Appreciation
Nov 10, 2022 17:13:21 GMT -5
Post by Radrook Admin on Nov 10, 2022 17:13:21 GMT -5
Thomas Harrison, an old white man of 95, sits within the deafening silence of the senior citizen home reception room with all the other patients . For others, whose professions did not involve communication skills, this silence might mean much, but in Thomas’s case, he perceived it as siationally ironical. You see, in his professional prime, Thomas had been a great writer of famous short stories poems and novels and much admired in the world of literature. His life had indeed been a successful and active one of the constant communication of idea. But now, now he could barely put two words together in sentence. No it hadn’t happened all at once. As is the case in all such cases, it was a slow process of gradual decreases in perceptions, a slight slurring of syntax at first, and then finally, a persistent tendency to think coherently leading to an inability to converse.
Of course, a famous man like Thomas did have regular visitors at the nursing home at first. Among them were lifelong friends known since grade school. Others had been fellow-writers he’d corresponded with on a regular basis during the heyday of his illustrious career. Yet others had been editors who had helped him polish his stories via helpful advice. Others had been writing agents with whom he had enjoyed many years of fellowship on a professional level. Of course, he knew that they all wanted him to engage in the usual lively conversation that hinged on new ideas for a story, or expected him to recite some new poem that he had recently written as he had usually done.
Some even brought him their recently-written work seeking his opinion after they read it to him. If only they had known how strongly he wished that he could. But that ability had now become a part of the past and never to be retrieved. So instead, he was forced to watch frustrated as they persistently attempted cajole him out of what they considered a self-imposed isolation, an impenetrable shell of his own ideation. Of course, their confusion was understandable. After all, they had known him during the full bloom of his intellectual powers when eloquent ideas and sentences had flowed from him with such effortless ease. They had read his prose with its outstanding eloquence that had mesmerized thousands of readers and had easily made them his loyal fans.
After all, mind as keen as his own, one that creates on such a sophisticated level, is hard to imagine as being suddenly incapable of forming simple sentences. So if they were baffled by his silence, he definitely understood why. Yet, eventually, because of his inability engage in a mutual interchange of ideas, the visits became less frequent, until only few of his former acquaintances would occasionally visit, and those who did, would sit silently beside him, offered what they considered to be some consolation, and would then leave in a nervouly, self-conscious haste.
After each visitation was over, and they had said their usual goodbyes, Thomas would once more find himself reclined in his rocker among the other senile patients, as the wall-mounted TV went on and on in what appeared to him as meaninglessly, disjointed sequences of images that he immediately forgot and which always left him wondering how they were logically related to one another. Finally, he would just give up, shut his eyes and listen as he waited to receive his regular medication that offered no hope of a cure, but merely a slowed down of what was considered to be inevitable.
Yet amidst all the gloom , there was always one very special face that brought him solace. It was the face of his precious, loving daughter Samantha, who had patiently cared for him for five long years prior to his hospitalization. It was a familiar, concerned face, and not one of dutyas the nurses who attended him, whom he had repeatedly perceived hovering over him in his wheelchair and who’s uttering of the word “dad” did more wonders for him than all the medication in the world. It was a ray of hope in the ever increasing darkness, an anchor of stability within a personal storm without which he would have lost all connection to reality long before.
If only he could somehow tell her how much he had appreciated her caring concern. But try as he might, the words just would not emerge. Yet, he fervently hoped that she could somehow perceive his gratitude in his pleading eyes. After all, they say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Yet, despite his best efforts it all seemed hopeless until one day, while he attempted to communicate his feelings of gratitude, she suddenly gazed at him with great compassion. It had been as if some unspoken communication between them had been conveyed on a level that words never could. After intently looking into is blue eyes as if she had been listening to his inermost thoughts, and placing her face close to his own, she whispered:
“You are welcomed dad. You don’t need to thank me. I am the one who should be thanking you for having been the caring father that you were to me as a child, helping make with my schoolwork, becoming my trusted friend with whom I could confide my concerns and always trust never to be judged harshly.
Thank you for the understanding help you provided me with as a grown woman when I made serious mistakes and yet you never berated me for them, but calmly offered advice and a fatherly helping hand instead.
Thanks for having given me shelter in my greatest hours of despair when nobody else was there and for loving your grandchildren in the very special way that you did by giving them a father image that they would not have had otherwise.
Thank you for treating mom with loving concern and with respect. Also thanks for teaching me that being a woman should never hinder me in setting and accomplishing my goals.
I love you dad, and I always will. Thank you for being you!”
Thomas tried to smile in return, but knew that even if he couldn’t, she would know that he was indeed smiling.
Of course, a famous man like Thomas did have regular visitors at the nursing home at first. Among them were lifelong friends known since grade school. Others had been fellow-writers he’d corresponded with on a regular basis during the heyday of his illustrious career. Yet others had been editors who had helped him polish his stories via helpful advice. Others had been writing agents with whom he had enjoyed many years of fellowship on a professional level. Of course, he knew that they all wanted him to engage in the usual lively conversation that hinged on new ideas for a story, or expected him to recite some new poem that he had recently written as he had usually done.
Some even brought him their recently-written work seeking his opinion after they read it to him. If only they had known how strongly he wished that he could. But that ability had now become a part of the past and never to be retrieved. So instead, he was forced to watch frustrated as they persistently attempted cajole him out of what they considered a self-imposed isolation, an impenetrable shell of his own ideation. Of course, their confusion was understandable. After all, they had known him during the full bloom of his intellectual powers when eloquent ideas and sentences had flowed from him with such effortless ease. They had read his prose with its outstanding eloquence that had mesmerized thousands of readers and had easily made them his loyal fans.
After all, mind as keen as his own, one that creates on such a sophisticated level, is hard to imagine as being suddenly incapable of forming simple sentences. So if they were baffled by his silence, he definitely understood why. Yet, eventually, because of his inability engage in a mutual interchange of ideas, the visits became less frequent, until only few of his former acquaintances would occasionally visit, and those who did, would sit silently beside him, offered what they considered to be some consolation, and would then leave in a nervouly, self-conscious haste.
After each visitation was over, and they had said their usual goodbyes, Thomas would once more find himself reclined in his rocker among the other senile patients, as the wall-mounted TV went on and on in what appeared to him as meaninglessly, disjointed sequences of images that he immediately forgot and which always left him wondering how they were logically related to one another. Finally, he would just give up, shut his eyes and listen as he waited to receive his regular medication that offered no hope of a cure, but merely a slowed down of what was considered to be inevitable.
Yet amidst all the gloom , there was always one very special face that brought him solace. It was the face of his precious, loving daughter Samantha, who had patiently cared for him for five long years prior to his hospitalization. It was a familiar, concerned face, and not one of dutyas the nurses who attended him, whom he had repeatedly perceived hovering over him in his wheelchair and who’s uttering of the word “dad” did more wonders for him than all the medication in the world. It was a ray of hope in the ever increasing darkness, an anchor of stability within a personal storm without which he would have lost all connection to reality long before.
If only he could somehow tell her how much he had appreciated her caring concern. But try as he might, the words just would not emerge. Yet, he fervently hoped that she could somehow perceive his gratitude in his pleading eyes. After all, they say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Yet, despite his best efforts it all seemed hopeless until one day, while he attempted to communicate his feelings of gratitude, she suddenly gazed at him with great compassion. It had been as if some unspoken communication between them had been conveyed on a level that words never could. After intently looking into is blue eyes as if she had been listening to his inermost thoughts, and placing her face close to his own, she whispered:
“You are welcomed dad. You don’t need to thank me. I am the one who should be thanking you for having been the caring father that you were to me as a child, helping make with my schoolwork, becoming my trusted friend with whom I could confide my concerns and always trust never to be judged harshly.
Thank you for the understanding help you provided me with as a grown woman when I made serious mistakes and yet you never berated me for them, but calmly offered advice and a fatherly helping hand instead.
Thanks for having given me shelter in my greatest hours of despair when nobody else was there and for loving your grandchildren in the very special way that you did by giving them a father image that they would not have had otherwise.
Thank you for treating mom with loving concern and with respect. Also thanks for teaching me that being a woman should never hinder me in setting and accomplishing my goals.
I love you dad, and I always will. Thank you for being you!”
Thomas tried to smile in return, but knew that even if he couldn’t, she would know that he was indeed smiling.