Last photo of Dad alive. He was toasting another day despite being in a nursing home.
“The TV shouted an old black-and-white film he didn’t recognize, wheelchairs facing it like church pews.”
― Seré Prince Halverson, All the Winters After
I don’t know about you, but I’ve long held a fear of nursing homes. There’s sadness that prevails despite cheery seasonal decorations and attempts at community. (It’s hard to play bingo when you can barely hear.)
Many years ago, when my grandmother was placed in a nursing home about twenty miles from her house, it was thought she might know some of the other residents and thus ease her transition.
She did recognize a few. But they only served to increase her depression at what she described as “being shelved until I die.” The neighbors who used to be part of her active social circle were now droopy husks scattered about the hallways in various versions of wheeled seating. Conversations were, at best, on a short replay loop as memories clung to shards of the long past. It turns out Grandma didn’t know her friends. At least not anymore.
“I want to go home,” was Grandma’s lament whenever I visited. Those same words came from my mom when she had a brief and turbulent stay at the same nursing home years later, and from my dad when he was placed in a nursing home after his home care became too much for my brother. It was painful to visit, and even more painful to walk away. I felt guilty for having the freedom they had taken from them.
So why am I writing about this? The book club I belong to is reading the book, Amos; To Ride A Dead Horse, by Stanley Gordon West. It’s a fictional story about a man who thought he had his life together until a car crash leaves him quickly spiraling downward into a “poor farm” type nursing home.
What ensues is disturbing, and from my experience, not terribly far-fetched. I recall visiting Dad and having him whisper to me, “You wouldn’t believe what goes on here at night when there are no visitors.”
I looked at him with concern. “What happens?”
My gentle father looked around with fear in his eyes and said, “I can’t tell you. They might hear.”
Dad at Ft. Snelling
I followed his eyes but didn’t see anything, or anyone, eavesdropping. Dad shifted in his wheelchair and changed the subject. Later, when I mentioned I needed to leave, he said, “I sure hope I can go home soon. This place….” And he trailed off.
It’s so hard to know if a loved one is telling the truth, or a form of truth induced by medications, or if they misinterpret actions and conversations.
In the book, Amos; To Ride A Dead Horse, nobody believed the residents at the nursing home. They were the outcast, the poor, the deranged and discarded. And that is why abuse blossomed.
I know there are gifted and caring people who work in nursing homes. My mom worked at a nursing home and did her best to be cheerful with the residents even when there was a diarrhea outbreak, or some of them would sneak out the back door to make a break for it. “You wouldn’t believe how fast some of those folks can run!” she’d chuckle. “Faster than me, that’s for sure.”
But Mom also said she saw far too much overmedicating because it was simpler to care for people who seldom woke up.
Reading the book certainly stirred up a lot of memories about visiting my loved ones in nursing homes. Rationalizing they were getting the 24/7 care they needed never, ever, covered my sense of somehow betraying them.
So how do you feel about nursing homes? Do you want to end your days in one? Please share.
No Gail, I certainly do not wish this to happen in my life. However, I think of it often. Not that I believe I would end up in one due to my health somehow, but that I would end up in a Memory care place like my husband due to dementia – not knowing if there was something going on at night or not. Our kids are far away living in other states, my siblings are farther than 1.5 hours away from me. I wonder who would watch over me and take care of me like I am taking care of my husband Ron? I am thankful that God has put me in his life – I am 19 years younger than he is. Because of this, I have been able to do an early retirement, so that there is someone who cares, who goes to visit, and someone who sings church songs to him. He seems to enjoy that the most. He loves my ipad where the music is played from. We watch a guy playing piano and the words to the songs are on the screen, so I can sing to them. Ron watches very closely maybe seeing if I am reading the words correctly????? He would do that with the hymnal in church also in years past. We played some faster paced songs today that I knew, but we had never done that before. This piano guy has 300 songs on youtube. I don’t think Ron cared for the fast songs! He was not happy with me for something, but alas, he is not able to speak any longer, so I can only just guess. The speed of the songs is the only thing that was different from our last visit. 🙂 It was a good visit today. I had fun like I usually do. He had company – even if that wife of his woke him up from a nap to enjoy his company!!!!! Thank you for your blogs, Gail. I appreciate them!
My Mom spent her last 2 years in a facility that specialized in memory care. It was as kind and as joy-filled as was possible. While she was still verbal, she spoke about it as ‘home’ and when we took her out on jaunts, she talked about going home. The dignity and the kindness I saw every day still moves me 14 years later. Here’s one incredible story. Mom woke in the middle of the night, confused about the time of day and an aide asked her if she wanted a peanut sandwich. Over the sandwich, my Mom told the aide about her 4 little girls and how much she loved each one, telling her about all of our individual personalities. That aide wrote me a letter a few days later to tell me this story, wanting each of us to know that even though the Mom we knew had seemed to disappear, she was still there, still loving her girls, and still seeing each of them for who they were, even if her memory was decades old. Do I know there are unhealthy places for the aging? I do, but I also know about the miraculous people who cared for my mom and so many more.
So love this, Claudia. I do know there are caring, big-hearted, caregivers out there. It’s like you said about social workers…the good ones are at risk for burning out fast because they DO care so much. I’m so happy your mom was well taken care of, and I’m glad she occasionally snuck away to the golf cart for an adventure. Thank you for sharing. The good stories matter!