My Dearest Michelle

My early 20s were spent working in an “Assisted Living” home, which was just a fancy name for a nursing home. I wish I could say that I got the job through the usual process of applications and a resume, but that isn’t quite how it happened.

It was actually the result of my dad helping friends move a house trailer. If you were around back then, you’ll remember what a sight it was to see a trailer house creeping down the main stretch strapped to the front of a hay wagon. As if that wasn’t enough of a spectacle, don’t forget to add the long-haired hippy driving the pink Cadillac convertible, blaring “Black Betty” while drinking an Old Milwaukee and playing air guitar like it was an Olympic sport.

 It was just a typical Saturday morning around these parts.

Nothing much to see here in small town U.S.A. 

Once their task was finished and Dad had made it back to the homestead with friends in tow, the chatter began about the amazingness that had just occurred! Since Dad had quit drinking years ago, he just stood and chuckled with his hands in his pockets while the others toasted their success with Peppermint Schnapps and shouts of a job well done. Looking across the yard at them, you could tell that, in that moment, life was good.

Dad called me over and asked me to explain my condition again. After I did, John inquired if I was interested in being the Medication Administrator at his workplace. He informed me it would be a full-time position, but with no benefits. However, he assured me that he would do whatever he could to assist if I needed it.

When he told me the pay, it was more than the other two jobs I was already working, and it was certainly hard to pass up. I told him I needed about a week to inform my other employers and that I would call him when I was ready to start, if that was alright. He agreed and told me he was sorry about what was going on but that we would work my schedule around my treatment. I smiled and said, “Thank you.”

I looked over at my dad, who then nodded at me, signaling that it was time for me to head for the house. I said my goodbyes, exchanged pleasantries, and made my way toward Momma'. I told her what had happened outside, and she said, “Well, God must have known it was just time for a change. If they’re willing to work around everything that’s going on, then that’s even better. Time will tell if it’s a good fit.”

The next week came and went faster than I could say the days out loud. On Sunday afternoon, I called the number John had given me, and a woman answered. I told her who I was, and she said she was looking forward to meeting me. She advised me to wear nursing scrubs and to arrive by 9 a.m. for the med count, but to come a little early since it would be a learning process. I thanked her and hung up the phone.

Nursing scrubs. I didn’t own nursing scrubs. It was Sunday afternoon—where was I going to find nursing scrubs? I thought to myself as I picked up the phone to call my mom. She answered on the second ring as I rambled out sentences faster than she could reply.

“Rebecca!” she said.

“I mean, it’s Sunday. I don’t even think anything is open, Momma,” I said.

“Rebecca Dawn,” she said more loudly this time.

“What am I even going to do? I am not even prepared,” I exclaimed.

“REBECCA,” she yelled more loudly this time.

“I am going to look ridiculous walking in on my first day in street clothes, Momma,” I said with panic in my voice.

“REBECCA DAWN,” she yelled through the phone with her boisterous Southern mom voice.

“Yes, Momma,” I yelled back.

“They sell scrubs at Wal-Mart, in the section near the pajamas by the fitting rooms,” she said.

We sat in silence for a few seconds before I said, “Oh. Well, I guess I better get up there and get some then. Thank you! I love you!” “I love you too! GOODBYE!” she said, laughing as she hung up. Crisis #1 had been averted, and I could still go to work in the morning without wearing street clothes.

I arrived the next morning to find that the other girl had called in sick, so it was just me and my direct supervisor. She was dealing with an extremely behavioral client, so I was literally thrown into the med cart and told to, “GET AT IT! AND FIGURE IT OUT AS YOU GO!” The residents knew the routine, and those who could found their way down to the office. They were used to a rapid-fire exchange of paper cups with pills, followed by water to wash them down, and moving on to the next person. I was not there yet.

I didn’t even know their names, let alone their medications. I wasn’t just struggling; I was drowning, and these old folks were getting crankier by the second! Luckily, Bridgette came to my rescue. Within thirty seconds, keys were flying into locks, drawers sliding open, and pills dropping into cups like some well-oiled machine.

Within ten minutes, she had every single resident who had been in the hallway done and accounted for. Once she finished cleaning up, she grabbed the cart and said, “Follow me!”

“We walk and talk a lot around here!” she continued. “Someone always needs something, so make sure you’re never far from this cart unless I’m here or another Med Admin is on duty. It does get easier, but you have to want it to work. You’ll develop your own system. What works for me doesn’t work for everyone, and I can’t stand the way some of the other girls do their meds, but it works for them. You need to practice during down times and learn where the meds are. These people are like children and they don’t wait well. READ THE BOOKS, FRONT TO BACK, AND LEARN ALL THE POLICIES! First and foremost, get familiar with charts, faces, names, and learn which residents are DNRs. Which, after all, is 98% of them since they are all old. Learn them! If John gets a phone call for an ambulance run in the middle of the night and the resident is a DNR, you’re going to wish you had remembered before you called! ALSO – John is my husband, which means I also get the phone call. Catch my drift? LEARN THE DNRs. GOT IT?”

“Umm…got it, but what is a DNR? Like Department of Natural Resources?” I asked.

She laughed as she pushed the cart around the corner. “No, it stands for Do Not Resuscitate. As in DO NOT SAVE their lives. No CPR, no paddles, no nothing. DNR. Got it?”

“Got it!” I replied.

We spent the next 20 minutes passing out meds to bedridden residents and those who would rather have visitors in their rooms than come down to the office. As we passed each of the rooms, she pointed out who knew all the gossip, who was in love, who wasn’t, who was cheating at Bingo, who was hiding food in their napkins and sneaking it into their rooms, and who was the quiet one of the bunch.

We had almost made it back to the office when she stopped in front of a room, pushed open the door, and announced, "This one here is our PROBLEM CHILD. Don’t get close to him; he spits and has been known to bite the staff. The further you stay away from him, the better."

My eyes widened as I peered around the doorjamb at a man sitting on the bed. His white hair stood straight up, his shirt was buttoned wrong, and his face was dirty with what looked like last night’s dinner. He had a five-day-old scruff from not shaving, one side of his shirt tucked into his pants, one sock on, and his slippers on the wrong feet. I remember thinking that my one-and-a-half-year-old daughter could dress better. I hadn’t noticed that Bridgette had stopped walking to let a wheelchair pass in front of her, and I ran right into the back of her as the man on the bed let out an awful hiss in my direction. She wasn’t kidding; the further I stayed away, the better.

I spent the rest of the day reading through books, policies, and procedures, learning about drawers, medications, residents, and their stories. All but four had DNRs, which actually made it easier to remember. I memorized the ones that didn’t have them and their pictures. At dinner time, I made sure to put names with faces and match them in case they had changed since their photos were taken. After completing the evening medications and ensuring everyone was back in their rooms, we did another round. On my first day on the job, a resident passed away in her sleep during a nap after dinner. I learned how to complete the necessary paperwork for such events, which I was told would likely happen again.

Three weeks had come and gone pretty quickly. I was settling into my position rather well and had even picked up the pace, establishing a routine that was working beautifully. I was saving treatment days for my days off so that I wasn’t using work time. John had agreed to let me work four 10-hour days so that I would have three days off to recuperate before coming back to work.

I was walking the halls checking on residents when the smell of urine overtook me, and I was instantly ill. I darted into a room, grabbed the garbage can at my feet, and immediately emptied the contents of my stomach into it. I was still dry heaving when I heard a voice from across the room say, “Rough night, little one?” I looked up from the garbage can to see the “PROBLEM CHILD” sitting on his bed. “Actually, no,” I replied. “Well, are you pregnant?” he asked. “I highly doubt that,” I said with a chuckle. “I am really sorry; I will get this cleaned up. I have been having a rough year!”

He stood up from the bed, his voice lowered as he said, “You’re the one they keep talking about. I can hear them down the hall at night, talking about how sick you are. You get treatment on your days off, and you also have a small daughter. A year and a half old is what I heard, anyway.” I hugged the garbage can a little tighter as he got closer. He stopped at the sink, wet a washcloth, and wrung it out before continuing over to me. “It is clean. I haven’t used it,” he said as he pointed towards his face and hair.

I reached out and took it from his hand. “Thank you,” I said. “What is your story, anyway?” He reached up, made a swirling motion near his head, and said, “Apparently things aren’t right in my head.” He rolled his eyes and continued, “Nothing as drastic as this, though. You have it way worse than me, friend. My name is Michael.” I looked back at him. “Rebecca,” I said.

He reached into his dresser drawer and pulled out a package. He smiled as he slowly crossed back over the room. “It isn’t much, but it always helped me with the taste.” I looked down to see a package of Fisherman’s Friend in his palm. I reached out, took the package from him, carefully scooped one out, and popped it in my mouth. There was no denying the potency! He certainly wasn’t kidding; it definitely did the trick of getting rid of the taste in your mouth. Kind of a twofer, if you will.

I pulled the bag from his garbage can and put a new one in. Once I finished cleaning up my mess, I turned to look at Michael. He was just as much of a mess at that moment as he had been the first time I saw him. I asked him, “Do you think we might clean you up a little?” He looked over at me, smoothed his sweater, looked down at his slippers, and said, “I can’t see why not.”

I opened his drawers, pulled out clean clothes, and set them on the bed for him. When I was finished, I said, “I’ll stand outside the door. Just open it when you’re ready for me to come back in and help you, okay?” He nodded, and I closed the door behind me. He was in there for a good 10 to 15 minutes before the door handle jiggled and he opened the door.

Standing before me was a well-put-together older gentleman who needed nothing more than a shave. His clothes were clean, his face was washed, his hair was combed, and he actually had a smile on his face. “I clean up pretty well, don’t I, Rebecca?” he asked with a smile. “You certainly do, Michael,” I replied, returning his smile.

We became fast friends after that day, Michael and I. From then on, I made sure he bathed, dressed in clean clothes, and took care of himself. In return, he made sure there was a place for me to go if I needed to “get rid of my lunch” or just take a moment to breathe.

In the two years that I had been at the Manor, even though we were never supposed to have favorites, Michael had certainly become mine. Once Thanksgiving came and went, I stopped by John’s office to ask if I could have a contact number for Michael’s family. No one had come to visit him the entire time I had been working there, and I wanted to call and update them on how well he had been doing.

John informed me that there wasn’t a contact number listed for Michael’s family and that sometimes that happens. He told me to wait and see; maybe by Christmas, someone would come.

I knew there had to be a family somewhere since once a week for an entire year, Michael had me write a letter to someone who meant something to him. Every Sunday after lunch, I would go down after med distribution and sit while he told me what to write. The letters always began the same way: "My Dearest Michelle." So, there was someone out there who knew and loved this man, but why weren’t they coming to see him?

Once we finished with the letter, he would pull a slip of paper out of his wallet and ask me to dial the number for him. I would wait until the first ring before slipping out of the room to give him some privacy. When he was finished with his phone call, he would come down the hall to tell me it was a good one and that he would see me later.

I only asked him once who he was calling. He winked at me and told me it was his bookie. I rolled my eyes as I walked out the door and told him to bet double on the underdog, they always seem to win. That same day, he asked me if it would be okay if Mickayla and I came back after work and watched a movie in his room with him. I told him it was a splendid idea and that we would definitely be there!

After work, I gathered up Mickayla and told her to pick a movie. She immediately asked if we were going to have, “otcorn?” I smiled and replied, “That is a great idea! Let’s bring some popcorn!” So we gathered our goodies and headed back toward the Manor. It turns out she had picked A Land Before Time— (Ucky) Ducky was her favorite.

(All photos and movie rights mentioning The Land Before Time and any characters belong to Universal Studios Animated Films.)

 

When we walked in, Michael said, “Hello, Sweet Girl! How are you?” To which Mickayla replied, “Me Meeshka, I’m big girl now. I have otcorn & Ucky!” she said with a big smile on her face as she held up the movie for him to see. “Me Meeshka?” said Michael. Mickayla set all her goodies on the floor, pointed to her belly, and said, “No Willy (Silly) MEEEEEEEE Meeshka! ME Willy!” Then they both burst out laughing. “Well, you Meeshka Willy, I am Mr. Mike. Nice to meet you!” said Michael. Mickayla looked at me, pointed at him, and said, “He Mr. Mike, Momma!” I smiled and said, “Yes, that is Mr. Mike, Meeshka.” I smiled at “Mr. Mike” and popped the movie in, knowing that he would be called nothing else from that day forth.

It wasn’t far into the movie when Mr. Mike started laughing to himself. I looked over at him and asked, “What’s so funny over there?” He looked at me and replied, “Little Foot.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, it’s a dinosaur in the movie.” To which he responded, “OOOHHH no it’s not! That’s what I’m calling you from now on—LITTLE FOOT!” as he pointed toward my feet. I rolled my eyes and said, “Well, that’s fair since you are now ‘Mr. Mike!’” We both let out a chuckle, and a tiny little princess turned, put her finger to her lips, and said, “Shhh, I’m watching this!”

Mickayla became a frequent visitor around the Manor after that. She was so little, so cute, and spoke so well that the residents LOVED having her around. Besides movie time with Mr. Mike, her favorite event was Bingo. Even when she didn’t win, the residents would give her everything from socks to teddy bears, candy, figurines, denture cream, Vick’s VapoRub, and once, even travel mouthwash. My favorite prize she ever won was a penguin that said, “I LOVE YOU” with a heart on its belly.

She presented it to Mr. Mike the very next time we had a movie night. She was so proud to give him a gift that meant so much to her. In turn, it meant just as much to him and sat on his nightstand where he could see it clearly from his bed. One morning, as he was getting ready and had finished shaving, he said, “Little Foot, if anything ever happens to me, promise you will take that home with you, okay?” He nodded toward the penguin on his nightstand. I looked over at it, smiled, and said, “Well, nothing is going to happen to you, Mr. Mike, so it can stay right there for now!”

I went about my day, and just before I was slated to leave, one of the other med admins called in. Bridgette was sick, and there wasn’t anyone else to cover, so I said I would cover the shift. It meant working with the new aide, Ashley. She was pregnant and did everything really slowly, so I would also have to pick up the pace and help the other aides as well. Dinner came and went, and I was doing the after-dinner med rounds when I came to Mr. Mike’s room. His light was off, and he was already in bed. I stopped my cart, knocked, and pushed open his door. “Mr. Mike, it’s early; are you feeling okay?” I asked as I walked in and turned on the light. He was in bed and appeared to be sleeping.

I walked over to his bed and touched his hand. “Mr. Mike?” I said, looking down at his chest and realizing he wasn’t breathing. I immediately felt for a pulse. Was it there? Was that it? It’s weak, but I think he has one. I started screaming, “HELP! I NEED HELP NOW!” as I ripped open the shirt of his favorite pajamas to begin CPR.

I was moving pillows and scrambling for footing when Ashley came into the room. “Call 911 now!” I said. She just stood there, looking at me, and then said, “He’s a DNR, Rebecca. We aren’t supposed to call for DNRs.” “DAMNIT, ASHLEY, JUST CALL THEM NOW!” I screamed. It must have scared her because she jumped and scurried from the room as I began chest compressions on Mr. Mike.

I hadn’t noticed until tears started hitting my hands and I was saying out loud, “You can’t do this, Mr. Mike. We need to find Michelle. You can’t leave here yet! You can’t do this! You need to come back!” that other residents had started to gather in the hallway.

I was still performing CPR on him when I heard the sirens approaching, which meant that help would be here soon. My tiny 86-pound body was getting TIRED, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up. As the paramedics entered the room, Mr. Mike took a HUGE breath in. Immediately, I let out a sob and collapsed to the floor.

The moments after were hectic—residents chattering, whispering to one another, and pointing fingers; aides wide-eyed as the phones started blowing up with calls from John. I finished cleaning up Mr. Mike's room and was pushing the med cart back to the office just in time to see John’s car fly into the front parking lot and screech to a halt.

He stormed past the med office and down the hall to his office without even looking in. Bridgette, who was supposed to be sick, strolled into the med office and jabbed a pink-painted nail in my face as she said, “You ARE IN SOOOOOOOO MUCH TROUBLE, LITTLE GIRL! YOU HAVE NO IDEA!” Immediately, my blood began to boil; not even my parents talked to me that way. I was just getting ready to say something back to her when John yelled down the hall, “REBECCA, IN MY OFFICE NOW!”

I looked at Bridgette and the other aides standing in the office, then yanked the med office door open so hard that it slammed against the wall, shaking the entire office. I walked out into the hallway, glanced at John's office, then back at the med office, directly at Bridgette, and KICKED the front door of the Manor open as hard as I could as I walked out.

I was halfway across the front parking lot to my car when John made it out the front door. “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?” he yelled at me. “I PLEAD THE 5TH!” I yelled back. “You can’t plead the 5th, Rebecca; we aren’t in court! Talk to me—what the hell happened in there?” he demanded. “I did what I had to, John; that’s what happened,” I replied. “Rebecca, he had a DNR. His family could sue the Manor, or you, or who knows what,” he said.

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to face him. “WHAT FAMILY, JOHN? YOU MEAN THE FAMILY THAT NEVER COMES TO SEE HIM? HUH? THAT FAMILY?! ALMOST TWO YEARS, JOHN! THAT’S HOW LONG I’VE BEEN HERE, AND NOT ONCE HAVE I EVER SEEN A FAMILY MEMBER OF HIS WALK INTO THIS PLACE TO SEE HIM! HE DOESN’T GET MAIL OR INCOMING PHONE CALLS, AND HE HAS CERTAINLY NEVER HAD A VISITOR! YOU KNOW WHAT HE HAS, JOHN? ME—ME AND MICKAYLA, AND A BOX FULL OF LETTERS IN HIS CLOSET ADDRESSED TO SOMEONE NAMED MICHELLE! SOMEONE OUT THERE LOVES THAT MAN, AND NO ONE DESERVES TO DIE ALONE, JOHN! NO ONE!” I screamed at him. “I won’t give up finding his family, John, and if you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself,” I finished in a whisper.

“You are way too close to this, Beckie,” he said. “Do you understand how many policies, procedures, and frankly, laws you have broken? Technically, I’m supposed to report you. You understand that, right?”

“John, you do whatever it is you have to do. I made my choice, and I will live with it. I will not let that man die alone. No one deserves that, John, and maybe you aren’t close enough to see that. One day you’re going to look back, and I hope you can live with the choices you made running this place,” I said, shaking my head.

“Go home and get some rest, Beckie. We will discuss this more when clear heads can prevail,” he said.

I turned to go to my car, only to find every resident and staff member standing in the lobby, watching the entire argument between John and me unfold. I was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, and all I wanted to do was go home and sleep.

The next morning, I woke to find a message on my answering machine from John. He stated that Mr. Mike was stable and doing well, and that if his condition continued to improve, he would be released back to the Manor by the following afternoon. He advised me to enjoy my time off, clear my head, and come back to see Mr. Mike when I was well-rested. I was supposed to leave for Grand Rapids that morning for treatment, but I chose not to go.

Upon returning to the Manor, I went immediately to see Mr. Mike. He was in bed, resting. He smiled when I entered his room. His voice was quiet as he spoke to me.

“Little Foot, you could have gotten into some serious trouble!” he said.

“I know, Mr. Mike, but I just didn’t think it was time just yet,” I replied, choking back tears.

“You do know that God is going to take me home when He is ready, don’t you, Little Foot?” he asked.

“I know, Mr. Mike. Believe me, I know,” I said.

In between work, spending time with Mickayla, and my free time, I spent most of it at Mr. Mike’s side. We talked a lot about heaven, and in his final three weeks, he had me read scripture to him, just as he had every Sunday after we wrote to Michelle. Even in his final letters to her, he never once spoke of leaving this earth, only of his love and admiration for her. He expressed how she would always have a piece of his heart and how eternally grateful he was for her being gifted into his life.

The week before Mr. Mike went into the “deep sleep,” Mickayla made her last visit to see him. It was the most active I had seen him in over a month. He smiled, laughed, and they watched Blue’s Clues together. Before she left, she held out her arms and said, “Up, Momma, I want up to see Mr. Mike.” I picked her up and sat her on the bed, and she started singing to Mr. Mike, “You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine.” He smiled from ear to ear and said, “Ahhh…My Meeshka, how joyous it was to have known and loved you.” “I wuv you toooo, Mr. Mike,” she replied with a giggle.

It was the last time Mickayla would see him alive.

Two days later, as I sat reading to him, he reached out his hand, took mine, and said, “I’m tired, Little Foot. So very, very tired.” “I know, Mr. Mike, and you don’t have to keep fighting anymore. It’s okay to sleep now,” I replied. “Rebecca, I love you more than blueberry pancakes,” he said. “I love you more than cherry cheesecake, Mr. Mike,” I replied, choking back a sob. He squeezed my hand, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

 He never woke again after that day.

I sat with him for another four days, and on the fourth day, I was shaken awake to find my family doctor, Dr. Graham, on one knee in front of me.

“Rebecca, you haven’t been to treatment in over a month. The Chief called me to find out why you haven’t been back to Grand Rapids to finish your treatment,” he said. I looked over at Mr. Mike, sleeping, his chest still moving up and down. I glanced over Dr. Graham’s shoulder to see John standing in the doorway as the doctor continued, “Beck, your mom was in my office the other day, and she is scared to death she’s going to lose you. That you are slipping away, and her baby is dying. You are so close to beating this. You can’t just give up. You have to finish this. You can’t just walk away.”

He stood up in front of me and pointed to Mr. Mike in bed. “He lived a full life. You are much too young to stop living because you are fighting for someone whose time is clearly coming to an end. You have a baby girl who needs you, a mother who won’t stop worrying about you, and an entire staff waiting in Grand Rapids for you. We have all been on this journey with you from the start, kiddo, and I want to see you finish it. I want to be there to see you beat this. You need to go to treatment. You need to finish chemo, Rebecca.”

 I took a deep breath, looked at Mr. Mike, then at John, and said, “If he promises to call his family, I will go.” John looked at me and replied, “They are already en route from New York. They will be here by early morning tomorrow. They’re coming in on the red-eye and driving up from Detroit.” I looked from Mr. Mike to John, then to Dr. Graham, and said, “Fine, I will go. When do I leave?” Dr. Graham said, “You leave now. Your ride is outside.” I looked at both of them and then down at Mr. Mike. “Just let me talk to him for a minute,” I said.

They both left the room as I gathered up my things. I took Mr. Mike’s hand and said, “Well, I guess I have to go be responsible, Mr. Mike. I finally got John to get your family here. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way. Please hang in there a little while longer; they will be here soon. I know you're tired, but please just hold on until they get here. Promise me you won’t give up until they arrive. Meeshka and I love you today and always. Don’t forget us when you earn your wings, okay? I love you more than you could ever know, more than Cherry Cheesecake, Mr. Mike. More than Cherry Cheesecake!” I choked up as I hugged him one last time and walked out of his room.

 I never saw him alive again.

I was loading up to leave and asked John to please call me should something happen. He promised he would, and I watched in the mirror as the Manor disappeared. With tears streaming down my face, I settled in for the long ride to Grand Rapids. I asked God to watch over Mr. Mike and keep him safe until his family could arrive. God knew that I was also tired, and I drifted off to sleep shortly after.

I woke briefly as we stopped for gas but then drifted back to sleep until we arrived in Grand Rapids at the hospital. Dillon was waiting for me with a wheelchair and whisked me straight up to our floor. I had paperwork to fill out before we could get started, and since I had skipped treatments, it meant more blood work had to be done. So we waited.

I filled Dillon in on what had been happening, and he updated me on life on his end of the world. We were in full-on belly laughter when a nurse came in and said, “Rebecca, it’s time to go. Are you ready?” I remember looking at her, then at Dillon, and saying, “Yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for anything in my entire life.”

It was just after 9:30 in the morning when we entered my treatment room. As usual, Dillon and I held hands and prayed while the nurses prepared everything. We had just finished praying when Amber, my nurse, came in and said, “I’m so sorry, but I have a family emergency and need to take a phone call. I can get another nurse if you don’t want to wait.” I looked at her and smiled. “It’s okay, I’ll wait,” I said. She had been my nurse from the beginning, and I didn’t want anyone else.

A short time later, she returned to inform us that her daughter had fallen at school and needed a band-aid. Nothing major, but the school had to call. She asked if I was ready to start, and with a small smile, I said, “Yes.” I turned to watch Dillon as she did what she needed to do; he was making shadow puppets to make me laugh. It was working—he was definitely distracting me.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, and held it.

This was finally it. If everything went well, I would never have to come back here again.

Amber had started the IV. I could feel the coldness of the solution as it entered my arm. I let out a breath and opened my eyes to find Dillon standing in front of me. He was smiling as he said, “This is it, Kid—last one. Just one more and it’s all over. We’ve got this!” I smiled and said, “Yes, yes we do. I’m tired, D. Very tired.” “Sleep, Kid. We don’t have anything but time now. Get some rest,” he replied.

So I closed my eyes and listened to the hum of the machines in the background as I drifted off to sleep. I don’t know how long it was before I heard, “Little Foot, I made it! I’m home! I just wanted you to know that I made it home! Little Foot, can you hear me? I made it home!” said Mr. Mike. Seconds later, I could feel a hand on my shoulder and Dillon’s voice saying, “Kid, you’ve gotta’ wake up. There’s someone calling for you.”

I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I reached up and took the phone. “Hello,” I said sleepily. “Rebecca, it’s John. I just called because, well, you asked me to call if something happened. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Mr. Mike passed in his sleep this morning, Beckie,” he said. I sat up in bed but was immediately restricted by my IV tubes from going any further. I looked over at Dillon as I said, “What time? When did it happen? Please tell me his family made it, John? They made it, didn’t they?” I asked. “Yes, they arrived very early this morning, and they were with him as he took his last breath. It happened at 10:07 am. I’m really sorry, Beckie. I know how much he meant to you. His family plans to stay in the area until you return. They would like to meet you when you’re feeling up to it,” he said.

I took a sharp breath and said, “Okay, I will call you when I am home. Thank you for letting me know. I will talk to you soon.”

I turned to Dillon and informed him of what had happened. He immediately got up from his chair and rushed out of the room. He returned with Amber, who was holding my chart and trying to explain herself.

“I’m so sorry, I know we were late this morning. It’s not like me to not be on time and ready,” she said.

“No, that isn’t it at all. I just want to know the precise time you charted her starting treatment this morning,” Dillon said.

“Umm…it looks like we started this morning around 10:07 am,” replied Amber, looking back and forth at us with a confused look on her face.

Dillon and I looked at each other in complete disbelief, and he immediately sat down in his chair. “Whoa, Kid! That can’t even be by chance. Your last treatment to save your life starts at the very moment he was taking his last breath?” he said, looking at me.

“Yeah, isn’t that something,” I responded as I sat back against the pillows on my bed and looked out the window.

It was a long ride home, knowing what was waiting for me when I arrived. I wasn’t sure what his family was going to say to me, and frankly, I was a bit terrified. I could have waited another day or so, but I REALLY wanted to know why no one had come to see Mr. Mike. So, I called John to let him know I had arrived home and could be there within the hour. Then I showered, got dressed, and made my way towards the Manor.

When I arrived, John met me outside his office and said, “Listen, before we go in there, I want you to understand that you’re going to hear some things that will upset you. Try to remain calm and understand that all of this was in motion before you ever worked here. LISTEN before you get upset, okay?” I looked up at him, confused, and said, “Sure, okay,” as we walked into his office.

A woman was sitting in a chair in front of his desk, waiting. She stood as we entered the room. “Little Foot,” she whispered. I turned to look at John as she stretched out a hand towards me and said, “Hi, it is so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Michelle, Michael’s daughter.” My jaw hit the floor. I looked at John, feeling instantly woozy. I struggled to find a seat as I reached out to shake her hand. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m a little confused and still reeling from everything. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

She smiled and said, “I’ve heard so much about you, Rebecca. I feel like I already know you. My father cared for you and your daughter deeply. Thank you for being there for him all this time. It was hard letting him make the decision to come here. We respected his wishes as much as we could, but I found it ludicrous that he chose to cut ties with the family. It felt even more irresponsible when he signed over Power of Attorney for all his medical choices to John and the home.”

I turned to look at John and knew immediately that he knew what I was thinking. It was the only reason I wasn’t in trouble for the DNR incident. He looked down at the file on his desk as Michelle continued, “I love my father very much, but his tendencies could be a tad irrational at times. After my mother was killed by a drunk driver, he was never really the same. My mother, Rosemary, couldn’t have children of her own. I was adopted as a baby, and as a result, I am their only child. He fought really hard the first time when my mother was alive; it was like he had something worth fighting for. When we found out that his illness had aggressively returned three years ago, he made the decision to come here and cut ties with the family. He immediately gave up, refused treatment, and told us that he was coming here to live out his final days in seclusion. It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard, but since he was of sound mind and body at the time, there really was no stopping him."

"You see, we vacationed here when I was a child. It was one of my mother's favorite spots, and I presume that’s why he chose it. However, it wasn’t near any hospitals where he could get treatment if he changed his mind. I thought he would—I really thought he would wake up one morning and decide that life was worth living! I honestly thought he would put up a fight and come home. It never happened. So I just want to thank you for being so kind to him the entire time he was here. From what I understand, he wasn’t an easy man to get along with," she said.

I looked at her and asked, “I guess I’m confused about how your father was supposed to fight anything. He had Alzheimer’s, so why would he get treatment? There isn’t a cure for that.” Michelle sat up straight in her chair, looked at me, and said, “Darling, who told you that? No, no, no, my father was of sound mind and probably right to his last breath. You are sorely mistaken, dear. My father died of prostate cancer.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s not possible,” I whispered, looking across the desk at John. The expression on his face confirmed the truth as tears began streaming down my face. “That’s not possible,” I said again, this time louder. “I assure you it is, Rebecca. My father came here to die. He cut all ties of communication with his family and only called the Lake House once a week to leave a detailed message on the answering machine. None of us were ever to answer; if we did, he would hang up. It got to the point where we would all have family dinner each week just to hear his voice and his update,” she replied with a sad smile on her face.

 “His bookie,” I said as I looked at her. She laughed, “Yes, that sounds like my father, and yet he never gambled a day in his life. He was most certainly calling the Lake House.” I took a deep breath in trying to process everything I had just heard. I was overwhelmed. None of it made any sense, and I was too nauseous to be angry at the moment.

“I wanted to thank you in person; I owed that to you. You took excellent care of my father once you got here. When we cleaned out his room, I found a box of letters written to me. John informed me that you had been writing them for my father since you started here. Thank you. It means the world to me to have something to take away from this—a sense of peace, maybe; I’m not really sure. I have kept all the tapes from the answering machine. I would change them out weekly with a new one so we would always have them. I thought then it would be the only memory I would have of him. So thank you for the letters. I look forward to reading them and sharing them with my family. I have to get going now. My family and I need to get on the road if we are going to make our flight home,” Michelle said.

John stood from behind his desk, prompting me to stand as well. Michelle reached out and embraced me, and I hugged her back. When we released, I immediately sat back down while she and John shook hands, and he walked her out. I sat there, looking at my hands folded in my lap, trying to make sense of what had just happened when John returned and sat down in front of me at his desk.

I looked up at him, waiting for him to say something. Instead, he slid a file across the desk to me. I looked down at it and then back at John as tears started streaming down my face. “Did you know?” I asked. “Beckie, I wanted to tell you. Believe me, I did, but I couldn’t. Everything you need to know is in that file. Take as much time as you need; I’ll be down with the residents when you’re finished. Just let me know when you’re done, okay?” he replied. I nodded in agreement as he stood to leave the room.

I reached up to open the file and immediately a sob escaped me. Everything I thought I knew for the past two years was, in fact, a lie, and the cold, hard truth was within the file folder in front of me. I wasn’t entirely sure I was prepared for what I was about to find. I took a sharp breath in, closed my eyes, and opened the folder.

Staring back at me was an envelope. Written in John’s handwriting on the front was, "My Dearest Little Foot." I ran my fingers over the letters on the front of the envelope as I pulled it from the file. I replaced the folder on the desk and set the envelope in my lap. I said a prayer as I opened it.

It was dated two months prior.

My Dearest Little Foot,

There are a thousand things I wanted to say, and even more times than that when I wanted to tell you the truth. At the end of the day, the fact remains that if I had, you would have fought me tooth and nail to get treatment. I truly believe you missed your calling as a lawyer, Little Foot (even as I say this, John is shaking his head YES!), since you can argue your point about something you are passionate about until a person has no choice but to believe in it!

I hope you know that I never hid anything from you to hurt you or betray you. I made a choice to come here and live out my final days alone. I never expected God to send me someone who would make me not only question my faith but bring me closer to Him before it was all said and done. People like you are very rare, Little Foot. Not everyone will be as lucky or blessed to know you as I do. You weren’t made to appeal to every type of person on this planet, only to the ones who will need you and those who can relate to you. Remember that as the years pass you by. You have a passion for life that reminds me so much of my Rosemary; never ever lose that part of yourself.

I want to tell you the same thing I would tell my Michelle growing up: God loves you more than I ever could have. More than anyone can. Never forget that when and if you decide to start dating again. One day you will find someone who adores you. Hopefully, you will also adore them back equally as much. Love, real love, comes along once in a lifetime, Little Foot, and it isn’t hard to know what you are looking for if you just give it a chance. Pray for your partner now. God is busy creating them so that when the time is right, He can reveal them. When they do show themselves, approach love the same way you do with cooking, with reckless abandon.

Love them through the good times, embrace them during the bad ones, write them often during the moments when you can’t be together, cherish ALL the memories you make, and most of all, never give up. True love is felt; it clings to your soul. It isn’t something that just goes away with the tides. Even after the person isn’t by your side anymore, your soul will still continue to search for them, still feel them no matter where you go in this life. Don’t ever give up on finding them! Always believe that it is possible, and that the perfect moment will present itself when you least expect it. Never go out looking for it; don’t ever force it. Always let the moment present itself when the time is right.

Trust that the Big Man upstairs has it figured out and will make it possible when it is meant to be. That is how I ended up finding my Rosemary; God revealed her to me when I was ready to appreciate her being in my life.

Trust that you are doing a good job, Little Foot. You are a young mom, but you are a good mom. You are going to make mistakes, but don’t you dare ever stop fighting for my Meeshka or any children you may have in the future. They are a rare gift, no matter how they may come to you. Remember that God’s Will is always going to find its way. Never forget that, and just know that His timing is and always will be perfect, even when it doesn’t seem like it.

You both brought so much joy to my life! I hope you know, trust, and believe that your presence in my life had a purpose. I spent the last few years of my life truly living, even though I came here with full intentions of dying alone. You filled my cup, Little Foot, and then you opened up your life and let me know Mickayla. My cup then overflowed twice as much, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.

If you are reading this, it means that I am with my Rosemary again. Have no doubts about where I went when I left this earth, Little Foot. Keep your relationship with the Lord strong; I want to see you again someday! Should you fall from grace, as we sometimes do, I know you will always find your way back. After all, you are the one who helped me find my way back when I wasn’t sure how to get there.

Until we meet again, Little Foot, live life to the absolute fullest and not an ounce less!

I will always love you more than blueberry pancakes,

Mr. Mike

"I love you more than cherry cheesecake, Mr. Mike," I whispered to the silent room.

I folded the letter back up and placed it in the envelope it had come from. He had known two months prior that his time was nearing, and he took the effort to have John write to me. That meant something—it's not an opportunity that everyone in this life is given.

I pushed the folder back across the desk; I had everything I needed. I wrote my letter of resignation and placed it on top of the folder before walking out of John’s office. I knew at that moment that my time at the Manor had come to an end. I walked out of there that day without a single regret for anything I had done while employed there.

I still feel that way to this very day. Losing Mr. Mike showed me that sometimes everything we see is not, in fact, the truth. The people we know and trust, and who we think they are, sometimes we really don’t know what is going on inside them.

We know only the sides of people they choose to show the world. We rarely know the entire truth about who a person really is. We hide parts of ourselves for fear of how others will react. We soften certain things to avoid hurting feelings or bruising egos.

I walked out of there that day, but not before making a promise to myself that I would never change a single thing about who I was. Over the years, I have grown, life has happened along the way, and ultimately, this is one of those major events that has shaped me into the woman I am today.

It is something that I rarely, if ever, talked about, and therefore it was a part of me that few knew anything about. It was a part of me hidden from the world, a part of me that I chose to keep quiet about for fear that if I spoke about it, the memories would just disappear. When you finally open yourself up to share certain parts of your life, it brings a sense of vulnerability. One that you aren’t sure how to deal with, and it takes time to process that sometimes you aren’t the only one who has gone through an event like this.

At first, it was hard to sit down and write this; most nights, I would just cry and walk away. It wasn’t a place or memory I was happy revisiting. In the end, I found a bit of inner peace by finally telling my story, the whole story about it.

I could breathe for the first time in a lot of years. I didn’t feel like I was carrying a burden no one knew anything about. Sometimes letting go of the very thing that makes your soul weary is the most refreshing thing you can do for yourself. That is my wish for each of you, that you find peace in letting the parts of your life that you continue to carry with you go. The ones that slow you down and make you feel like you are dragging your feet. The ones that you have buried deep and never expected to show to anyone.

They helped define and shape you into who you are. Like my brilliant cousin Lacey once told me, it is okay to visit those times and places, just don’t ever get stuck and stay there. Use them as a reminder of just how far you have come and why you should never, ever go back.

Mr. Mike will always be the reason that sometimes you catch me randomly wearing a white V-neck T-shirt. Sometimes I need to slip into one just to shift myself back to center or to a time not so long ago when life was less complicated.

He will always be the reason I love reading Field & Stream and joined The 1871 Club myself. the reason that I am never without Fisherman’s Friend on my person, purse, or vehicle to this day. Why I still can’t bear to sit through a helping of cherry cheesecake without getting choked up, and why I rarely sit through The Land Before Time without slipping away to fold laundry or find something to busy my mind.

I still can’t hear the phrase “Little Foot” without getting a lump in my throat, or sit at the kitchen table when someone makes blueberry pancakes without hearing Mr. Mike’s laughter in the distance. I would love to tell you that “Time Heals All Wounds,” but that just isn’t the case. It numbs the pain, dulls the ache, and often leaves you with a sense of longing. I miss him now more than ever, and some days, like today, it feels like only yesterday that I lost him.

Looking back now, I can honestly tell you that had I really looked outside the box, I would have seen the signs that were right in front of me. Hindsight is often 20/20 in situations such as mine. God knew what he was doing, as he always does! I have no doubts that Mr. Mike will be waiting for me when I finally arrive at Heaven’s Gate, and that is something I can look forward to!

We all struggle, we all fight, and most of all, we all suffer in one way or another. You truly never really know what a person is going through or what they have experienced in their life the very moment they finally cross your path. Love and embrace each person always instead of judging them, and you will see just how quickly your perspective on life changes.

I wholeheartedly loved and embraced the “Problem Child” of the Manor, and with little to no certainty that I would even survive the treatments that I was going through at the time, I loved the life that I had in front of me, and it loved me right back.

That is my advice for all of you: be grateful for the life you have been given. Count the blessings that you do have, and love & embrace every single person that you encounter, no matter how prickly they may be.
"Love one another as I have loved you." – John 13:34

 

 

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