People You Meet: Mr. Harris

Mr. Harris

Roof down, & Blaring something to the tune of Joplin or Joel, “hmm… WE Ain’t too pretty… ohhh WE aaAin’t too proud..aaa” we come cruising into the lot at the top of our lungs. Pausing only for a parked moment so Mom can finish enjoying her cigare… “We might be laughin a BIT TOO Loud oOOooo” and… She’s ready to embark for our appointment!

Lending my arm for support, we confidently stroll into the radiation treatment center together. Screened at the door for pandemic symptoms, we both indicate fevers…

Until the convertible behind us is pointed out and we are considered safe enough to enter.

A somewhat sterile waiting room greets us. Modern semi-artistic flares decorate the space in attempt to breathe life into the plastic shrubbery littered about. Having certainly experienced worse, we find some decent seating and wait through the misplaced atmosphere.

After a few minutes, commotion begins in the back office, moving toward the waiting area. Some frustrated conversation and what sounds like the unmistakable techno-gargle of one of those throat communication devices some cancer patients need, stereotypically buzzing and clicking between electronic voice attempts.

Turning to whisper to me, “Oh that’s Mr. Harris, he’s angry and grumpy all the time. The nurses told me he’s been through this a few times, given up and doesn’t care anymore, says his family is just waiting for him to die,” Mom gossips matter-of-factly.

We listen, watch, and wait.

Mom is called back for her appointment.

I continue to wait.

Then, slowly shuffling my direction, I see an old man approaching.

He sits next to me. Of course…

Looking over I somewhat nervously say, “Hi, how are you”

Raises a small mechanical device to his throat,

“Click click H zzzz llo zzzBuzzz click pop zzzz You?” he desperately tries to say.

Instanelty frustrated, smacking the device against his hand.

He tries again but this time it’s just more clicking, popping, and buzzing. Some profanities can possibly be made out of the static. His frustration visibly grows.

“I’m doing well, thank you for asking,” I say, deducing what he was clearly trying to ask.

There we painfully continue to converse. Me interpreting and deducing, and him getting a few words and fragments out between the nervewracking interruptions and distortions.

There we sat for a half-hour, probably less...

What all did we manage to talk about?

Does it matter?

Mostly the weather, his loneliness, and his endless frustration with that damn little failing auditory device.

Asking why he didn’t get a new one or change the batteries.

He collaboratively-explained that money wasn’t a problem but he could not get anywhere, had no one to help him, didn’t want any help.

A nurse comes out saying “Mr. Harris, we are ready for your next appointment”

Nodding and grunting he rises, turns to offer a handshake, and shuffles into the back with as much grace and electro-static grumbles as can be expected.

We missed our next appointment because mom wasn’t feeling well enough.

Finally returning two weeks later for another futile brain treatment.

Batteries in hand, but no sign or well, sound, of my grumpy new acquaintance.

One of the nurses approach me while sitting in that sterile waiting space.

“Mr. Harris passed away this weekend... but he left this note for you last week” abruptly handing me a little yellowish piece of scrap paper;

“Sil’s Son, I liked meeting you, Thank you for talking.”

Signed “Mr. Harris”

(I must Still Find & Include Photo of the Note)