Aug 2nd 2008

Izzy and Marion – Izzy gets a donut (1 of 4)

Posted in Marion

 

 

Izzy shares a plain donut from Dunkin Donuts
Izzy shares a plain donut from Dunkin Donuts
  August 2, 2008 – Hot sticky. Marion saved a donut her daughter Betsy brought her recently, and she was saving in on the table next to her bed, and she ate half, and she gave Izzy half. Before she opened the bag, she got a mischievous gleam – I don’t allow treats in Izzy’s hospice work – and she leaned forward and whispered to Izzy, “I’ll just give you a bite. We won’t tell him.” 
  Marion told Izzy that she had a good day, better than yesterday. Sometimes she loses her train of thought and she shakes her head.
   And this quite beautiful scene unfolded, Marion taking a piece, giving one to Izzy, carefully putting the bag away. Izzy takes food very softly, carefully. I never have to worry about him. I told her she has authority problems, and she cupped her ear, and said, “I don’t always hear well.” I told her she would be “in Dutch” again if she gave Izzy too many sweets, and she nodded and smiled.
  Then Marion turned to me and asked me sadly if what she had been told was true. Was Izzy left mostly by himself on a farm? What was his story? Relatives and friends have seen her photo in the Hospice Journal, and she was piecing together the dog, camera, and website.
  Marion has trouble seeing and hearing, and it was difficult to tell her the story of Izzy, and required more patience and pace than I might have thought that I possessed, and it took a very long time, but Marion took in every word, and then leaned over Izzy’s head and kissed him on the forehead. She seems to remember much and in one way or another, notices everything, even my camera and tripod.
  ‘”I will always love you, Izzy,” she said, after hearing history, and this enormous well of affection opened up on her amazing face, and I can hardly put the camera down when I am with her, so many beautiful emotions coursing through. And then, it was time to leave, and I said it might be a couple of days before we got back, and as we were leaving, a nurse came in and turned to Marion, and said, “Marion, are you crying?”
  And I turned and saw that her eyes had teared up a bit, and she waved me off, and said, “oh, it’s nothing, really, nothing at all.” And we left.