“I’ve got a heart full of grateful.”- Dierks Bentley

—

It had been a few weeks since I’d checked on Bruce. Not that I hadn’t tried. I’d driven up the hill to see him on three seperate occasions hoping to see him toiling in his garden, laser edging his pristine putting green of a yard, or doing some other outdoor activity, but each time, there was no sign of him.

I stopped to knock once, but it was clear that no one was home. This was two days prior to the Holy War being played. No Bruce.

It was a little concerning to not see the guy that seemingly never leaves his house except for a daily trip to Home Depot which is about a 45 second drive straight down the hill from him. My overactive mind began to spin what exactly was going on with him. It wasn’t just that I wanted his football take; it was the fact that I enjoy talking to this pseudo-grandfather figure and was a little concerned for him.

As you know Bruce is well up there in years. To this day, I don’t know his age but as I’ve described, he’s more than ‘up-there’ in years spent on this earth. I first bumped into him three and half years ago and he looked as old then as does now. The sun is well on its way down for Bruce. He knows it. Hell, he says it all the time. “I’m on my way out–just acting accordingly.”

He stays active, eats lots of cheese, and smokes lots of Winstons. His face reflects the latter habit. I’m typing of Bruce in the present tense because he is still present on earth, but I’m building it up in this way because his situation has changed. Well, currently changing. The good news is–I found Bruce and if I can type without crying all over this keyboard, you get to read that encounter. Bruce is back!

—

Being that I am as stubborn as Bruce, I began driving by his house once every day hoping to see him outside or a light to be seen through his front window, but zero luck.

However, six days ago I tried a different approach. It dawned on me to knock the door across the street from him. Bruce had told me all about his handicapped neighbor that he “buys a carton of cigarettes for once-a-week because her daughter won’t do it for her.” I’d never met her but was hoping that she would have some information on her enabler.

I parked in front of Bruce’s house and walked across the street up to the wrought iron security door and rang the yellowed doorbell to the left. After waiting about thirty seconds, I knocked on the door but heard no response or sound. I turned about face and headed down the three brick steps and began to walk down the short driveway towards my car when I heard, “Hello. Can I help you?”

I turned to see the door that led from the carport halfway cracked open but could not see a person. I took a step or two towards the carport and responded. “Um yes, hello. My name is Whit and I’m a friend of your neighbors across the street. Is there a chance that you’ve seen him recently?” I spoke towards the half open carport door but had yet to see her.

“Oh, Oh yes. I knew I’d seen your car. Come a little closer, so I don’t have to shout.” She had a harsh, raspy voice like my late Great-Grandmother who smoked cigarettes in her farmhouse kitchen as long as I knew her.

I inched towards the candy maroon sedan under the carport and still not seeing the source of the voice, used caution to not startle the situation.

“Don’t be shy. Come to the door,” she said as she must’ve seen me slowly creeping although I don’t know how. In three or four steps I was at the half open windowless door but still did not see anyone.

The voice spoke up, “So, your looking for Bruce?” “That’s right. Have you seen him?” I still had no idea who I was talking to but deduced that she was just behind the windowless door.

“He got sick,” she said curtly. “Been laid up for two weeks, I think. His son flew in from Minot and has been staying the night to watch over the house.” “Oh my goodness. Do you know if he’s ok?” “Couldn’t say,” she responded and then quickly continued, “Since you’re here for a moment, would you mind helping me with one thing?” “Oh, of course,” I quickly responded as a reaction to the unexpected question. “Well come on in then. It’s right here in the kitchen.” I heard her voice trail as she moved from the door, but the door did not open any further. It felt awkward to just walk in the house, so I stood there for a few seconds.

“Come on in, I’m not gonna hurt ya,” she said with a comedic flair that resembled Ruth Gordon from around 1966.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The door opened to a narrow mud room with a door straight in front of me that led to the back yard, an open door to my right led to the laundry closet and to the left opened into the small kitchen that was Dijon mustard yellow and Granny Smith Green.

“It’s over here,” she said as I walked into the kitchen.

Immediately, it became clear why she didn’t present herself at the door. She rolled around in a wheelchair that was obviously too bulky to allow the door to open all the way. “Oh, you’re handsome. Bruce didn’t tell me you were handsome.” Would’ve been weird if he did, I thought to myself as I brushed off the grandmotherly like endearment.

She was wearing a nightgown of sorts with a blanket over her lap and had a noticeably full face of makeup. Her hair looked like it had been permed in the last week or so. “Well, you don’t look half bad yourself, young lady,” I complimented back with a grin. “Oh shush and come over here.”

I walked across the kitchen to the place where she had stopped. “You see that container on the top shelf? –I need it.” I reached up and grabbed the lime green food storage bowl. “Here you go.”

“Thank you–you know? My daughter comes by here and she thinks she helps but she doesn’t. All she does is complain, complain, complain and then tell me that I’m doing everything wrong–And then she unloads my dishes and puts them in all of the wrong places–I mean, how am I supposed to reach that bowl? I never could have if you weren’t here. She just doesn’t make sense–but thank you. I’m glad you came by.”

“Hey, I’m happy to help.”

She set the bowl down on counter and wheeled over to the refrigerator. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got coke and juice.” “Oh, no thank you. I’m really ok.” She rolled her eyes. “Let me get you a drink for Pete’s sake. No one ever visits me and I like to talk–You sure you don’t want anything?” “Coke would be great ma’am.”

She pulled a can from the fridge and placed it on the counter. I still just wanted to ask about Bruce, but this now felt like a hostage situation. There was no leaving this house with what I wanted without proper negotiations, so I settled in for the long game.

After opening the can with a tool from the dull canary colored kitchen drawer, she invited me to sit at her round kitchenette where she lit a cigarette and began to talk.

It’s worth noting that to this point, I had no idea what her name was. I was just remaining in the moment. I felt like I knew her since Bruce had talked about her before, but this all unfolded quickly like it was meant to be.

She groaned about this or that for a while and asked me all about my personal life and I obliged her with any information she wanted to know for a little longer than I expected. A half hour turned to an hour, then 90 minutes turned into nearly two hours. She talked; I listened. I talked, she listened for a moment and then continued talking. Time wasn’t real. The frigid can of Coke was a necessity.

“So, what happened to Bruce, if you don’t mind me getting back to that.” A question I had asked about two hours earlier in her driveway. Now, after nearly two hours and inhaling the secondhand smoke of at least four cigarettes at her kitchenette, I was finally getting back to the topic at hand.

“Oh Bruce. I don’t know exactly, but he hasn’t been home in two weeks. His son, who never visits him by the way, has been around and spends the night. He brought me my cigarettes like Bruce always does but he didn’t seem happy about it.–I guess I don’t really know, but I know he’s not well–the ambulance came and took him about 8:15 one night. I remember because it was raining that night. Dreadful rain. Just pouring–And they wheeled him to the ambulance while he lay there getting soaking wet. I watched the whole thing and felt bad that they didn’t put an umbrella over him or something.”

“So, you don’t know where he is?” “No, but you need to talk to the son. He’ll be by later on tonight–tell you what–leave him a note on the door to come talk to me and I’ll get the information for you next time I see him.”

–And that’s what I did. I wrapped the conversation over the course of the next fifteen minutes or so which included asking her name and then I left.

–Two days later I received a voicemail. “Hi Whit. It’s Jean. I spoke to Bruce’s son and he said he’d love to talk to you. You can reach him at this number…”

–I called Bruce’s son, and he told me that his dad had mentioned me to him more than any other person. “Nearly every hour he mentions something from your conversations with him…so first, thank you for being so kind to him. I know it isn’t easy.” Isn’t easy? This guy doesn’t get it. Maybe he should read the blog.

The son continued, “Second, Dad is not doing well. I don’t feel comfortable telling you about the details over the phone, but I’d love to extend the invitation to visit him so we can talk in person.” “Absolutely!”

–He gave me the details, and I went to the hospital, which is a place I like to avoid as much as possible. The amount of uncontrollable physical and emotional pain and hurt in every direction is too much for me to handle. Some people are cut out to help the sick and ailing and those are the Angels in Human Form that should be lifted and supported the most. It takes Angels to do those jobs every day.

–I met the son in the lobby and we exchanged a few words. He was quite tall with a classic Robert Redford haircut and dressed like he was going to sell someone an insurance policy on their living room furniture set. He walked me to the door and then said he would back in a bit. I entered the room alone.

Upon entering, my emotions welled instantly. The visual of Bruce with cords and plugs coming out of every which of way, his skin tone not reflecting the sunshine like it always did and his eyes–his eyes that were full of sadness met mine and he said, “you came to see me.”

–Even now, I’m breaking up typing this, but I’m going to get through it.

“I’m here Bruce. You are a hard man to find,” I said jokingly trying to keep the eyes dry.

Bruce: You know, I wanted to tell you somehow, but since you moved, I didn’t know where you lived and we’d never exchanged numbers so I didn’t know how. I was worried that you’d be worried about me.

Me: Worried about you? Please. I knew you were just hiding out somewhere.

He half smiled and knew that I was lying.

Me: Your son told me about your illness. How are you feeling?

Bruce: Like shit. They won’t let me smoke.

Me: I’m sorry man. That sucks.

Bruce: Is what it is–I should’ve quit a long time ago. I just feel stupid in here.

Me: Have they told you a timetable to get you out of here?

He paused and looked at me then looked out the window. “I don’t know–I don’t want to know. I think I’ll be here until the end at this point.”

Me: Don’t say that, Bruce. These guys are good at their job. I’m sure they can get you on the mend, you know?

Bruce: I don’t know. I think everyone is just waiting on me to die.

Me: Well, I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, you’ve got your son helping you and Jean across the street who misses you, and me–I promise you, I’m not waiting on you to die, Bruce.

Bruce: Well, maybe not you, but these doctors don’t care, and my son just wants my money. He knows he just has to wait for me to die before he gets all of my stuff. That’s all he’s ever wanted.

Me: Damn Bruce. That’s heavy. I’m sorry man.

Before I could continue, a fresh-faced Nurse entered to do something. I stepped out until she finished.

When I returned to the room, he looked less comfortable and grumpier. The sadness in his eyes was replaced with fire and venom. I’m not sure what went down, but the poor old guy was in a rough spot. I cut to the chase.

Me: What about those Utes Bruce? A lot has happened since we talked.

Bruce: They blew it. Should of beat that team from Provo, but they blew it. It’s over.

Me: Well, there might still be a chance if they win out, right?

Bruce: Nope. Season done. You don’t get to lay an egg like that at home and then blow a game on the road to puny BYU and make the playoffs. They’re done. Like me. ‘Just act accordingly.’

He smiled sarcastically and I obliged him a smile in return. All I wanted to do was hug him and tell him it’s not over yet. He loved to joke about ‘being on the way out’ all the time, but now it felt like that joke wasn’t as appropriate. Too close to home.

Me: Well, I’m rooting for both of you to make a comeback.

Bruce: And that’s why I like you. You’re too stupid to know when you’re wrong. Good heart, but stupid mind.

This statement is Bruce in a nutshell. You can’t let these words sting you. If you do then you can’t consider yourself a friend of Bruce’s. Pretty sure it’s statements like this that is the reason he has no friends, and his son struggles to love him.

Me: Well, you’re not wrong about that old man. That’s why I hang out with smart guys like you.

Bruce: Ha. Nobody hangs out with guys like me.

–It goes without saying that this was the roughest interaction he and I had shared since our first feisty interaction three and half years ago. There is not an ending to this story per se. Time will have to pass. Either Bruce goes home and gets to go back to his daily caring for his yard or Bruce goes to a more eternal type of home and leaves this one behind. I don’t know, neither did the son, and neither did Bruce.

The crazy thing is that I don’t know which one he’d prefer. I know which I prefer. This man, whose real name is not Bruce is the closest thing I have to a grandparent these days.

Realistically and medically, at his age with little to live for and with his lung health being so poor, it is unlikely that he ever returns to his normal routine. If he survives, he will most likely be moved closer to his son in North Dakota or moved into a ‘Home.’ This will be very difficult for such an independent minded old man who is more active than the average forty-year-old. I’ll continue hoping and praying for the best.

—

Tides rise and fall, and this is true for us all. One day we will be on a hospital bed feeling lonely and helpless, one day we will be in a wheelchair struggling to grab a bowl from the top cabinet–one day we will be just like Bruce and Jean. Appreciate the present, love those within arm’s reach, and be the ‘good’ you want to see in the world.

There is pain and hurt around every corner. Every second someone is hurting because of a situation like this, whether it be physical or emotional. Be there for those who are hurting. Cry with those that are crying, laugh with those that are laughing, and encourage those who are at their depths. Remove the ego. Words can sting. Be the kindness that we are meant to be. Regret is a pill that can be fatal if swallowed. Learn from Bruce and love someone today.

—

To leave on a positive, Jean has called me multiple times since she commandeered my number. I think she considers me her boyfriend and I don’t mind playing along. She’s a fun flirt.

—

It’s straight up and down noon on this chilly bluebird day. I made it to the end and only dripped twenty or so tears on this typing machine. The names aren’t real, but the emotions are. I hope all is well in your world, but if it isn’t–

Find the Humor and Keep on Movin’

Whit W.