Amidst the confusion of life – the frustrations of growing older, not being able to grab the word you’re thinking of, feeling creaky in the morning, holding up under bad news and difficult circumstances – it doesn’t seem that one small thing could make a difference. But time after time, this job proves that assumption wrong. Five seconds, I keep telling you…..
An old man with a quavery voice called the desk last night. The first thing he said was, “Bear with me, please. I need the meaning of a word.”
“Ok, ready when you are, sir.”
“I am not sure I have the right word. Can you look it up for me? My dictionary doesn’t seem to have the one I want.”
“Sure. What word is it that you need?”
“Well, I want to know what you think of when I say, ‘My cognitive skills aren’t what they used to be.’”
I said, “I think you’re saying you don’t perceive things as clearly as you used to. Let me look it up….”
“Wait, wait!” he said. “That’s YOUR definition for cognitive?”
“Um, yes. Cognitive and recognize have the same root, I think, and…..”
“That’s excellent!” Hmming and humming. “I suppose we have to see what Webster has to say.”
I looked it up. “The first meaning is ‘of, or relating to intellectual activity’.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“I liked what you said better.”
“Thanks.”
“Could you say it again? Wait just a minute until I have a pen.” Scrabbling and scrooching. “All right, go ahead.”
I repeated it, wondering just what in the world was going on.
“I’ll tell you why I want to know.” Ah. “I won’t tell you my name.”
“That’s ok, sir.”
“Unless you ask me.” I didn’t.
Sad silence. More quavery in the voice.
“I am 83 years old, and my wife is 81. She suffers from Alzheimers.”
My turn for silence. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s a heavy load to bear.”
“It’s important to me to describe what is happening to her. ‘She is unable to perceive things as clearly as she once did.’ – that’s what we came up with, between the two of us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was stuck on cogitate for some reason, the intellectual part of it. But I think perceive is much more what is happening to her. It’s much more than thinking.”
“I know it isn’t much, sir, but I’m glad to have helped.”
“No!” he said forcefully. “When something like this happens to you, being able to describe it helps you have a handle on it somehow. You found the description I was looking for and now I can explain when people ask me. You helped me think through it, very patiently.” Pause. “I thank you.”
“Bless you, sir. Good-bye.”
That’s all it takes to help someone bear up in troubled times. We have the power:
One word, and patience.
I love your stories!!! Keep them coming. It is these small, poignant moments that make this job meaningful. They're not quantifiable in the traditional sense, but much more important than numbers and circ stats.
Posted by: anonymous | February 15, 2006 at 07:34 PM
Thank you for this story. My grandmother has alzheimers and I'm a librarian. We all need reminders each day of whats important in life...
Posted by: Jen | February 17, 2006 at 11:47 AM
I enjoy your posts! It is clear to me that you are in the right line of work.
My mother was a librarian too, and she would have liked to have known you.
Posted by: Amy | February 17, 2006 at 02:16 PM
This post was a Ringleader's Selection for the Carnival of the Infosciences #25.
http://tinyurl.com/h2paa
Posted by: Mark Lindner | February 20, 2006 at 10:18 AM
Wonderful!
Posted by: lizriz | March 03, 2006 at 03:29 PM
The definition is wonderful. I lost my Mother three years ago and it was like watching her die-not her physical being but my perception of her as my mother die a little bit each day. I thank you for listening to the man because sometimes just having someone listen is the greatest gift of all.
Posted by: Charlie | April 18, 2006 at 05:10 AM