I wonder if he's finally found help...and peace.

Most nights Herb called out, “Help. Help. Help.” Sometimes, he’d just sit in his room. Other times, he paraded down the hallway, propelling his wheelchair with his feet. Slowly. Sometimes, it resembled a yell. Other times a chant. But there was no mistaking the word, “Help.” Rarely did anyone rush to his aid. Some assumed that Herb didn't need help. Sort of like the kid that called “wolf” once too often. I asked Herb, “What kind of help do you need?” And he'd answer with a grunt and the unrelenting refrain, “Help. Help. Help.” Once, Herb confided that he was scared. “Scared of what?” I inquired. I sensed he was just plain scared. And he didn’t know how to deal with it. Other than to call for help. Maybe Herb was scared of losing his mind. Bit by bit by bit. I tried to console him. I massaged his shoulders. And his feet. I assured him that I cared. “You’re looking good, Herb,” I told him. Even if it was a white lie. I gave him a hefty A-OK sign, too. And I reminded Herb that I had known him for years. Before he entered the nursing home. He lived just a mile away from me. And he walked daily. I jogged daily. Our paths crossed. Those were good times. Herb died last year. I wonder if he's finally found help...and peace. --Jim Broede