Sunday afternoons with Fred

Writing about Brad “Elvis” Rose and about my placement in a Chronic Care ward caused me to remember my friend, Fred Roden.

Fred’s and my friendship had an unusual beginning. I was a social work placement student with lots of get-up-and-go, and he was a patient in Chronic Care with only 10 per cent lung capacity and with limited mobility. But he was a King of the Road kind of guy. He had always had a job but didn’t like to stay in one place too long. His home previous to the ward was a trailer. And his family was his dog and his cat. He was happier than a clam at high tide.

But then he got sick, and then he got admitted. And well, in this ward — you came in, but you didn’t leave except in a discreet sort of way.

Within minutes of meeting Fred, I learned that he wanted out of there, but had no way to do it — no one to find him an apartment and no one to set him up in it. You have to understand that while the staff may have liked to see Fred “let go, be free,” there were lots of reasons for them not to want to tackle this — and liability was the big one.

But I was young and foolish then, for which I am thankful for in some areas in my life. Other areas, not so much. Ah well, back to Fred.

I contacted public housing and they found a fine apartment for him on Paris Street. I went to the Salvation Army and bought, using money he gave me, some very basic furnishings like a sofa, a kitchen table and chairs, a bed, and a chest of drawers. Plus I added as much of a female touch to the place as I was able to — bedding, towels, dishes, cutlery and that sort of thing.

Fred and his scooter, his little bit of belongings and his massive amount of pills arrived on discharge day a little bit before me, and it was more of a challenge than both of us thought it would be. Fred was exhausted; I had to organize his pills. But we were happy, too — we’d created a statistic. One patient had actually graduated into a home of his own, and not “a home.”

The VON lined up a visiting nurse and home-care worker. Fred wanted to make friends in the building but, even though he left his door open, folks were unlikely to just pop in.

He came up with a solution — get two budgie birds. I found a pair in the Bargain Hunter, along with a large cage, and set them up. And he was right. Neighbours started to hear the tweeting, and dropped by.

Sunday afternoons, after naps, I went to visit Fred. We chatted, I cleaned the birds, I made him some fat sandwiches for supper, and he told me about some of the cool things he’d experienced in his lifetime. He used to own a record store in Toronto, and, yes, he’d met The King himself.

Fred passed away with a massive heart attack two years after he moved to his new digs. I was sad — he was a good friend. But I was also glad that he’d lived the life and then some. And I have to believe that as I’m writing this he’s wiggling his (once crippled) toes in the green, green grass of home.

See also www.hillbilly-music.com/artists/story/index.php?id=13959.