My Funny Valentine

When I worked at the nursing home, I met a patient who had terminal lung cancer.  His name was James.  

James had spent his life living rather hard.  He'd been in airplane crashes in the Korean war, car accidents, bar fights and had been badly burned in a housefire caused by a burning cigarette that dropped one night as he slept. 

Admittedly his appearance was off-putting.  He was missing some portion of some of his fingers and had scars on his arms and hands, though he wore long sleeved shirts to hide what he could.  His hair had never quite grown back in a place or two, and what was left was gray and thin.  One ear was notched and missing a portion of the outer rim.  He was battle scarred by the life he'd lived. 

When I met James for the first time, I took one look at him and thought of an old dog I had dearly loved  named Mutt.  Mutt was torn and scarred by his life chasing and catching bears and wildcats in the woods, indulging in dog fights and being hit by cars.  He recovered from every incident that sent him to the vet to be euthanized and he lived a long life despite his careless ways.  He was deeply protective of us children and loved us dearly.  Whatever he did, he did with spirit and a will.  He was tenacious.  In getting to know James, I found that same tenacious spirit.

Despite his rough physical appearance, James was always nicely dressed.  He had a certain pride of self that was attractive.   He would best be described as 'dapper'.  He was also intelligent, well-traveled, well read and sociable.  He was courtly and polite, forever holding doors open for us females, complimenting us sincerely, offering to help carry things for us.   Men found him just as likable.  Wherever James was, whoever he was with, people welcomed his company.

When I'd first met James, I worked in the front office, but I soon took a new position that was more hands on with the patients.  James made it his habit to come into my office near the end of my workday and we'd talk as I cleared my desk before I left for the day.  I came to see him as a friend and genuinely enjoyed our daily talks.  

As time went out, his end of day visits was a sort of lifeline for me in a very difficult season.  Our thoughts were somehow attuned, and we often found ourselves thinking of and speaking over the same things.  We talked about our failed marriages.   We spoke of faith and hurts and heartaches and regrets.  We talked and talked.  

One day I was struggling with so many things and at the root of it all was my great fear that I'd never be loved nor in a loving relationship. Perhaps James picked up on that feeling.   It was this day that James very quietly and gently told me of his 'last regret'.   He said he wished with all his heart that he was 15 years younger and that I was 15 years older.  

"We," he said quietly, "could have really had a wonderful life together.  I'd have been a better man with you in my life.  I am old and my life is ending.  We both know this, but I've deeply enjoyed these afternoons with you.  One day, there will be a man who will show you your true value and be the love of your life.  How I envy him!"  

Tears trickled down my face.  "Thank you.  I've never had anything so lovely said to me.  I will forever hold it dear."  He clasped my hand in his for a long moment and with that he rolled his wheelchair from the room.

I needed exactly that sort of chaste and lovely romance he'd offered me.  I think every woman needs a man who looks at her with rose colored glasses, who appreciates her as an intelligent creature and as a woman, too.   Someone who is convinced she is altogether the very essence of the woman who'd make a good life companion.  

The lovely thing about James was that once he'd shared his feelings, he never again mentioned them. He'd spoken his heart and that was enough.   He continued to visit me each afternoon until he was no longer able.  At that time, I went to him at the beginning and end of each workday.  I'd take his hand in mine and we'd gently squeeze one another's hand, very often saying nothing at all.  And then one morning, I went into his room and found it empty, which is a peculiar heartache you know is coming when you work in a nursing home. It's always a matter of coming to love someone and then losing them...But I will confess that James' death hit me harder than most.  I walked into my office, laid my head upon my desk and wept.  I knew I'd lost more than a friend in losing him.

James gave me the gift of hope.   I'd remember his words about my future, my one day.  And when John came along, I was ready to accept that being loved and treated well was not impossible but something I had already known and deserved to find once again.