The Silent Man slowly wheels himself down a hallway. Not his hallway. A hallway leading to who knows where. My bodyguard and I get the Silent Man's attention and he says, "Take me to my room." I ask, "Have you eaten?" He doesn't look up, but instead, keeps his head down to his chest as his body lilts to the left. "Not yet," he finally utters.
So we push the Silent Man to his room to wait for his lunch. I sit on his bed, ever so afraid I will set off beeps and blares, but nothing happens. The Silent Man says, "You seem tentative." I explain I am afraid he will run over my feet with his wheelchair and I giggle. But there is no response. As my bodyguard and I sit on the bed, the Silent Man maneuvers himself around in the tiny cramped room, head to his chest, and pushes his feet and wheels himself into the hallway, bumping against the chest of drawers and the bed frame.
"Shall we leave?" my bodyguard asks. "No," I reply. "He's coming back." We watch and wait for the next few moments and he rolls himself back into the room. "I'm uncomfortable," the Silent Man says. So I lock his wheelchair brakes so the Silent Man can partially rise to release pressure on his buttocks. When that is done, the Silent Man once again wheels himself to the hallway. The bodyguard and I stay seated on the bed and watch in silence.
I ask a nurse if the Silent Man's lunch is ready and she brings it to the room. He eats all of the greens with a fork. I tuck a paper towel into his shirt because I know he will spill green juice all over himself. I cut his baked potato and douse it with sour cream. No butter. There was no butter to be had. The Silent Man snacks at his potato and then raises his head. "Take me out of here."
So the bodyguard and I take the Silent Man to the cafeteria where he, once again, begins to eat his lunch. The Silent Man is unpredictable. He is explosive at times and grabs my wrist and wrenches it. I cry silently and sob when I reach the car; therefore, I have vowed to take my bodyguard with me to visit the Silent Man. It's best that way. I feel safe that way because the Silent Man is wrapped in his dementia brain, not knowing appropriate behavior. Lashing out at demons lurking in his brain.
My bodyguard and I leave the Silent Man. We tell him we love him and I give him a kiss on his head. There is no response as the Silent Man continues to stab at a too-hard baked potato without butter.
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