I met Wayne several years ago at the Mansion, he adored Red and Fate and was anxious to meet Zinnia. When Wayne came to the Mansion, his doctor from Saratoga called me and asked me to keep an eye on him, and so I did.

Wayne came to every event I was involved with at the Mansion, every meditation class, every story reading, he came to see me every time I visited the Mansion, or brought a dog.

He was always out front in his wheelchair waiting for me, or Red or Fate. He always had a smile and a bad joke for me. He loved to wear the funny hats I got for him.

When I met him, Wayne had little in the way of clothes or books. He loved large print books, stuffed animals, sweatpants, and a funky hat or shirt. At the Christmas Party, he showed up with a giant Santa head that lit up the room.

I never knew if Wayne had a family or where they were, I didn’t know why he was in a wheelchair and couldn’t walk. In keeping with my boundaries, I never asked about him, and no one told me anything about him.

No person from his former life ever met me, contacted me, or talked to me about Wayne. He never mentioned anyone in his life outside of the Mansion. I know absolutely nothing about him.

When he got into difficulty – a fight, a problem – either he or the aides would come to me for help, and I worked it out. He did have a temper and could be stubborn and sometimes needed to calm down. I could always talk to him, and he would always listen.

Whenever Wayne needed something, he asked me for it. When he wanted to get married to Ruth, he asked me to help, and we had a beautiful commitment ceremony instead in the Great Room.  They are  no longer together.

Wayne and I attended every Bingo game I ever called, except for last Friday. It was the first time he didn’t show up. One of the other residents came up to me and said Wayne said to say hello.

Oh, I said, isn’t he here?

No, she said, he’s left the Mansion, he’s gone somewhere else. He’s not coming back.

I didn’t ask about  Wayne. I know the drill.

It’s not my business. He didn’t choose to say goodbye or tell me where he was going.  I assume he went to a nursing home or rehab facility or a different assisted care place. I suppose he could be dead, I wouldn’t know, but I think I would have heard if he died at the Mansion.

The Mansion residents need to be independent to stay there. They have to be able to take care of themselves, needing help is okay, but continuous care is not. There is not the staff for that. Sometimes that’s the reason people leave.

In a sense, Wayne and I were close, as close as I was to anyone at the Mansion. I get close but not too close.

People disappear too often there.

In another way, our relationship was transactional. We weren’t friends in the usual sense.  I got him things he needed, we didn’t interact on any other level, except he always showed up for everything I did. His way of saying he cared. He came to Bedlam Farm twice on Mansion outings. He loved the donkeys.

I hope he took all the books and videos and sweatpants and shirts with him,  wherever he is.

I’m at the Mansion all the time and deeply involved in my work there, but I am always conscious of the fact that I am not on the staff, not permitted to receive medical information, not told when people leave or are rushed to the hospital or die. For a volunteer, that is the right way; the limits are clear, and the dangers of burnout lower. I am also bound to protect the resident’s privacy.

That is the way I want it and the way it should be.

There is always a natural boundary that I don’t wish to cross, and the staff shouldn’t be asked to cross. I don’t ever want to put the aides in the awkward position of telling me things that are not my business.

I have no secrets in my life now; I don’t wish to know anything I can’t write about or share.

I care about Wayne; I had no inkling he might be leaving, or what the reason for that might be. Someone may tell me down the road – a resident, even an aide if the subject came in in a few months. It was a jolt, but I have learned to move on quickly.

This is the curious and sometimes sad part of my work there.

Wayne and I were connected in this curious way; we saw each other often, Wayne even read my blog and always asked for my books, He was a hungry reader, always reading, doing puzzles, waiting for me so he could tell me his awful jokes, wear his foolish hats

He never missed my storytelling hour, even if he was one of the first to fall asleep halfway through.

At Bingo, if he wasn’t doing well, he’d always tell me I’d have to walk home unless he got better numbers on his card. We had our standing jokes, I made sure he had warm clothes in the winter, and light clothes in the summer.

It was strange not seeing him there Friday at Bingo, but I think I knew as soon as I saw his empty chair that I might never see  him again.

And the truth is, I will almost certainly never see him again.

At least he thought to have someone else say hello, Wayne’s way of saying goodbye.