Hounddog

It's funny how things work out, how life is like a ball of yarn weaving itself into patterns, some turning out as beautiful pictures, some ending up pretty ugly. When I found out my precious friend, Alfred Sisk, had been moved to Oxford from his longtime residence at the community home for mentally-challenged men where I worked some years back, I grieved more than a little, filled with doubt that I would ever be able to tell him goodbye. Alfred is an elderly man with Down's syndrome, and due to his decline in health and their inability to give him the proper care his condition demanded, he was moved to the agency's main campus in Oxford, MS. As it turned out, I ended up in Oxford last week for a conference, another wonderful new picture being woven into my life's tapestry, surprising and satisfying. Thursday afternoon I made some calls and found out it would be fine for me to go visit my old friend in his new cottage, and some warnings about his condition were issued to me, preparing me for what was about to come. The cottage is for very low-functioning clients, most in wheelchairs, and they were moaning and making all sorts of disturbing noises, and even though I worked with the mentally challenged for many years in two states, I had forgotten the sadness in the sounds of those with the inability to verbally communicate. The cottage was clean and, mostly, the clients were, too. Staff was bustling about, young and energetic, immune to the disarming noises that filled the main room. As I was led to Alfred's room I felt dread build up in my gut, fear of seeing my Hounddog in pain and isolation. The DCW turned on the lights, shifted Alfred's position to wake him and allow him to see my face, and as he began to cry and groan, I wondered if this was the best decision for him or my own self. I got close to him and picked up his soft, white hand, began to stroke his nearly-bald head, and felt all the love and affection for him return to me tripled and quadrupled. Alfred Sisk is absolutely and without question the most gentle and pure soul creation has ever produced. He was every staff member's favorite, if it came right down to it, because he was never, ever any trouble, always helpful and cheerful, and more loving than any "normal" person, unaware of the risks people take to love. His family did not take up much time with him, but he was never alone or neglected, always a joy to be around, funny and affectionate. As I bent down and got close to his face so that he could hear me well, I told him how much everyone loved him because he had the ability to make every single person feel special, in ways I've never seen before or since. When I would take him to the store, he would always know the women who needed a pick-me-up, a boost to their self-esteem, and would tell them they were cute in his own language that somehow everyone understood. These strangers would always immediately perk up, faces erupting into a smile, and tell him thank you. He could force the sourest of all sourpusses to feel joy, even if for a moment, with his uninhibited love dished out equally for all around him. He was nonverbal, but he had his own made-up language which I knew perfectly, like "magetty," for dinosaur. He loved dinosaurs, so I would buy him plastic ones from Wal-Mart, one with a button that when pushed made a loud roar, which he imitated, then giggled. But Alfred's main love was Elvis Presley, and he loved to sing Elvis songs! "Hounddog" was his very favorite, and it was his nickname, probably used more than Alfred. A friend and former staff member made him a real Elvis costume, complete with the cape adorned with a huge, rhinestone-and-sequined eagle on the back, and he would wear this to Graceland every so often when staff would take him there, giving him the thrill of his life every single time. He could dance like Elvis too, and insisted on giving an impromptu show for anyone new who came through the door. We both had ample bellies and would bump them together and laugh at each other, each time harder than the last, and it got to be a routine source of fun for us. I had to leave the community home when I had my big episode four years ago, my major meltdown, and missed Alfred and the rest of the clients so badly. I visited them two years ago when I went to stay with my dear friend whom I met there, she worked a different shift, and we became fast and very close friends. So the last memory I had of Alfred was of that visit, where he showed me his Elvis costume, sang some tunes for me, danced, and hugged me generously. My friend, Fran, said he would still bring her to a picture of me that hung in the hallway, long after I was gone, and point to my picture and actually say my name. That is the reason I knew he would remember me, even if everyone assured me he would not. So as I talked to Alfred last Thursday as he lay in that bed, with each word I said he seemed to become more responsive, and after about 5 or 10 minutes his eyes were completely opened and he was speaking to me with them, those blue, kind eyes I love so much. I told him everything I ever wanted to, about how much people loved him, how he made everyone around him happy, how even strangers wanted to be with him because he was so perfectly real and unassuming. He would cry with me when I talked about bumping bellies, and when I asked if he knew me he did his best to nod his head. I stayed with him as long as I could, and my heart broke to hear him labor for every single breath, clearly in pain. When it was time for me to leave I told him again how much I love him and forced myself to walk out that door, and out the door of the cottage, into the beautiful day full of blue sky, breeze, and magnolia trees. And I know that Alfred heard my goodbye, and felt my hand in his, and felt the love I have for him and his sweet, sweet soul.