For several months, my husband was in a nursing home facility. He had suffered a stroke some years before, but as time passed, he needed more care than I could manage. I selected a facility where I could spend time with him on a regular basis. It took only five minutes for me to drive there if there was traffic, but only four minutes if there was none. I often went in the morning and was with him during his waking and breakfast time. I stayed until mid-morning during his therapy, and then scooted home so I could go to the local YMCA and swim a few laps. I then would return to be with him for his lunch hour. In the middle of the afternoon, I did my home chores, returning to be with him in the evening. I tell you this because while at the facility, I became acquainted with other residents. Some could speak; some couldn’t. I greeted them as I passed them in the corridor, most of whom were in wheelchairs. I looked forward to seeing them, and they seemed to like seeing me.
One day one man rolled down the corridor and stopped at my husband’s door. Peering in, he saw me and asked, “Do you have any ribbons?” I said I had some at home, and I asked why he wanted to know. He told me he fashioned little baskets from ribbons, and that he was out of ribbons. If I had any, could I bring him some? Of course I would. He seemed delighted and rolled back to his room. The next day, while I was with my husband, he rolled to our room and asked if I had brought the ribbons. I hadn’t. I gulped and told him I had them in the car and would surely bring them the next time. He gave me a grateful smile and rolled back to his room. When I went home, I went to the basement and searched for ribbons. I found some green, some orange, some yellow, and several white ribbons. I decided to add some wide red Christmas type ribbons as well as some thin blue ones. When I had a tangle of color, I put them in a pretty bag. I couldn’t wait to give them to the man.
The next day, I looked for the gentleman, and found him snoozing in his room. He was in his wheelchair. He woke up and I gave him the bag of ribbons. He was delighted. We chatted a bit, and I went back to see my husband. I envisioned him braiding, weaving, and arranging the ribbons into a pretty little basket, and it made me happy to know he was occupied doing something creative. Later that afternoon, a staff nurse came to our room and said, “Brian wants you to have this. He made it for you.” She handed me Brian’s basket. I took it and asked her to thank him.
His basket was the bottom of a Kleenex box, on the sides of which he had glued or taped a strip of paper colored with green crayon. Across the top of the box at an angle was a single ribbon, attached at each end to the sides of the Kleenex box with a dab of scotch tape. Inside on the bottom of the box, he had written his name with a brown crayon. It read, “Brian.” That was all. It took me a while before I could collect myself and go find Bryan and thank him for my beautiful basket.
I cannot recall receiving a more wonderful gift. Brian’s gift came from his heart, fashioned the best way he could. I treasure it-- a simple cardboard box, a bit of ribbon, some tape, and his name. I don’t know where he is now, or anything about him, but I love his “basket,” and I cannot bear to throw it away.
One day one man rolled down the corridor and stopped at my husband’s door. Peering in, he saw me and asked, “Do you have any ribbons?” I said I had some at home, and I asked why he wanted to know. He told me he fashioned little baskets from ribbons, and that he was out of ribbons. If I had any, could I bring him some? Of course I would. He seemed delighted and rolled back to his room. The next day, while I was with my husband, he rolled to our room and asked if I had brought the ribbons. I hadn’t. I gulped and told him I had them in the car and would surely bring them the next time. He gave me a grateful smile and rolled back to his room. When I went home, I went to the basement and searched for ribbons. I found some green, some orange, some yellow, and several white ribbons. I decided to add some wide red Christmas type ribbons as well as some thin blue ones. When I had a tangle of color, I put them in a pretty bag. I couldn’t wait to give them to the man.
The next day, I looked for the gentleman, and found him snoozing in his room. He was in his wheelchair. He woke up and I gave him the bag of ribbons. He was delighted. We chatted a bit, and I went back to see my husband. I envisioned him braiding, weaving, and arranging the ribbons into a pretty little basket, and it made me happy to know he was occupied doing something creative. Later that afternoon, a staff nurse came to our room and said, “Brian wants you to have this. He made it for you.” She handed me Brian’s basket. I took it and asked her to thank him.
His basket was the bottom of a Kleenex box, on the sides of which he had glued or taped a strip of paper colored with green crayon. Across the top of the box at an angle was a single ribbon, attached at each end to the sides of the Kleenex box with a dab of scotch tape. Inside on the bottom of the box, he had written his name with a brown crayon. It read, “Brian.” That was all. It took me a while before I could collect myself and go find Bryan and thank him for my beautiful basket.
I cannot recall receiving a more wonderful gift. Brian’s gift came from his heart, fashioned the best way he could. I treasure it-- a simple cardboard box, a bit of ribbon, some tape, and his name. I don’t know where he is now, or anything about him, but I love his “basket,” and I cannot bear to throw it away.
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