Storied By Josh

My friend is an old Vietnam veteran. He’s told me a few stories about it. But like most vets he keeps most of the stories close to his chest I think. He has lived a rich life of travel, adventure, and intrigue. He’s explored jungles and deserts, mountains and oceans. Indeed, his war years are a very small part of a long and illustrious existence.

He has dementia. It’s frighteningly prevalent these days, or maybe it’s always been. I’m just old enough now to see it. We went out to breakfast last week, my friend and I. We visited, as much as he’s able to. He made many mistakes in his memory, though he remembered me quite well.

I’ve been avoiding visiting him after his diagnosis. The disease frightens me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s memento mori. Maybe I fear being forgotten. Or maybe my heart, whatever size it is, is afraid of breaking as I watch another person I love die. Any reason isn’t enough to excuse the fact that I’ve been a bad friend in not visiting.

While we were eating breakfast another old man, pushed along in a wheelchair by his caregiver, rolled by our diner table. His ball cap identified him as a veteran medic, a fact my friend picked up on right away. He put his hand out to stop him and indicated to the man’s hat.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“You served?”

The man replied yes, Then for a moment it was quiet as they surveyed each other. “We went over there and did our job and we made it back.” My friend broke the silence.
“Yah we did, but a lot didn’t.” And they sat in memory together, but mostly alone I think.

One man was wheel-chair bound, the other slowly losing his mind. But in that moment, they were in their twenties again, with able bodies and quick minds, watching the absolute worst things men do to each other unfold in a jungle.

The moment passed, they shook hands, and we parted ways. My friend’s daughter, who was eating with us, left before we did. She was running late for work. I told her it was no matter and happily talked with my friend for a little after breakfast, then drove him home.

We drove by the new medical center. He proudly proclaimed it as his, then leaned in and conspiratorially confided that he went sometimes even if he didn’t need to. A few miles later he quieted and watched the trees drift by as we drove.

We arrived and I helped him out and stood by the car and watched him carefully walk down the steps to his front door where his caretaker waited for him. He turned to me through the door window and forgot to wave.