The Good Sandwich

By Larrywomack.com

When my wife died, I became my ninety-year old stepmother’s primary care person.  Though I didn’t bring the same nurturing support as my wife, Erbie and I developed a delightful relationship and truly enjoyed the pleasure of one another’s company.

Because she was hard-of-hearing, I would sit with her until she was called in for the treatment.

When the receptionist would ask her a question from the front desk, she would turn to me and ask, “What did she say?”

I’d loudly reply, “She wants to know what kind of sandwich you want for lunch?”

She would slap me on my leg and say to the waiting room, “He’s always doing that to me.”

Once when leaving the hospital, pushing her in a wheelchair, I stopped at the information desk and asked on which floor I might find the morgue. She fussed at me but could hardly wait to get back to her retirement home to tell her friends what I had said.

One morning on the way to treatment, she showed me a ham sandwich made for her lunch by the cook at her retirement home.  I left her in the capable hands of the nurses, and when I returned, I asked her how things went.

“Oh, it went quite well,” she said.  “The nurses are great.  They talk to me and get me things to read.  They bring me snacks and drinks and kid around with me.”

“How about the other patients?”  I asked.

She said, “Some of them have family that sit all day with them.  I’m glad you don’t do that.”

I replied, “You know I would if you wanted me to.”

She said, “Don’t like people sitting around and looking at me when I’m sick.”

We rode for a moment in silence.  I asked if she enjoyed the sandwich.

She smiled and said, “That was a good sandwich.  I must remember to thank the cook.  It was ham and cheese on white bread with mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato.  It was a good sandwich.  They didn’t put the lettuce and tomato on the sandwich.  They wrapped them up in waxed paper, so as to not make the sandwich soggy.  But they did cut the lettuce and tomato, so it would fit on the two halves.”

“The ham wasn’t pressed ham like they serve sometimes.  It was cut thick from right off the shoulder. The cheese was real cheddar and cut thick, too!  It was a real good sandwich.  I usually like the meat shaved and piled on my sandwich, but this was really good ham. It was so good, I ate real slow.  Didn’t want it to end.  While I was eating it, I thought, next time I’ll get them to make two, so Larry can have one to take back to work for his lunch.  It was a good sandwich.”

When we arrived back at the home, I walked her to her room.  She thanked me for taking care of her and gave me a hug.

As I left her apartment, she called out, “I’ll try to remember to get them to make us both a sandwich next time.  I know you’ll like it as much as I did.”

Her exuberance over the sandwich and her desire to share that experience with me, lives on in my heart.  It enhanced my understanding of how to get the most out of every second I live.  Through her disease, the pain, the chemo, and fear, all she could think, of at the time. was the joy sharing a delicious ham sandwich with me.