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On July 23, 2019, a few weeks after he turned 31, my son, Andrew, disabled from birth, moved into a group home. This would be his third home after two earlier placements fell far short of what he needed. As we unpacked and set up his room, I felt anxious. Would this place be any better?
As we looked around the house, a duplex with four clients living in each wing, I noticed a large chair, a brown-leather recliner, broken-in and well-used, prominently positioned at the center of the shared living space. On the small table next to it was a scattered assortment of medicine bottles, water containers, discarded scratch-off tickets–and a TV remote. This, we quickly learned, was Arthur’s chair.
From that chair Arthur kind of ran things. (Think Captain Kirk on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise). Not in a heavy-handed or bullying way; he just kept track of all that was going on, who was where, what the schedule was, how the day should go. He did control that remote for the nearly wall-sized, 80-inch TV screen that would have also worked well on the Enterprise. Arthur ran that remote better than anyone, using it to decide what TV shows they would (or should) be watching. That’s just how it worked.
Arthur, a slight, but sturdy African-American man in his early ‘60s, was mostly immobile from his own disabilities, so he spent most of his time in his chair. That’s where he sat, watched TV, and took naps. When awake he also kept up a steady conversation with staff and the other residents, except for times when he’d suddenly lean down, close his eyes, and with a rocking motion enter a very private mumbling-singing world that seemed to bring him comfort. Just as quickly he’d open his eyes and get back to keeping an eye on things.
My visits to see Andrew gave me chances to chat with Arthur. His handshake was warm, his smile welcoming. I learned he loved watching WWE wrestling on that big TV, playing those scratch-offs, and riding his electric cart around their cul-de-sac. He’d grown up in North Minneapolis, gone to school with Prince, and had lots of stories he loved to tell. His speech in a friendly-whisper was somewhat difficult to understand, but his eyes were lively. I knew right away I liked this man.
I also learned—and appreciated—that Arthur was looking out for Andrew. They shared that love of TV-wrestling and Arthur made sure they didn’t miss Monday Night Raw and Friday Night Smackdown. He put other TV shows for Andrew (“Price is Right” was must-see viewing every morning at 10). In previous group homes, my son had rarely left his room. To see him sitting with Arthur made me feel very good.
Arthur watched out for Andrew in a big-brother sort of way. Occasionally he pulled me aside to inform me of ways he thought the staff could be helping Andrew a bit more. One day it was Arthur who first noticed something something-not-quite-right with Andrew. He alerted the staff, leading to a quicker diagnosis of a urinary tract infection. For the first time in his life, my son had a friend. Not just a friend, but an advocate. That meant a very big deal to this dad.
Arthur began asking me if I could help arrange an outing for everybody. Could we all go to a Twins game, a Timberwolves game, maybe even see pro wrestling at Target Center? All good ideas, I’d say, let’s think about that—was my too-casual reply. The logistics of wheelchair transportation and arranging staff support made it all seem too difficult. It wasn’t. It could have happened. I should have worked harder to help make it happen.
In recent months we could see Arthur wasn’t feeling well. Whenever I visited Andrew I tried to stop by his chair to check in. He was gaunt, growing thinner, with fewer stories to tell. He said he was feeling pain; medical tests soon revealed cancer which led to chemo treatments. A large oxygen tank now sat beside his chair. He was often napping but when possible I tried to visit briefly and exchange a hug. The word “hospice” was mentioned.
Last Thursday I walked into the house after being away a few weeks. I greeted Andrew with a hug and a high five then quickly looked over at Arthur’s chair. It was empty. The staff member, noticing my puzzled look, shook her head sadly. A few days earlier, in early morning hours, Arthur had passed. The house now was painfully quiet. The TV was turned off. I sat with my son, sad for the loss of his friend, his TV-wrestling buddy. Sad for the loss of my friend, too.
By now Arthur’s chair has probably been moved. Planning is no doubt underway for the next person to move in. That’s as it should be. But hopefully it will all happen with at least a pause, and a grateful word for one of the least of these who—in a simple, caring way—did what he could to make that house a home.
Thank you, Arthur.
