The Last Odd Day Read Online Free Page A

the shift change, and therefore I did not know the early staff as well as I did those who came in after 2:30 p.m. I met almost everyone when O.T. first went in because I used to go right after breakfast and stay all day; but over time I drifted into the comfortable schedule of leaving home at the same time I had for more than fifty-one years while I worked at the mill.
    I slept until 10:00 a.m. By the time I was through piddling about, taking care of chores and errands, I didn’t get to Sunhaven until around 3:00. I stayed until after supper, helping him eat and change for bed, and I was with him until he fell asleep. It had become our routine. So that after more than twenty months, in season and out of season, this is how we did our marriage.
    I was friendly with all the nurses and nursing assistants from the afternoon shift. They became like a second family. We saw each other so often that we began to learn all sorts of things about each other; and before I knew it we were sharing intimate details of our lives and giving advice as freely as we shared recipes and gardening tips. Everyone knew O.T. as well as I did since he became a different person after the stroke. So it seemed, after a while, that they were telling me more things about him than I could share with them. They knew his favorite activity and his worst time of day. They knew what frightened him and what reassured him. And they knew what he liked to eat.
    Before moving to Sunhaven, O.T. had never cared for Jell-O or pudding, called it “ladies’ food,” but once he moved there, it appeared he’d do anything for cherry Jell-O. Like a child hearing the threat of no allowance, O.T. performed whatever task was needed for a promise of the red food that wiggles.
    It was, of course, quite a shock to discover that other women knew more about my husband than I did. I had come in for my regular visit, and Betty, the nursing assistant who lives only a couple of miles from me, was feeding him a snack.
    I saw the spoon in her hand, the red cube shaking on top. “He won’t eat it, Betty, he hates Jell-O.”
    And the next thing I know, O.T. is grinning and clapping his hands, “Ollie wants jiggly.”
    Betty shrugged her shoulders, trying to downplay her significance in my husband’s life. “You can never tell with stroke patients, Mrs. Witherspoon, their likes and dislikes can change from one day to the next.”
    But I didn’t let that bother me. I had left most of my ego outside the door when I brought O.T. there in the first place. And then, two weeks after he had been there and they were able to get him to drink a milkshake and finally get that awful feeding tube out of his throat, I humbly accepted that they were more qualified and better caregivers than I was.
    On that cold day in February, I walked past the nurses’ station and down the hall to room 117. O.T. was in the bed by the window since he liked staring outside at the bird feeder and had seniority over his roommate who had moved in only one month earlier.
    I said hello to Mr. Parsons, a double amputee whose wife had only recently died and whose son lived out west and never visited. He hardly ever had anything to say.
    â€œHey, baby,” I said as I pulled open the blinds and looked over and smiled at my husband. “Getting a little cloudy today, maybe snow.” I began cleaning up around his bed, straightening papers, throwing away trash.
    â€œSnow today,” he said and nodded.
    â€œWhat did you eat for breakfast?” There were large yellow stains all down the front of his pajamas. “Looks like oatmeal,” I answered myself and went over to the closet and pulled out a clean shirt. “Let’s get you changed.” And I helped him out of the pajama top and pulled a sweatshirt over his head.
    â€œClara,” he said as I smoothed his hair back down.
    â€œNo, baby, I’m Jean.”
    I balled up the stained top and put it