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| Melvin Finley Pacific Theater WWII |
The three men convene each day at the skilled nursing dining
room at Foxwood Springs Care Center. Each arrives at their table with varying
degrees of assistance. Chester plods along with the aid of a walker. He is the
most “ambulatory,” as they say. Roy slowly wheels himself down from his room at
the end of the hall. He takes baby steps as he inches the wheels forward with
his hands. Melvin, my father, usually waits to travel with assistance from one
of the aids if my brother or I am not there. It appears he could manage the
same sort of effort as Roy, if only he realized it.
The three men arrive at each meal like clockwork. Sometimes
a fourth—Bob—joins them. Their routines may vary depending on the schedule from
the therapy department at Foxwood Springs. Sometimes one will inexplicably not
show—usually because they are a beneficiary of a trip to the independent living
dining room to eat with a friend as they did when their health was better.
The table-side conversation is almost exclusively about food.
“What are they having tonight?” “Something
called sir-fry.” “I don’t like fish.” “NO Shrimp!” “I only like beef.” “That
needs some salt.” “What is b-i-s-q-u-e?” “I can too have that! No one’s said
anything to me about my blood sugar!” “I don't know--they say it’s something called a water chestnut.”
Sometimes if I’m visiting my father at mealtime, I pull up a
chair and join these gentlemen as they dine. I am never disappointed.
These men share more than meals together. They converge each
day as joint heirs of sorts. Their stories, while unique and different in many,
even most ways, share chapters and seasons that are rarely experienced by
others of their gender.
Because the faculties of each man are diminished at least
modestly, they fail to notice or adequately appreciate their shared stories.
Or, possibly, their shared stories are too painful to dwell upon.
Each of the three men served our Country in World War II.
Roy and my father both served in the Pacific. From what I can piece together,
it appears they may have been in close proximity geographically during some of the
fiercest battles in that Theatre. When I asked Chester where he was during the
War, he thought for a while then exhaled “Germany.”
Each of these men obviously survived the War and returned
home safely. Each raised families—Chester had four children; Roy and my father
two. Each apparently lived enjoyable lives in post-War America.
That these men would share the story of war is not unique,
not for a male born between 1915-25 in the United States. It is not even unique
that they would live to come home. Although our casualties were significant,
they did not outstrip the numbers of our survivors.
The uniqueness of their stories begins just ten or so years ago
when their paths converged.
One-by-one their lives were brought back together inside an area of
Foxwood Springs known simply as the Atrium. The Atrium is Foxwood Spring’s “memory
care” unit. It’s where patients reside
that have Alzheimer’s disease or are experiencing other forms of dementia. It’s
not, upon first entry, a pretty place. It can actually be quite a scary one, where
the faculties and filters of the patients fade into oblivion and where they
have been rendered a shell of their former selves.
But the Atrium, for all its frightfulness, is also a place
where memories come back alive. It’s a place, as memories vanish, from last to
first, that many are found changing their baby’s diapers or
issuing orders to a battalion of soldiers. It’s in the Atrium that we
rediscover the beauties long since dormant in the people that Tom Brokaw dubbed “The
Greatest Generation.”
And it was in the Atrium that these three men were brought together, not as patients, but as bright, sharp men in their late eighties and
early nineties caring for the loves of their lives. Each of these men was
forced, undoubtedly after much anguish and futile attempts at being sole caregivers, to entrust their brides to the care of Foxwood Springs and
the Atrium staff.
This is an unusual story for a man, let alone for three men to share. Most men do not outlive
their wives. Nursing homes possess a female-to-male ratio of up to 8:1. The men
of our story here are conspicuous because they are male and they were/are still
alive. Unfortunately each man buried his wife after they died at Foxwood
Springs. After doing so they pressed on alone.
I don’t yet know Chester’s entire story. I assume it is
similar to Roy’s and Dad’s. After their wives died they enjoyed some years of
independent and vibrant living before experiencing their own declining health.
Each now themselves have to be cared for in one way or another at Foxwood.
On Memorial Day we honor our dead and we honor our veterans.
Today I’d like to honor these veterans while they’re still living. They’ve
seen a lot. They’ve endured a lot. They did some things that most men don’t
have to do. They've done other things that most men would be unequipped to do.
Please remember that within Foxwood Springs or any other
senior care center or nursing home in the country, there resides not just aging
bodies and minds, but stories. Therein reside our stories. Stories that help us to understand from where we come, and stories that in many ways solidify the hope in where we
are going.
Whisper to them the simple words, “well done.”
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