To The Nursing Home
My friend D was moved from Warm Springs today to a nursing home in Thomaston. This nursing home is a bare bones nursing home with no physical therapy or recreation on property; basically just a blank room like you might find in a college dorm circa 1970. She shares a bathroom with whoever is in the room next door. Warm Springs sent her over here because they cannot do any therapy on her leg until it heals enough for her to put some weight on it. So her job is to wait it out until the leg can bear some weight.
The visit that my Mom and I paid to her this afternoon was like all of the horrible nursing home stories that you have all heard. As we enter the nursing home I shout out a cheery ‘hello’ to all of the residents that are sitting in chairs, lining the sterile linoleum hallway with flourescent lighting. Regretably, this salutation did not improve anyone’s state of consciousness. As I approach the nurses station to enquire as to the location of D’s room, a wheelchair bound woman starts psychobabbling to me about nothing that I can understand. I politely say ” uh huh ” and “yes,” while asking the nurse about D’s room number. The nurse gives me the number and then calls me back telling me that the room number is wrong. My Mom and I finally find D in fairly good spirits in a room that does not yet have a roomate in it with her. At this point a man in a nearby room starts moaning and crying in a falsetto voice. The words that he is moaning are unintelligable. The volume of his crying increases while the male nursing home workers shout out ” he’s alright, he’s alright.” The falsetto crying morphs into high pitched warbling with a vibrato added to the sustained atonal notes.This atomosphere makes it difficult to reassure D that she is in a good situation where she will be taken care of. Although you can’t blame an elderly person for having a psychotic episode in a sterile, isolated environment like that, you do have to worry about the situation that your family friend is located in. Mom and I chit chatted with D for a few minutes, pretending that nothing was wrong, and eventually left, passing the room of the crying, moaning man who was tossing from left to right in his bed. I noticed what appeared to be two spider bites on my right arm which were itching and swelling. I do not know how long D can exist in this environment without losing some of her grip on reality herself. I should add that this is the only nursing home in Thomaston with an available bed for her to sleep in. All that I know to do is to visit her and bring her news of the outside world.
With concern,
I.C.