine around in the names of her stuffed animal friends.
Happycakes.
This evening Happycakes was sitting next to me on the couch after the girls were in bed. I looked at him, and decided I needed to have Happycakes nearby so I brought him upstairs to my room. I'm remembering Bill tonight, and his unshakable optimism in the face of real difficulty and pain in his life. I look at Happycakes sitting there, so sweet, and decide that no matter how I am, tonight I'm "Never better."
God Bless You <3
wb
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