It’s all in the Cards

It is not often that I’m at a loss for words. But I seem unable to express my gratitude for the outpouring of love and caring I’ve experienced during my stay at the Bethel Health Care these past ten weeks.

As I look around the bright room I’ve called "home", I’m cheered by the multitude of greeting cards that decorate the walls, two bulletin boards--I had to use all my charms to get a second one--the top of the cabinet, the window sill, and wherever there is any space. They’re all so bright and cheery. And there are so many of them!

Sweet mother of God!  She’s at it again! Everywhere you looks it’s cards. Like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds; it starts innocently enough with a couple pigeons on the clothesline and ends with seagulls dive bombing straight for your eyes. I hope she’s not thinking that these are coming home with her.

It is amazing and heartwarming to notice to what lengths the senders have gone in selecting a suitable design for the occasion. Of course there are oodles of pictures of dogs and cats from people who know about my weakness for these creatures. Others are humorous; some are sentimental, all carrying the same message, "I’m thinking of you".

There are so many cards, so many wonderful sayings, and I’m going to keep them all; I just won’t tell Charlie.

I come to visit Lisa and turn on my laptop, "What do you want to talk about?" I ask.

"I wrote just a few more sentences on that greeting card thing," she says. "I made a survey about keeping them, and everybody was on my side. They understood what it means to me. The only one that sort of agreed with you was my friend Margaret, but she’s like that. Someone even offered to take the cards home and hide them in her place."

"Good." I say, wondering if perhaps I should send that person a card of appreciation.

"That way you wouldn’t know about it."

"So she’d hide them in her place? It’s a great idea."

"But then I wouldn’t have them…Would you like an apple?"

"No thanks. But what do these cards really mean to you?"

She pauses. "What touches me especially is hearing from people I don’t even know. Some write from as far away as California and Texas as friends and relatives share our columns with them. It’s like having an extended family out there. And I’m convinced that all of these messages have been instrumental in getting me on my way to recovery…’It’s as if you were taking me be the hand,’ one woman wrote, ‘and I were walking with you’. I don’t even know her, but somehow there’s a connection. Total strangers offer to help me, and while I’m not usually religious, almost all of them say that they’re including me in their prayers."

"Okay," I say, realizing that this isn’t going well. It’s time to play dirty; I give voice to my inner lawyer. "So, if these cards are so special, how is it that I found all of your cards from three years ago when you were in Waterbury Hospital, in a patient’s belongings bag, on the floor, with a container of hand cream spilled all over them. If they were special, I think you would have treated them better."

"You can’t ask for logic. You know I’m not terribly organized about certain things."

Okay, so logic—my very good friend--is out the window; I switch tactics, and assess whether she’s queried all of her friends who’ve been working on getting her condo into return-home shape. "Now, in your survey did you ask Vinnie?’

"I think I did." She answers without conviction.

"I don’t think so. I think Vinnie would agree with me? Did you ask Steve?"

"No, but he’s prejudiced. He would throw out half the place…including me, if he had his way. I even asked some of the aides here, and they said that men don’t understand the sentimental attachment to these things that women have….But to get back to what you asked me before about these cards. They contain incredible messages. Like that retired nurse who offered to help me, and a stranger who didn’t even sign hers, but included a $20 telephone card; it was very sweet. And each person telling me what my writing means to them and how they can’t wait for the next column. In fact, one woman has already sent me six cards from Heritage Village."

"Like a stalker?"

"No, in fact she’s a very interesting woman, she used to own her own greeting card business. "You know, my whole affair with Henry was based on greeting cards. He collected them through the years and never threw them out. So men can be sentimental, some men."

"Have you ever told your readers about Henry?" I ask.

"No." She gets very quiet.

"How come?"

"It’s not a subject to write about to my readers. It’s too personal."

"No guts no glory."

"Well…if I would write something about him, I’d probably write something funny, like when he threw up his hands over the filing cabinets that he gave me. They were quite expensive…hundreds of dollars…you know, the ones down in my storage bin. He brought them with a piece of a paper; he was worse than you if that’s possible. He was an engineer, with an orderly mind, and very German. So he brings these expensive file cabinets, and asked, ‘how many categories do you think you have?’ And he made little paper labels to stick on the cabinets. And then he watched me for weeks to see what would happen."

"And?"

"It wasn’t good. One day he was in my apartment and I opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a neatly folded dress. I’ll never forget the look on his face. ‘But I filed it under "D" I said.’ And then he threw up his hands, ‘at least you’ll never have a burglar,’ he said, ‘because if one comes, they’ll think somebody already ransacked the place.’"

"Okay," I say, "realizing that this is very old behavior, and that it’s not about to change. "Maybe we could do something with the cards."

"Like a collage?"

"Sure, or maybe we could decoupage something."

She smiles, "that would be lovely."

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