It’s a slow-to-get-started morning. Rain, sometimes roaring torrents of it, falls from the heavy, dark sky. I am eating a cheese omlette and drinking a second cup of coffee as I think about what to do first. I’m not in any hurry to begin.

So far, I’ve made coffee and breakfast, talked with Husband on the phone, and fed, brushed, and played with the cat. Next I’ll put together a batch of carrot ginger soup and barbecue some chicken quarters for tonight’s dinner. After that, I will tackle the living room, which is currently a jumbled horror of things I haven’t found a place for. I expect most of it will end up in the loft, as I have no room for it anywhere else.

My list is calling me. But I keep sitting here, remembering my week and all the people I’ve encountered within it. The images in my mind are as jumbled as the needs-to-be-cleaned living room. Several in particular have caught my attention. I would like to share those here.

First, there is Marge, a lady I met at Husband’s rehab. She is there because she “fell” at home and broke her shoulder and her pelvis. She’s a tall, slender lady with reddish curly hair and glasses, and the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. She also has Alzheimer’s, and has no idea where she is or why she’s there.

Marge spends all her time trying to escape, insisting she has to catch the bus so she can get home on time. Every time she stands up, an alarm on her wheelchair goes off, and everyone comes running to get her re-seated and explain, (sometimes hundreds of times an hour) exactly why she can’t get up. She listens, promises to stay put, forgets, and gets up again seconds later. I’ve sat with her several times while Husband is sleeping, holding her to keep her calm.

Bob is another resident.  He had a stroke and is relearning to walk and use the bathroom. He struggles to express himself, is slow to realize that his body can’t yet do what his mind wants it to do. He keeps insisting that he’s going to get out of his wheelchair and “sit in that chair over there”. But his body is unable to handle this simple act. This frustrates him.

He calls me “fire department” because of a shirt I wore one day when I visited Husband. When he sees me, he tells his sons, “Look—there’s fire department.” This is how his brain remembers me. He can’t remember names.

They were outside yesterday, watching as I worked in the rehab’s patio garden. Bob was telling them everything I was doing. “She’s digging in the dirt. Look. She’s cutting dead things. She has a big black bag for garbage. Look at those pretty flowers.” It was like listening to a play-by-play description of a football game. His sons listened tolerantly, pleased that he was aware enough to mention what was happening. Until he remembered that he wanted to get up and “sit in that chair over there”.

An argument ensued. Bob wasn’t about to listen to his sons telling him what he could and couldn’t do. He insisted that he was going to get up and no one was going to stop him. They couldn’t keep him from trying to stand up, and they were yelling at him, which upset him even more. So I went over to help calm him down.

“Bob.” I got his attention. “They [his sons] need your doctor’s permission to let you get up. He’s not here today. If they let you get up without permission, they won’t be allowed to see you any more.” This wasn’t quite true, but it got through. Bob’s shoulders slumped and he sank back into the wheelchair.

“I just want to get up.” he said, his eyes filling. “I just want to get up.”

And then there’s the “crossword puzzle lady”, a short, stout, white-haired lady who walks up and down the parking lot with her walker every day, then sits at the patio table and does crosswords until dinnertime. I don’t know her name. She answers greetings with a grunt and won’t look at anyone.  But yesterday she did something she’d never done, at least as long as I’ve been coming.

I spent yesterday cleaning the garden. The once-beautiful bed was a tangled, brown mass of dead stalks, spent leaves and weeds; and I couldn’t stand looking at it. So I tore into it in a seven-hour frenzy of clipping, digging and weeding, filling five huge garbage bags with debris. I planted ten red chrysanthemums (donated by one of our local nurseries) and some assorted annuals (taken from my flowerbed at home). Then I swept the place spotless. It looked yards better.

When I was done, I went in to say goodbye to Husband, who had come out several times to watch me work. When I came back out, “crossword puzzle lady” was sitting in her usual place, having an animated conversation with another patient. Without missing a beat, she looked up at me, gave me a huge smile, and said, “This looks so beautiful. I can’t thank you enough.”  I nearly fell over. I didn’t even know she could talk!

These people are beautiful. I would love to sit with all of them, get to know them, listen to the stories they have to tell. But there’s never enough time. All I can do when I’m there is love them and hope that will be enough. I will probably never know.