My mother is 85 and lives in a convalescent home near San Jose, California. She isn't long for this world and is now receiving hospice care. I drive over every Saturday to feed her lunch, since she can't feed herself anymore. My brother and sister go at different times to feed her. Only a week ago she was alert and smiling but this week her face was in her lap and I had to physically hold her up to feed her. She could go at any time and indeed, it is her time.
If you want to count your blessings, visit one of these places - God's "Waiting Room" where aged and disabled people are warehoused to await their visit from the dark angel. A small minority of the patients are young, suffering from cerebral palsy or some other debilitating condition. Most are aged, senile, bound to a wheelchair and totally dependent on the nursing staff for everything.
My mother's roommate Wilma is kind and friendly. She has an oxygen tube affixed to her nose. She has pure white hair and sits in her wheelchair. However, she is one of the few who still have their full mental faculties. She speaks to me in an elegant, cultured tone as the refined and educated woman that she still is, accepting her situation with class and dignity. She is kind and friendly.
In the hospice dining room, my mom sits at a table with three other patients, two of whom are assisted in eating by nurses. One patient is Mildred who will be 103 next month. Mildred can still speak and occasionally she even sings a song. Another is Joyce, who eats well but cannot speak and seems to be only dimly aware of her surroundings. I always say hi to her and smile and she smiles back with a puzzled look on her face, as if wondering who I am.
The fourth patient is Eleanor, who is the only one eating whole food. She can still feed herself and can hold a conversation, though her grip on reality is slippery. She tells me that the management of the nursing home is so screwed up that her children can't find her, so can't come to visit. I chat with her after putting my mom to bed, telling her to take care of herself. She says she will.
As I walk about the halls, I see a young woman of maybe 25 years of age, strapped into a wheel chair, her arms and legs supported with straps. She can't speak and looks at me with haunting blue eyes. I always say hi and wave to her and she stares back at me with a surprised look. Today, however, she smiles in recognition and seems to want to catch my eye. I say hello and wave to her as I walk past.
Before I leave the home, I always go by the main dining room to say hello to Hasan. Hasan is a young Arabic man of maybe 35. He has severe cerebral palsy and has little control over his motor functions. He is also deaf. He is always happy to see me and smiles broadly and tries to speak, but can only utter indecipherable sounds. He was friends with my mom while she was still part of the pre-hospice patients, while she still took her meals unassisted in the main dining room. He would keep her company, sitting in his wheelchair beside hers in the corridors of the home. I could not visit my mother without visiting him too and so we became friends. Our only means of communication is smiling and waving at one another, and an occasional high five.
I have often thought how the nursery of a hospital seems to be some sort of train station where new arrivals enter this world. Nursing homes like my mom's are the part of the same station. But in this section souls wait patiently for the next train out.
