Smithson, the cowboy

Smithson's room, January 2009

Smithson had a stroke that affected his ability to understand what he hears, including his own speech. He also took a hit in the frontal lobes, which seems to have decreased his inhibitions (he'll say whatever he wants, no filter). His memory for new information is shot and he has no sensation in his right hand (feels like it's not there, but it is in a disconnected kind of way). And when he reads, the words swim in a swirl of indecipherable hieroglyphics. He used to read cowboy novels, but will have to settle for watching TV now.

We were goofing around this week, exchanging wise-acre banter, and generally having a good laugh. His speech was fine. Almost normal. I was also checking his yes/no comprehension and he was doing his best to disrupt the proceedings. He got 20 out of 20 on the subtest. I wrote down the score and qualified it with the word (SMART-ASS). He got a kick out of this. Smithson and I understand each other.

When we were done with the formal testing, I asked him what his earliest memory was. Like most people over 70, he responded by saying "school, I guess."

Smithson gives up easily in therapy and needs a great deal of coaxing to continue. Most times he surprises himself with the level of success he can achieve with a little push. I got to wondering about his self-esteem. It's something I always checked into and did my best to build in the children I worked with. Why not think about it with an old fart like Smithson?

I asked him. "Were you bullied as a child?"

"I dunno. I suppose. I remember crying in the pump house. We used to hide in there." (The memories came back instantly. I saw it in his eyes.)

"Some of the kids were mean?"

"Sure. Someone was always picking on me. School was hard. But, there was a big kid, Jack, I think. He was like my mentor. Protected me. When he was around."

He didn't talk for a few minutes. Just stared at endless, snow-covered hay fields outside his room window.

Finally, he got up, looking at his watch. "I gotta go for lunch. We done with all this horse shit?" He waved at the papers balanced on my lap.

"Yup, horse manure all done," I said.

"Good. I wonder what kind of crappy chow they have at the lunch wagon today."

"Oh, it's good crap today. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and some kind of vegetable."

"That does sound good. I like the gravy."

We were walking in the hall at this point.

"Smithson, you did pretty good on the tests today."

"I did, didn't I?"

"Yup. Sure did."

"Yup. Sure as hell did."

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