Rosa, where's my Coke?

Through Bob's last weeks, I was privileged to be his care-giver. Everything from coaxing him to "take another bite" to brushing his teeth for him.

On that last Saturday in June, I phoned the Hospice volunteers. My back wouldn't let me do the usual lifting, and I decided I needed help with his bath.

Nurse Rosa came. Tiny, strong, Spanish-speaking gal from Peru. She pitched in to help give Bob his bath, and change his sheets. I had already washed his face and hands, and shampooed his hair. I had already shaved him, and slathered his "Stinkum" (after-shave) on his face. While she gently lifted each leg, she slowly swung it up and down, like a pendulum. It was good for circulation, she told me.

It was a warm morning, and Bob asked if he could have some Coke. (I had gone out the week before and bought $65.00 worth of juices, flavored waters, and soft drinks, hoping something would taste good to him.) So, I was happy that he wanted some Coke. I fixed it up with ice, and a bendy straw, and he sipped it, giving little satisfied sounds. Then, I'd set it on the table, and help Rosa with his bath.

In a minute or two, he said, "Rosa, where's my Coke?"

She chuckled. And took the blame for putting it down.

It took two hours for his bath that day. Rosa was in no hurry as she slathered him with skin lotion, and rubbed his heels and elbows. She is a Christian, and showered her gentle kindness on Bob. She kept calling him, "Dear."

And every once in a while, Bob would "demand" again, "Rosa, where's my Coke?"

It makes me laugh to think of it.