What makes people think they can give meaningful support to people with irregular needs? What is support exactly? What’s it mean?

I have leukemia and a support group has been recommended to me. Wow, I thought. I just asked a few questions. What in my behavior triggered the nurse’s recommendation? I could only answer that with the thought that the medical hocus-pocus that lies ahead for me is going to be a tough ordeal.

Talking about my feelings honestly and candidly never worked too well. I once was married to a clinical psychologist and my son became one, too. I’m sure they could tell you some stories if they were allowed to. Let’s just say that I became their biggest motivation to continue training and complete their PhD’s. Doesn’t everyone dream about killing themselves?

I’ve known a few real sick people, and old people who had been warehoused in Elder Care joints. I would visit them. They looked like crap. Their bodies were shot. Once in a while, I would be in their rooms while some attendant or relative came by to visit. They would talk real loud, coo and use their singsong voice during the health queries. Sure he’s deaf and in a diaper, but he’s not a baby, I would think.

Their sick old people bodies looked like crap, but they were still in there. I would treat them like I always had. Yes. And even play tricks on them. I’ll give you an example.

There’s an old woman that I visited in her room at an old age home. Over time she kind of lost it. First came the stroke and then a downward regression of stuff. Towards her end, her hearing became almost gone and her mind was failing, especially her memory. Well, I would visit periodically and she would complain that I didn’t come to see her often enough. I’d look around the room, find something like a recent bunch of flowers, and then say, “Whatdaya mean? I just brought you those flowers two days ago.” She’d stare into space. You could tell she was really concentrating on conjuring the real story of the flowers. Most times she would narrow her eyes towards me and say, “You’re full of shit.” We would laugh every time I pulled it on her.

On another occasion I visited, Vinnie, an old friend while he recovered in the hospital. He had a stroke. His face and eye on his left side was affected, some motor skills and walking, too. I began our visit by reading his chart to him. Says: Stroke caused by heavy marijuana use. Do not administer any drugs. Jeepers. No wonder you look like shit. They’re not drugging you.” I winked and said, “Maybe I should bake you some cookies and bring them on my next visit.”

He began to laugh and then said something that sounded like a language used by some Star Wars character. So, I started to converse in, what I thought, sounded similar. We talked like that for an hour, neither of us giving in to really try to communicate. Boy, that was fun.

Jeepers. I just had the thought that perhaps Vinnie wasn’t kidding. I hope not. Hmmmm. I wonder what he was trying to say?

There’s a guy named Tim that I knew who was dying of Cancer. He’d been in and out of the hospital and the folks there had nothing else to cure him with. I visited him at home where he wanted to die. I warmed him up by sniffing the air and asking if he had leprosy because he smelled like it and I thought the Catholics had a cure for it. And when his wife came into the family room where he laid on the couch, I stood and put my arm around her. “Don’t worry about Alice here. We plan to go on a Hawaii vacation right after your funeral. Ain’t that right, Honey?” Tim laughed, coughed, and eventually reached for the oxygen mask hanging on his neck. At his funeral, Alice told the other mourners about the joke. Maybe it was her delivery, but I don’t think everyone got it.

Is this the kind of humor I can expect in these support groups, or will they give me the old baby talk routine? I wonder. I’m not one that does well with listening to other people when they talk about their ailments, handicaps or fears. It’s not that I’m not sympathetic; I just read the writing on the wall. I ask them, “Well, what did you expect? “Did you think you would live forever?” So I don’t think anyone needs to slide another folding chair into the circle. I’ll handle this on my own. Thank you.

My meaning of Support is to drug the hell out of me when the pain starts, or maybe even before. The hospital nurses have a quiz they administer every time I have an appointment with my doctor. One of the reoccurring questions is: What’s your pain level? They hold up a chart from 0 to 10. When I run out of gas. When I look like crap and my body is shot. When I know my visit on this planet is almost over. I’ll be ordering the #10 on the menu and entertain myself with my sick sense of humor.

That’s support to me.