If you live long enough

    Pulling the heavy door open, I am assaulted by the stench of a putrid fog. The mixed odors of urine, humidity, damp carpet, and human waste permeate all my senses. The smelly cloud sticks to my sweaty skin. A half wall shields me from the cacophony of human voices and the television’s voiceless, monotone hum. The cries, moans and repetitive calls swirl around me as I enter the large anemic-blue room lighted by bright white institutional fluorescent tubes. I am at our local nursing home.

    The raucous noise ebbs and flows like an irritating song: shrill telephones,
incessant buzzers, muffled intercom, staff and resident voices colliding. Residents with late dementia or Alzheimers sometimes verbalize repeatedly, although not always rationally: “Helpmehelpme,” “I need to go home; I need to go home,” “Mamamamamama.” The clearer-thinking residents sit quietly watching their peers, or retire to their rooms where they can close the door against the surreality.

    I am bringing a blue bowl of ripe, red sun-warmed tomatoes for my friend, Agnes. The stroke she suffered while living at home took away her left arm. When she was released from the hospital, the daughters had already sold the little gray house and she came to live here — twelve years ago. Although she now slumps lower in her wheelchair, Agnes continues to exercise her independence by feeding and dressing herself. At my faint tapping, her soft voice calls, “Come i-n.” The darkened double room is about 16’x8’ and overlooks the employee parking lot. Sunset pushes through the vertical blinds making prison-bar shadows on the wall where the smiling faces of Agnes’ family watch us. Miss Kitty, the resident calico cat, dozes on the pastel flowered bedspread and Agnes (not wanting to disturb her) rests in a worn overstuffed chair. Her roommate, Lela, is napping so we speak quietly. The lavatory and Lela’s half of the small room are cluttered with clothes because Lela has been preparing to go home again. At least once a week she carefully packs her belongings into a battered brown suitcase and starts walking to Michigan.(“It’s just over there,” she nods, pointing across the street.) Agnes smiles about Lela’s persistent travel plans: “I’ll really miss her if she dies before I do.” Lela is only eighty; Agnes is seven years older and has been diagnosed recently with cancer. She philosophizes, “If you live long enough you’re bound to die from something.” Then she chuckles.

    The scurried movements in the hall tell us it is nearly supper time. I steady the shiny silver wheelchair, crusty with dried food, and Agnes’ good hand grabs hold to hoist herself out of the lumpy, stained recliner. Straightening her steel grey wig, then draping a faded pink sweater over her withered arm, Agnes grabs tissues for the uncontrollable drooling and we’re off! We leave the door open wide so Lela can find her way out of the room when she awakens.


     In the faded blue dining room Agnes greets her tablemates. Like robots, all four ladies slowly don their bleach-spotted pink bibs. The plastic sectioned trays are already on the table. Agnes says she used to be a great cook, so she has the right to complain about the food. An oval grey patty of “mystery meat” is called Salisbury steak tonight. Agnes is frustrated when she can’t keep the overcooked, wrinkled, pebbly green peas on her fork. Mashed potatoes have been plopped in a runny blob and are disguised by grey lumpy gravy. Agnes suspects the potatoes are from a box because she can taste the cardboard. The colorful fruit cocktail is recognizable by its orange-gold peaches and lone red cherry half. Acting coy, Agnes casually mentions the tomatoes she has brought to the table. Basking in her friends’ admiration, she offers a glistening crimson slice to each of the cooing appreciative ladies. Diners at nearby tables comment loudly that they would like fresh tomatoes, but Agnes appears to ignore them while enjoying their open envy.

    The cool, pure air of dusk caresses my face as I leave Agnes’ crowded home. Autumn is approaching and the breeze tastes fresh and sharp. It would be a good night to walk to Michigan.