Dave: A Resurrection Sunday Repost

I wrote and published this to Gather in March 2007. It is one of my first articles I ever published.

Every so often, every nurse gets a patient who touches her (or his) soul in an unforgettable way.  Dave was one of those patients.
I loved that old coot, and even ten years after his death, think of him often. This is his story.


Dave came to the nursing home in 1994, following a series of heart attacks, and one life altering cerebrovascular accident, or stroke. Standing 6'3, and 230lbs., he was, in his day, a force to be reckoned with. He had been a cop, and a Marine before he joined the force.  An Irish Catholic beat cop for over thirty years, before illness, and the death of his beloved wife,  knocked the wind out of his sails. His nine children, three detectives, a fireman, a nurse, and four "stay at home" Moms, were beside themselves. He was no longer the raucous, fun loving Dad they knew so well.

Dave came to the Home for rehabilitation following his stroke. He could no longer walk, as his stroke had rendered him weak on his left side, and he suffered from periods of confusion from time to time. He was also incontinent, which was a huge embarrassment for this tough as nails, bear of a man. He also suffered from depression, stemming from both his physical maladies, but mostly from grieving his dear Lily, his wife of forty five years, who had died four years prior. 

When I met Dave, he was a withdrawn, surly, beast of a man, whom the staff was having a hard time caring for. He would cuss at every task he had to do. He griped about needing assistance. and fell several times, trying to do things for himself, that he was incapable of doing. He had even struck out at a few, less than agile, nursing assistants who were trying to care for him. He gave the Physical Therapists fits.

Over the course of a week or so, he had successfully alienated almost the entire nursing staff. No one wanted to care for him, for fear of being either verbally berated, or perhaps struck. It was time for a talk.

Talking with Dave, at first, was like talking to a brick wall. He absolutely refused to discuss his illness and disability. He did however, love to talk about his time in the service of his country, and his love of police work. He also alluded to his deep love of his family, and his lovely Lily, for whom he still grieved.

Over the course of a few months, with the help of a wonderful psych counselor, his family,  and pharmaceutical antidepressants, the real Dave started to emerge. Some thought we were better off with the depressed, angry Dave.

As he worked out his anger and grief with the counselor, and as the antidepressants worked their magic, Dave became more animated. Too animated for many. He became a sex fiend in the eyes of the Nuns for which I worked, and who ran the place. 

Dave, it turns out, had a bawdy, wicked sense of humor, even vulgar at times. Many, especially the Nuns, did not understand his peculiar sense of fun. One son even bought the old fella a subscription to "Playboy", to be delivered monthly to the nice, sedate, Catholic nursing home. Heaven Forbid.

It got to the point where staff did not want to enter his room, not for fear of an angry tirade, but of being propositioned,  being groped during care, or having their various body parts commented on.  The poor therapists had their hands full trying to teach him to walk and regain his physical functioning while avoiding his roaming hands.  The dear Sisters even considered sprinkling Saltpeter on his food.

I knew better. Dave and I had a good relationship, and I made a point of stopping in every day to talk about, well, nothing. We would chat about the war, the movie he was watching, or the history of some of the knickknacks adorning his room. He could tell me dirty jokes without fear of offending, and he got in the habit of meeting me every morning at the door of his room, with one vulgar tale or another. It became the highlight of my day, most days.  A little vulgarity has never offended me, considering I spent my adolescence sneaking my parent's "Sex-to-Sexty" joke books as often as I could get away with it.

He began regaling me with stories of his marriage. He still deeply loved his wife, and she had been gone four years. His big blue eyes would well up as he spoke of her, and did till the day he died. I knew, by the way he spoke, he could never be unfaithful. He believed in his marriage vows, and believed in them even in death. He told me once, " Lily may be gone, but I took those vows under God's eye, and will uphold them till death do us meet, since death do us part already happened ".

As it turns out, a change in antidepressants was all that was needed to calm dear Dave's libido. He emerged as a darling man, who still had a biting wit, and still loved to torment the staff with dirty jokes, or an occasional comment about appreciating a woman's form.

He became quite a sensation in the home. A big ole bear, with sparkling blue eyes, and a  million stories to tell. Little by little, he regained his physical functioning, graduating to walking with a walker. I'm not sure if he never fully regained control of his bladder because of physical reasons, or carnal ones. He sure liked having to "be cleaned up".

Shortly before Dave was felled by Congestive Heart Failure, for the umpteenth time, I remember meeting Dave as he exited the dining room one morning, rolling his walker ahead of him, " Um, Dave, I have to ask, and I mean I REALLY have to ask, Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?"

His reply, through his laughter, "Unfortunately, its a banana".

I miss that old goat.