‘Getting old sucks’

The parting went just as she’d planned it — one more chapter in a saga that Michelle likes to call “Getting Old Sucks.”

It was a Wednesday night, July 2, and when her shift at Carrington was over, Michelle mustered the same upbeat tone she uses to call out Bingo numbers and told her husband: “I’m going home now … and you’ll be staying here.”

“OK,” Michael said, flatly.

She had already explained the move to him — daily, for the past week — but each time the information seemed brand new. You won’t have to struggle to get in the car anymore. You won’t have to deal with me pulling and tugging on you.

Michelle Hammer leaves her husband, Michael's room at Carrington Place.

She had already filled out the paperwork, already signed the Do Not Resuscitate order. If Michael has another brain hemorrhage, this time she’ll let him go.

She drove home that night but had to return to deliver Michael’s clothes. The sun was setting behind Tinker Mountain as she pulled up to Carrington, where Carla had a rocking chair waiting for her by the front door.

Michael was there in his wheelchair, too, “happy and content, just like nothing at all had changed,” as Michelle described it later, crying.

That night, for the first time in months, she slept six hours straight.

The next morning, Michelle went for a walk with Tanya, the shepherd/chow mix who’d been her steadfast companion during the breakup of her first marriage.

Michelle prayed as she walked, and she thought about the workday ahead of her. She’d lead Bible study in the morning — a lesson based on Exodus — and Bingo in the afternoon.

Michael would be there, his long gray hair hanging from his “TRUCKER” cap. He’d probably call her Gloria, but there was no need to correct him now.

Michelle wasn’t Gloria, and she wasn’t a quitter. She knew exactly who she was.


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