Jett’s a navy man. I can tell by the T-shirts he wears; each says something about the navy, mostly in logo form, and indeed when asked he confirms he’s a veteran. But I don’t ask what war. It’s not important. 

We bump into each other about five days a week at an outpatient facility near Scranton where Jett’s wife, Rose, and I are both being treated for different cancers. Jett has long white hair and a beard, less like Santa and more like ZZ Top. He likes to tell an off-color joke here and there, even in mixed company. He nears the punch line with a laugh that picks up speed like the distant thunder of an approaching freight train. That’s how I know the joke is about to end. I laugh along with him. We all do.

Rose is his sidekick or maybe it’s the other way around. She’s feisty but practical. She suggests I take my Tylenol with milk in order to first coat the stomach. She doesn’t know I’m lactose intolerant but her simple words give me the idea to use coconut milk instead, which works wonders. 

Rose points her finger at an outer wall and says, “I used to work down the road there as a secretary and before that as a Nurses Aide in an old folks home doing all the dirty work. This was at a time when you didn’t have to go to school to be a Nurses Aide, just apply for the job, that’s all.” I nod in admiration of her helping nurses as I have nurses in my family, and I’m reminded of how hard that job can be with each hospital visit.

When Jett left the navy, he took a job as a prison guard in Waymart. He’s retired now (they both are) but when he did work, he oversaw more than eighty prisoners in an open block; no cells, just roaming offenders ranging from pedophiles to whatever. 

When a prisoner had to be hospitalized, Jett would stand guard all night even though it was protocol for the detainee to be handcuffed to the bed. He tells me that one time a prisoner actually died while handcuffed to the bed, and I couldn’t help but remark, “And so he finally escaped.”

“What?” Jett asks.

“In death, everyone is eventually freed,” I say.

“Oh yeah.” Jett nods and then goes on to tell me about his family. Together, Rose and Jett raised eight kids; six of their own and two grands. Three of their sons died as young men; two from drug overdoses; the third murdered. I don’t ask for details. 

On a better note, Jett took in the homeless girlfriend of one of his sons. She was living in a graveyard and even though his son had broken up with her, Jett and Rose found room enough in their home to give her a bed. It was, after all, wintertime.

Rose is completely bald. I wonder if that’s going to happen to me. She wears it well and rarely covers her head. I think she’s brave. If it happens to me, I’ll be like Rose. I just hope I look as good. By the time she comes out of the treatment room, I’m lying on the floor in pain not from my treatment but from something else stress related. An attendant asks, “Has she passed out?”

“No,” says my husband and I think, really? Someone lying on the floor would not be cause for further investigation and maybe some help? 

Jett laughs. He gets it. Rose rolls her eyes and I just stay on the floor my head resting uncomfortably on my arm. Maybe someone will bring me a pillow? But that doesn’t happen. What does happen is treatment after treatment. And like prisoners handcuffed to beds, we all surrender.

This is a true story. The names, some details and locations however have been changed to protect identities. 

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.