MY FRIEND, WESLY

Everyone has met someone in his or her life who has left an impression. I too, have just that someone. He’s a person I met a while ago, maybe ten years or so, I really can’t recall. While that fact in itself is not important, the fact that I think of him as special is.
The man’s name is Wesley or Wes. Wes was what I and my wife, Ellen called him. Wes died a few years ago, and when he did a little of life’s joy died with him. When we first learned about Wes, it was because we noticed how beautiful the walkway was to the front door where my Daughter Ellen was now living. We were told that Wes had planted all the flowers. He was an engaging gentleman in a polite and humble manner. He took great pride in his accomplishments, and yet never bragged about them, yet would show them to you proudly. He loved all and all who met him loved him back. He loved cats most of all, but could love any animal. He cared for those in need, and was always lending his assistance when needed. He was a rock of dependence, and reliability. He gave, but never asked for anything, yet what you saw is what you got.

As you might have guessed, he was retarded. But in spite of his mental retardation, he strove to be better at whatever he did, worked hard with dignity and courage. He was so special that his retardation became his motivation. He sought to take care of himself. He held a job in a workshop for retarded people, and always paid his own way. He once invited me outside, after we had first met, and he showed me his new bicycle. Wes was proud not only of his new bike, but the fact that he paid for it himself. Proud that he went to a store, and negotiated the deal by himself. Proud that he retired his old bike, which from what I could see was still in pretty good shape.

Wes had a pretty good collection of CDs and LPs, and it was fun to watch him at Christmas time, when he would get an electric or remote control toy car or train. I mean, he was in his 70’s, enjoying life. His room was filled with cat pictures hanging on the wall. He carried a tobacco pouch in his shirt pocket, and smoked a pipe. My wife loved Wes, would bring him cat calendars and cakes for his birthday, shirts made of flannel so he would be warm, and always a great big smile when we first saw him on any particular day. To this day, she still has a trinket he made, that she hangs on her rear view mirror, and every time she gets a new car, the first thing she transfers is his trinket. I learned that he took care of my Daughter at the home, helping her get out of a chair, or climbing a step or two onto the van to go to program. And at night, after dinner he would sit with her in the living room.

Behind Wes’s eyes one could easily see his wheels turning, thinking, contemplating, always using his mind. Once he engaged me in a conversation, and was having trouble explaining himself. You could see the pain in his eyes as he struggled with the words, wishing he could free himself from his retardation.

When we got the news that Wes had cancer, both my wife and I felt cold. We were losing a special friend, and we watched him die. It was slow, and in the end painful. He died not complaining, laying in a bed that was moved to the living room so he wouldn’t be alone in his bedroom. The last time we visited Wes; we knew it would be soon, but not that soon. We didn’t really have a chance to say good-bye, or thank you.