Ambidextrous

The door on room 310 in Good Samaritan Hospital has a faded, metal nameplate that says, “Illinois Knitting Company” that seems out of place on the freshly painted, clean door. Illinois Knitting must have donated money to the hospital back in the 1960s. I doubt if the company exists anymore. Pretty soon, this hospital will not be here either, slated for demolition when the new version of Good Sam is built on Veteran’s Memorial Drive on the west side of town. The town is sprawling that way in the name of progress (and toward Wal-Mart and Lowe’s, the new center of town) as the old downtown and surrounding neighborhoods slowly empty out.

I have come to see my grandfather, but he is not in the room. The Information Desk had him still occupying this room, but it appears that he is gone. Since he is 90, I am not certain what this means, whether he is gone to be with the Lord or just gone to the nursing home. The other day when Marcia and the girls and I visited him, we finished the visit by praying for him. When we finished, we thought he was dying as his eyes rolled back and he closed them, apparently seeing heavenly visions and angels that none of the rest of us could see. He was not with us for a few brief moments, and then he returned. This is the beginning of birth pangs.

The Next Day

Another nurse is asking him a lot of medical questions. She is serious, joyless, and she sits on his bed right on his foot with the bedsore. He screams out in pain. She apologizes. Welcome to the nursing home.

He has it in his head he is turning 92 on his next birthday, but he is one off. He is only 90. I know better than to correct a 90-year old, but I try anyway. “I’m not either. I’m 91!” he says when I tell him he’s only 90. He will not change his mind. I let it go.

He is now in room 120 on Sunshine Boulevard in White Oak Rehab Center and Nursing facility. The irony of the names of the wings in these places. “Sunshine Boulevard.” Life at 90 in a nursing home is anything but sunny. His wife of 71 years is gone and he would probably say, “ain’t not sunshine when she’s gone.” He is in hospice for failure to thrive after my grandmother passed away of cancer in March.

He is asked to sign some papers because my uncle is not there. “Which hand do you write with?” the austere nurse asks.

“Both,” he says.

“Is that a joke?” She is skeptical. He’s already missed on his age. What other crazy stuff will he come up with?

“No,” he insists.

This time her suspicion is unfounded. I understood immediately what he was talking about when he said that. My dad was left-handed. I am right-handed, but I learned to eat and write left-handed when I broke my wrist as a boy and can still do these things when necessary even today. I have long had a feeling that I could just as easily been left-handed had I just chose to use that hand. I also vaguely recall in the last six months picking up a softball left-handed and throwing a bullet from thirty feet at our church picnic, even though I have always played sports right-handed. My shoulder has hurt ever since when I try to work out though. But I could do it. Now I know this ambidextrous bent is something I share with my grandfather. We never talked about it because my grandmother did all of the talking in the family. She answered the phone, paid the bills, chose the meals, and dictated the direction of conversations in their living room. My grandpa was called in occasionally when she needed someone to agree with her. I knew very little about him.

The nurse handed him the papers and pointed where to sign. My grandpa signed his name carefully and slowly. She took the paper back. “You have the most beautiful handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you,” he said.

It doesn’t seem right that a man going into a nursing home could sign his name perfectly, but he did.

He signed his name right-handed.

My grandpa, Gerald Rainey, died on July 15, 2010. He was buried on his 91st birthday. I read the poem "I Left My Grandpa Sitting in the Recliner" that I had written after my grandma's funeral at the graveside rites.