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LITTLE WHITE BOX

"What is it that Mrs. Mathers keeps talking on about?" I asked the nurse
at the front desk of the nursing home where I had been working for about
a week.
"I don't know. I just don't know. She has been here for two weeks. The
family knows that she will not live for another month. So they choose to
place her in a nursing home facility. She constantly goes on and on
about some damn little white plastic box" the nurse replied.
"Something about a box?" I questioned.
"Just get her dressed for bed and forget about her rambling ons" she
instructed me.
"Yes Ma'am" I said, as I walked away from the nursing station.
Everyday when I would come to work Mrs. Mathers would go on and on about
that little white box. She constantly laid in her bed with her hands
partially covering her face. When I would move her hands away from her
face, in order to wash them, I would see tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Before I die. My little white box. Please" she would say out loud.
"Mrs. Mathers. I don't know what you mean" I would tell her.
Everyday it was the same routine. No matter what I would say to her I
just could not understand what it was that she was taking about.
Several times, over the next week, the doctor was called to attend to
Mrs. Mathers. I would stand outside her room to see if the doctor would
pull her through. After the doctor would leave I would go in and wipe
her forehead and make sure that she was comfortable.
"My house. My little white box. Please" she would start saying, over and
over.
At three thirty, as I was about to get off work, I walked up to the desk
and I pulled out Mrs. Mather's chart.
"1333 Whitmark" was her last known address. I drove the five miles, or
so until I located the address that I had written down on my pad. When I
arrived I saw that there was an estate sale going on. There were cars,
and people, everywhere.
"Your going to have to get a number if you are going to bid" said one of
the men, as I walked up.
"I'm not going to bid" I replied.
I walked around the house for about ten minutes looking at what all had
been tagged for sale. As I entered the dining room I saw a gentleman
wrapping various items and stuffing them into cardboard boxes. Sitting
on the edge of the table was a little white plastic box.
Excuse me. By any chance did you buy this little white box" I asked him.
"I bought everything in this room" he stated.
"Could I look inside this little white box" I asked him.
"Sure. There's nothing in there of any value" he told me.
Slowly I opened the box and I looked inside.
"OH MY GOD!" I said to myself.
"Can I have this box" I asked the man.
"Not worth nothin' to me" he said.
I ran out of the house as fast as I could and I headed back to the
nursing home. When I arrived I walked into Mrs. Mather's room.
"Mrs. Mathers. It's me Roger. Look what I got" I told her.
Slowly she opened her eyes. She began to shake as she reached out and
took the little white box from my hand.
"Water" she said to me.
I walked over to the sink and I got her a cup of water. I sat it down on
the dinner tray and I just stood there.
"Thank you, Dear" she told me.
"You are very welcome" I told her, as I patted her on the hand. I stood
watching her as she 'did her thing'. I stood shaking my head so that she
would know that I finally understood that she was a fine lady. Then like
a gentleman, I bowed my head forward and then I left her room.
When I returned to work the next day I learned that Mrs. Mathers had
passed away during the night.
Of all my years of working in nursing homes, though there were many
deaths, I only attended two funerals. One was that of Mrs. Mathers.
I stood by the casket, for more than an hour, as many people filed past.
I could not count the times that I heard her friends say "Jane looks at
least twenty years younger with her dentures in."

Stories from The Life and Times of Roger Dean Kiser:

Click on Roger's name to visit his Website. Roger Dean Kiser

To write to Roger please click on his name. Roger Dean Kiser

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