Under institutional lighting, the chopped chicken in BBQ sauce is like oily pet food on a doughy white bun, and its juice runs into the glistening orange fruit from a can and the scoop of too-sweet slaw that nobody ordered. The woman across the table, Linda, who has a Scottish accent and is a low talker, admits she has “episodes” of not remembering, then she has one, right then, loses her train of thought while talking about losing her trains of thought. She is so tragically lonely. And there is Lynette, most of her teeth gone, Chicago Bears sweatshirt too tight and deeply stained. She has such a big smile, is chatty, loud, kind. She forks up the food, no qualms.
My father’s partner, Ann, who has Alzheimer’s, is in a trance, while Dad, like Lynette, downs his sandwich as if he hasn’t eaten in days. He smiles across the table though he can’t really see, and then he eats Ann’s sandwich, too—she waved it away when he asked for a bite. “Not bad!” he says with his mouth full. He isn’t yet thinking beyond this meal.
I turn away from this first dinner at the nursing home and stare hard out the window, at chunky slate clouds over a big patch of green—a park of sorts, for which I’m grateful. When the dog enters the scene, running through the damp grass, she’s just a brown streak in my periphery. But then she’s front and center, then at the far edge of the park, and then turning and circling back in full zoom mode, and I can see her pressed-back ears and big dog grin as her back legs chase her front. I imagine the feel of the cold air across her body as the muscles beneath warm up, the exhilaration of flying after being cooped up for a series of bad-weather days, as we all have been.
She’s still doing wide, happy circles when I turn back to the table—I’m half in one world, half in the other—and Linda is still talking low to my unseeing, hard-of hearing father, something about not being allowed out without a nurse, something about how she sometimes puts on her boots and coat to leave, forgetting she can’t go anywhere and, anyway, has nowhere to go. Lynette is laughing with one big slanted tooth proud in front—and over my shoulder the dog is running, running, and I have to turn back to the window to catch my breath.
Because what is inside, in this place, at this table, where my father sits eating his drippy sandwich, where Ann sits staring, refusing the food, refusing to engage, are the people whose lives–it seems from where I sit–have been crushed flat like cans. Each day they spoon food into mouths, they piss and shit on a schedule, they swallow their pills, they wait for someone to call or visit, they slip under thin blankets–pilled and devoid of color from all the industrial washes–and, I imagine, they wonder where their lives went.
I truly have a hard time taking a full breath in here. But then, beyond the glass: clouds, grass, wind, the animal running her heart out. If the window opened, it would be better. If I couldn’t watch the dog, I’d have to excuse myself and head for the door.
How will he stand it here, my father, I wonder—and I’m thankful that his broken eyes make the ugliness just a blur.
But, too, with broken eyes he can’t see out that window. He can’t see the slate clouds, the stretch of grass, the unleashed dog. Is this a good thing? Is it best to keep that world a secret and focus instead on this world, where the wobbly table smells of cafeteria sponge, and where we call the gray hospital room “the apartment” to pretend it’s not so bad? Here he focuses on bodily functions, on logistics of meals and showers and medicines, and each day, slowly, finds its end where it began. I’d hate to think he has forgotten that, elsewhere, legs pound the earth and wind hits the face. And yet, he has little access to elsewhere. Perhaps better not to bring up what is missing?
I remember a time when my mother was dying—her brain was no longer whole but still her heart, cruelly, kept up its little thumps–and when I leaned over to fluff up her pillow she whispered to me, or maybe to some god in her mind, “Get me out of here.”
That’s how this feels—a trap, a prison in which one must wait out the last days–and I am grateful for the window and for the jubilant dog’s promise that I, at least, will soon escape.
But my father will stay put, and, behind blind eyes, he is doubly imprisoned.
Or, at this point in a life gone quiet, as most do, is he half free?
—–
Photo by Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash
Beautiful. I’m sorry about your dad and your mom. My mom spent four and a half years in a nursing home. In spite of the crushing sadness, there were still these tiny moments of incredible kindness and humanity from the staff. The aide who danced so well and who at lunch would turn up the radio and dance with the old guy who would rise like Methuselah from his wheel chair. The nurse who responded with a laugh no matter how ornery the patient got. But it was so oppressively gloomy. I could hardly stand it. One of the aides once told me that practically everybody in the dementia ward thought they were at work. So in their minds, maybe they’re not so idle? It was generally true of my mom and I found some comfort in that.
Thanks so much for your comment! I agree, in some ways the whole thing is worse for us than for them, especially when there is dementia. My dad is pretty solid mentally, which I fear makes it harder for him. Then again, his day-to-day life has been pretty “small” for a while, so he may not feel this was as big of a transition as it seems to me. I can only hope he doesn’t lie in bed dwelling on all that he’s lost…though I guess that’s just part of the winding down process for many people.
My mom would not whisper but forcefully shout at me, “Get me out of here, they’re trying to kill me.” How do you leave that conversation and walk out the door to your utopia? She was one of the ornery ones but it became somewhat of a game. She had to continue the game to survive but to also command the attention of numerous staff. I put myself in that same situation and have instructed my children, at the very least, put me someplace where I can sit outside amongst the plants, hear the birds, smell the rain, feel the snow and pretend that I’m biking through these landscapes. If I can have a small taste of nature everyday, I’ll behave and play by the nursing home rules.
I’m with you–give me flowers and fresh air and birds chirping and I think I can go down without too much of a fuss. Thanks for sharing.
Heart-breaking. But I have hope that after a long lifetime of experiences your dad may be able to live in a rich world of memory, where he is freer than his current situation. The horror of Alzheimers to me is that there’s no escape to be had by remembering all you have lived through. Hugs.
He HAS been doing a lot of “trying to remember” lately…I think more to test his memory than anything else, but perhaps coming up with those recollections is good for him. Thanks for the hugs. Need ’em.
Thank you. I lived 3 months in one of those places last year. This is a fair description of what it is like. The big room had a wall of windows that looked on Pine Valley Mountain. That was nice, i might’ve died without that mountain. It wasn’t all bad. We go on and do the best we can. Most of us are brave heroes with interesting stories. Believe it or not, there was laughter and friendship everyday. It is a sad place to be tho. With a bad staff it could be hell. Thank you for this story because here outside nobody talks about it.
In reply to Richard, thank you for sharing the positive aspects of your experience. It does seem that the staff can make a big difference. Unfortunately, I hear a lot of horror stories on that front….
Very much appreciate your comment.