During Paul’s
battle with leukemia he spent many weeks in the Wake Forest Hospital in North
Carolina. During those stays I spent each Saturday and Sunday with him in his
hospital room. On one of those weekends
he said, “We have to talk about something. The last two times you were here you
screwed up the toilet paper.”
At a loss I
asked, “What do you mean?”
“You leave
it so I can’t get it going. You need to learn how to leave the paper hanging
down so I can get hold of it.”
My initial
reaction was not loving, and had I not been counseled well by the hospital
social worker I might have created an unnecessary unpleasant situation. “Remember,”
she said, “he’s here, confined, controlled, poked, ordered. He controls nothing
in his daily life.”
I
understood. The position of the toilet paper was one control he had.
With a lot of love and little effort I made sure to leave the toilet paper with a hanging tab.
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