The "Goodbye" Angel

I was given an ornament at a Christmas party this week.  It was a fragile and delicate angel.  As I tenderly held it in my hand, I said to the woman who gave it to me, “Angels are one of my favorite keepsakes.  I have another very special Angel.  A resident, in one of my communities, crafted it for me from stained glass. We made ourselves comfortable on a nearby couch as I continued my story:

 Harold was a resident in his mid eighties, who never failed to make an impression of one kind or another on everyone that lived in the community. He was frequently loud, and he repeatedly irritated the other residents with his off color, offensive language.  He loved to talk, but he rarely listened.  He was gruff and cantankerous, and often ill-tempered, but he salvaged his disputable reputation by displaying his sweet and generous heart.

Harold was anxious to move in, but before he would become a resident, he negotiated with me to provide him a space in the building where he could continue enjoying his favorite hobby – creating stained glass ornaments.  I agreed.  Too few residents, especially as old as Harold, had satisfying diversions to occupy their time.  It was gratifying to see someone still enthusiastically pursuing such a productive pastime.

I will admit I had reservations about saying yes to his request. Harold walked with a walker. In order to maintain his balance, he had to lean over the center bar between the wheels, and stretch his arms to reach his tools on the table.  I worried he might drop the soder, and if it fell, it might start a fire.


 I spoke with my regional manager, and we agreed that I had to take certain precautions.  With the aid of the Director of Maintenance I claimed an unused corner of the activities room.   We gave Harold a long, heavy table, and then we found a screen to protect the area and to afford him some privacy.   He used a temperature-controlled sodering iron, but we insisted that he use it during regular working hours while a member of our staff was nearby. If the iron were to fall on the floor, someone would be close at hand to quickly retrieve it.  Finally, we supplied an iron stand and safety glasses to prevent any other unusual or unexpected mishaps. 

 

It was rewarding to witness Harold’s passion.  He ordered glass packs in a myriad of colors, and he bought rings of copper foil.  He worked tirelessly, glued to his table and tools, making flowers, and leaves, and his color filled angels.  He always shared his finished items.  They were gifts for another resident, a family member, or a staff member.

Harold visited my office at least three times a week.  The other department heads teased that he had a crush on me, but I believe it was because I listened to what he had to say.  Over the course of months, he told me long detailed stories of his career as a janitor in the Bronx. He complained incessantly, but I soon sensed that he only feigned dissatisfaction as an excuse to get my attention.  Whatever the motive, I gave him my time, and he accepted it as a precious gift.

As Harold pursued his hobby, he began to specialize in one simple angel silhouette.  He made a few for the soon to be erected Christmas tree, and then presented one to each department head in their favorite color.   When he asked me what color I wanted I, of course, said “blue.”

The day my angel was finished, Harold carried it to my office.  He also brought a small, clear plastic suction cup.  He adroitly sealed the suction cup to the panel of glass that framed my door.  Once the cup was in place, he painstakingly placed the angel on the hook in the center of the cup.  He took a step back to admire his work, and then said with a grim “ I’ve hung your angel.  She’ll protect you.”

 “From people like you,” I shot back, smiling.  Then, I joined him at the door, and gave him a big hug.

The angel hung beside my office door for months.  During that time, the suction cup held, and my angel never moved from it’s familiar spot on my window.

Then in early July, as I slid my key into the lock on my office door, I noticed something familiar lying on the floor beside my foot.  It was my angel.  It was still attached to the suction cup. Perplexed, I assumed it had come unglued during the night and fallen off the window. Grateful the angel wasn’t broken, I leaned over and picked it up.  I didn’t have time to reattach it, so I carried it to my desk.  “I’ll fuss with it later I thought to myself.”

Shortly after noon that day, I received a call from Harold’s daughter.  I knew that two days before, she had taken Harold to the local hospital with mild heart pain.  I was sure his daughter was calling me to report that he was being released and sent home.  When I heard the sound in her voice, my heart sunk.  She was crying.  She told me that Harold had died during the night.  As I turned to hang up the phone, I saw Harold’s angel lying on my desk. I caught my breath.  I thought to myself, “How very strange that it was this particular morning that I had found it lying on the floor.”

I have moved to two other communities since then; I will soon move to a third.  My angel travels with me, as do my fond memories of Harold.  Some might think it was a coincidence that it fell to the floor the night he died, but I sincerely believe, it was a sign from Harold.  He wanted me to know it was time to say “Goodbye.”