Over the past year or two, I've written several times about my trips to and from a local nursing home that me and several of my friends attend every Tuesday evening in order to sing hymns and chat with the residents. Those first few visits were challenging because it was a new and scary thing; something that was definitely outside of my comfort zone. I have always had that struggle with not wanting to be pushed outside my little bubble. Everyone does, to some extent I believe, but mine took a few visits to get over.
After getting over the weirdness of being there, I began to rather enjoy going. We got to sing a lot of songs that I didn't get to sing in church anymore; old Baptist hymns and the like. I've actually never visited the home around Christmas time, but I'm sure carols are part of the repertoire. The residents were kind, loving, and almost always smiled ear to ear when we came in... although many of them didn't remember us I'm sure. The fact that we were there was enough.
But after about a year of visiting on a regular basis, it happened. I should have known that it was coming, this being a nursing home and all, but I had lied to myself for so long that it couldn't happen. People don't die. They just don't. I was a naive sod of a 20something. Our culture tells us that we will live forever, the next product will make you harder, better, faster, stronger. Buy this and you'll be a man, buy that and you'll have that perfect nerd appeal, put on this shirt and you'll get the ladies, watch this movie and you will finally fit in with the cool crowd. Death? Death is nowhere on the radar. Death is some sort of gag to be laughed at in the movies; not something that actually comes up and smacks you in the face when you are least expecting it.
There had been plenty of death in my past, but none of it had directly effected me. It had all happened behind closed doors and in dark corners... whispered about in hushed tones. Well I had just walked behind that closed door, I had brought a flashlight and I was listening very closely. Death could not remain a secret from me any longer.
Jim, one of the vocal Christians in the nursing home, whom I had seen attend my church more than once, was the first to go. He smiled the widest, laughed the brightest, and always thanked us whenever we were about to leave after singing. I felt his absence acutely. The next two that I saw fade and disappear were George and Marianne, a couple who were a transplant from Hungry. George had driven tanks in WWII, and they both loved to talk about how they met at a dance. They were never without each other, always clinging to the other's hand, never letting go. Marianne died in the late spring of this year... George managed to stick around for a week before he followed her.
After that, I couldn't bear to go to the home for quite some time. Months passed after I attended Jim's funeral, and I didn't go back. I had finally seen death's face, and I didn't want to look at it again anytime soon.
Summer came and went, as did money, friends, and the economy. Coming back for my senior year, I hadn't really thought about going back to the nursing home that much. That is until I was accosted on the street. Maybe 'accosted' is too strong a word, but I was approached. The guy who had been organizing and leading the singing at the home, himself having just got married, couldn't really take responsibility for coordinating the visits to the home anymore. He asked if I would be one of the regular attenders this year, and if so, would I be willing to actually lead the group, send out emails to invite people to come, etc. I told him I'd love to, and there I was... back at the nursing home every Tuesday.
The first challenge came in the form of trying to connect with the new residents. There are usually several categories of people there: (1) The people who don't know what's going on and love people, (2) The people who know what's going on but can't communicate it, and (3) the people who know what's going on, but are too filled with joy and Christ to care much about complaining. Jim fell into that last group, and my trips to the nursing home have never really been the same. I aspire to be like him when I am on my death bed.
But on my return to the home, I discovered a fourth type of resident: the person who knows exactly what is going on, and desperately needs to talk to someone about it. This came in the form of on Bonnie King, confined to the home because of an infection in her legs and no one wanted to take care of her. She had no mental defects that I could see, and from the first time we met she was very adamant in reminding me that she wasn't like "these people." She would gesture around her and point at the other residents, deaf, incoherent, needing love to be sure, but unable to communicate exactly what they needed on a hourly basis.
I first met Bonnie one Tuesday afternoon when I just walked up to one of the tables (we usually visit right as or after the residents are eating supper), plopped down a chair and began with my usual small talk.
"How are you all doing? How's your week been?" I asked in my best sunny day voice. Some nodded, some laughed, some said "just fine" and turned away. Bonnie mumbled under her breath.
"Big things, but can't talk... can't talk about them. Shouldn't talk about them."
I latch onto any verbal response I can get, so I pulled my chair in closer to Bonnie and asked, "Well, if you can't talk about those big things, can you at least talk about something?"
"Things aren't good," she looked at me pleadingly. Our relationship was on the fast track from there. After several minutes of talking with Bonnie, I got the impression that we were living in a 1984 world... where Big Brother was around every corner. She told me about financial pushing and rip offs, how the home owed several companies lots of money and then began jacking up prices for the residents. She detailed how little the workers in the home actually cared, how little they did to help the residents. She would quiet down or simply stop talking altogether when anyone else dared walk by, be they one of the workers, another resident, or even one of my peers come to bring some music and encouragement to the people sitting in the room.
The worst came right before we were going to sing though. While many of the things Bonnie tried to explain to me got convoluted and confused as she tried to explain them and I wouldn't understand, or she would lose track of where her train of thought was going... one part of the conversations stood out. Preceded by nothing, she gave the most damning critique of the home with her tears. She began crying and repeated over and over: "And I night, there's no one here. No other resident in my room... they're made for two people. At night I'm all alone... so alone..... so alone..."
I felt like a can of mace had just been released into my nostrils. I finally knew what was so wrong with this place. No one cares. I am often accused of caring too much; but I must admit, it does have its advantages. I go back and talk to Bonnie every week now. We just talk... about whatever she wants to talk about: politics, conspiracies, the hymns that we sing for the residents, my faith, her faith. And I resolve to never let this happen. My parents will be in my home till they die. They will not be alone. No one deserves to be alone. No one deserves to be abandoned.
JSTT
Yes. You said it.
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