I had an entry that addressed all the issues I have been talking about lately, but then, I remembered and I googled this.
Mr. Vayne was one of my patients when I was a home health aide. He was just as his daughter describes him. Fortunately, I had to opportunity to see this house inside and out on several occasions.
He passed away about a week after I left El Paso. My mom was hesitant to tell me because she didn’t want me to worry. My mom was investigated because like most old people, he’d come about some bed sores and try as she may; she was not able to get rid of them. His daughter didn’t pursue the investigation. Like me, she knew his death was coming.
I didn’t cry when I found out that he had died. He wasn’t the same man I’d met years earlier. Age had eaten away at his brain. He no longer pestered me to read out loud in attempts to help me project my voice better. He quit giving me lessons about Shakespeare and pestering me about going out on the roof to clean the gutters.
Instead, he’d sleep in the room next to mine and claw at the walls and scream at the hallucinations he often saw. I rarely like to recall these events. Instead, I like to remember the lessons about what El Paso was like before he helped build the freeway and people’s comments about how excited he was for Tuesday and Thursday to come along because he’d get to spend time with me.
Sorry if this doesn’t make much sense. I’m just overwhelmed with emotion right now.
P.S. Things at la escuelita have been good. I’ll tell you all about it at another time. Thanks for all your comments.
P.S.S. I’d love for you to read my blog Belinda.
Oh yeah, I can’t wait for Cracked Chancla to reveal her big news! I’m still squeling!
Mr. Vayne was one of my patients when I was a home health aide. He was just as his daughter describes him. Fortunately, I had to opportunity to see this house inside and out on several occasions.
He passed away about a week after I left El Paso. My mom was hesitant to tell me because she didn’t want me to worry. My mom was investigated because like most old people, he’d come about some bed sores and try as she may; she was not able to get rid of them. His daughter didn’t pursue the investigation. Like me, she knew his death was coming.
I didn’t cry when I found out that he had died. He wasn’t the same man I’d met years earlier. Age had eaten away at his brain. He no longer pestered me to read out loud in attempts to help me project my voice better. He quit giving me lessons about Shakespeare and pestering me about going out on the roof to clean the gutters.
Instead, he’d sleep in the room next to mine and claw at the walls and scream at the hallucinations he often saw. I rarely like to recall these events. Instead, I like to remember the lessons about what El Paso was like before he helped build the freeway and people’s comments about how excited he was for Tuesday and Thursday to come along because he’d get to spend time with me.
Sorry if this doesn’t make much sense. I’m just overwhelmed with emotion right now.
P.S. Things at la escuelita have been good. I’ll tell you all about it at another time. Thanks for all your comments.
P.S.S. I’d love for you to read my blog Belinda.
Oh yeah, I can’t wait for Cracked Chancla to reveal her big news! I’m still squeling!
3 comments:
he sounds like a very interesting person. the house sounds fascinating, too bad it was burned down. i bet he shared some interesting stories with you.
let it out, even if it isn't on here but in a personal hand written journal at home.
sending you a big warm hug.
One of these days I plan to write a story about him. He was really something. Thanks for the hug Elenamary.
I can't post this on the blog, for some reason it won't let me. Anyway, school's out for the rest of the week and I'm heading to Dallas just in case Rita hits. I hope all my fellow Tejanos are safe.
I'll post as soon as I can.
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