In the first instalment of GOM, from February 18, I promised to write about one more old coot who needed a post all to himself. He was in the hospital for a while, and I didn’t want to jinx him by writing about him, just in case he didn’t make it home again. Well, he’s back now and has returned to his former glory, which makes him fair game for my scrutiny.
Archie (not his real name) is more of an outlier than a GOM who’s set in his ways. That means he was probably always a little weird. He’s independent here, which means he’s responsible for managing his own meds and all his ADLs and personal care. He does his own breakfast and lunch, and only comes down to the dining room for the main meal at suppertime.
Even I have to admit he has a healthy head of silver hair, not thin or scraggly at all. When he decided to let it grow, he kept his long, flowing locks off his face with a headband. One day, a very foolish worker gathered his hair into a ponytail and braided it. Big mistake. In no time at all, he started calling the front desk every morning for someone to come and braid his hair. Soon, he was demanding that a specific person come and do it immediately, whether she was working that day or not. And he got mad if he had to wait. So, the management started charging him for it. Two days later he cut his hair.
Archie’s a familiar sight walking outside with his walker. He does his laps around the backyard twice a day, summer and winter as long as the sidewalk is clear. He goes through the staff parking lot, weaving his way up and down between the cars as he searches for cigarette butts. He takes them back to the front door and enjoys them there. He used to walk on the nearby Douglas Highway, shirtless in summer, while cars zoomed past him at top speed. The front desk got calls from concerned drivers who thought one of our residents had escaped.
He kept his own car here for a little while. Back in March 2020, when Covid first shut everything down completely, as residents in a long-term care facility we weren’t even supposed to leave the property. He really wanted to go for a drive. Normally, Archie thinks the rules don’t apply to him, but for whatever reason, he decided to obey this one. Besides, he had a MUCH better idea: he would drive his car around the backyard while staying on the sidewalk.
The first part of it actually went okay because it was straight, but then he had to make a decision. The sidewalk divided into two directions. To the right there was a sharp corner around the building on one side and a ditch on the other. To the left, the sidewalk curved around the deep end of the pond, in between a large pine tree and several cedars. If only common sense had prevailed. Instead, he nudged his Nissan forward and made an attempt to go to the right. He probably didn’t get far before he realized it was too narrow. When the car crunched into the building, he must have panicked and backed up, wedging himself between it and another tree.
When I heard about it the next day, I had to go see for myself. The car had already been towed away and the poplar was just a stump. The building, though, still had an ugly black streak along its side. The general manager made arrangements for Archie to go for a driver’s test. When he failed, I think the management breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Archie lives on the fifth floor and since I’m on the first, we don’t have a lot of one-on-one contact. Our paths cross in the elevator and whenever he holds a door open for me. He’s very chivalrous. Our elevator pleasantries never change.
Him: “How are you feeling these days, Joy?”
He always remembers that I have MS, but I avoid going into details with him or anyone, for that matter. They all seem to be somewhat hard of hearing, and if I say too much I find myself yelling about my symptoms. THE HEAT MAKES ME VERY TIRED. God help me.
Me: “Pretty good, Archie.”
I know what he’ll say next. Here we go again, I think.
Him: “My first wife had MS and she died of it. But you seem to be doing a lot better.”
Me: “Yes, I’m very lucky.”
The dining room is where he’s the most curmudgeonly. First his ice water isn’t cold enough, then it has too much ice. He’s forever asking for his plate to be warmed up. The butter in the little square packages is too cold to spread. He needs more napkins. Why does his chicken have that line on it? What are the little black things? He doesn’t like the looks of the meal they bring him, so can he have a sandwich instead? Archie’s not a big fan of potatoes and sometimes the cook will make rice, just for him.
He’s the most demanding and catered to of all the residents. Unfortunately, he can be nasty about it. He used to get up and take his plate right into the kitchen, several times a meal. He doesn’t do that as often anymore, but it means the poor servers are constantly running back-and-forth to his table. I’m always impressed by their patience. Most of them are local high school students who don’t receive tips.
Since he returned from the hospital, the dietitian decreed that his food must be minced because he’s a choking hazard. He will have none of it. Of course, he has the right to take risks if he wants, even when it includes walking on a busy highway and chewing on large pieces of food that he might not be able to swallow. It makes me nervous when I hear him coughing.
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