Who also sits alone at a picnic table . . .

[A part of a conversation with another who just experienced a lonely day shared only with the wind and roar of the ocean, the screaming of gulls, and the words from Henry David Thoreau.]

Hi
Just looked on the map and found [ ] State Park. I can very easily imagine the scene. I have been at a few locations on the Pacific Coast, and most of the places were characterized by a very short beach filled with driftwood and debris, then a high bluff of some kind. And the wind. And yes, most of the times it was cloudy or misty of some sort.

And the alone-with-the-stillness. Alone at a picnic table. The isolation of a mid-week, remote, picnic table exposed to the vastness of the emptiness of a foaming, turbulent ocean shore. Some people find that to be totally disorienting . . . they need chaos around them, but others revile in that stillness . . . and the alone part? Maybe physically, but hopefully not emotionally.

I have seen pictures on occasion that typically depict two men of more senior ages that sit side-by-side. The perspective of the camera is always from behind. You can see over their shoulders into the common horizon. In some pictures it looks to be a porch swing that they are sharing. Other pictures, it is just lawn chairs of some sort. And yes, I have seen pictures where it is a picnic table. Their backs resting against the old, weathered table top. They look out. And I suppose inward as well. And I often wonder of the content of their conversation. I often wonder of their hands . . . if they are clasped together in the security of mutual touch. I often wonder if their knurled old bodies find warmth and security cuddled together.

The hospital where I am currently assigned takes care of a lot of elderly people. It is rare for me to find a patient that is under 70 years of age. And their knurled bodies. And the disfigurement and deformities of aging and disease. The nutrition trigger of "wound" that necessitates a visit by the dietitian. The "wound" is so often a diabetic cellulitis in the lower extremities. Even worse, the decubitus ulcer . . . sometimes it has progressed to stage IV where tissue has degenerated even down into the bone itself. And their hands and arms can be so frail, just skin over bones with ridges for tendons. And their feet look so swollen, so red, so ulcerated, so black-splotched, so contorted. And I try to get them to smile, to agree with me that two bites are better than one, that three bites are better than two, that four bites are better than three . . . and yet they can't eat, or are two weak to eat, or hate the Dysphagia-I (pureed) diet with honey-thick liquids that their swallowing impairment demands to help prevent aspiration pneumonia or the cardiac diet that restricts the sodium that just makes it all the harder for their failing heart and lungs to work, or they simply just don't want to eat . . . and nobody has the guts to let them simply and unashamedly say "just let me die."

And then I remember the pictures of old men, sitting side by side. And imagine their laughter, their private little jokes, their contentment, their relishing the ambience of a precious moment . . . in the now . . . in the past. And their wonderment of a future.

And I think what it means to sit alone at a picnic table. For I do that often. And my only companions are the birds I hear but can't see and the images of words silently emerging from the pages of Henry David Thoreau or some other meaningful book.

And the realization that I too have a friend who also sits alone at a picnic table. Who knows, someday, we both may find and share another picnic table together.

The Refectory Manager