My beautiful Mom, 2016 |
Time is a
precious commodity and people of all walks of life have become really selfish
with their time. Senescence is an inconvenience in our western culture, not a
source of wisdom and experience that we should seek and learn from. Many less
developed cultures praise old age and respect the experience and knowledge gained
from the long life of their elders. They don’t even have words in their
language for nursing homes or assisted living, these are alien concepts. The
tribe takes care of their sick and old.
The old men
and women, who are now patients, were someone’s mom, dad, the soldier, the
warrior, the teacher, the nurse, the home maker, the farmer, the mathematician,
and the skilled builder who erected your home. That someone seldom shows their face in the
hallways to witness the pain, suffering, abuse, neglect, unsavory smells mixed
with yells of help, to check on their loved ones, who were once strong,
healthy, and full of life just like you.
We let poorly
paid strangers from faraway lands feed mom and dad three meals a day of
institutional food, bathe them, change their wet beds hopefully on time, their
diapers, their outfits, wash and bleach their clothes to unrecognizable colors,
and give them medicine and proper care.
The nursing
homes are always understaffed but it gets worse on weekends. As I limp in pain
to see mom, I wished I could take her out of this place and have someone care
for her in my home. But not every state pays for skilled nursing care at home.
I can’t lift and do all the things for my mom that she needs, even though she
has shrunk in size. No matter how many times I go visit her, or how hard I try
to make her stay more home-like, it is never the same and I feel that I have
failed her as a daughter and as a human being.
There are
some patients who have outlived any immediate family or have never had any relatives
to begin with. Nobody ever comes to see them. They are all alone in the world,
sullen, and silent amid the cold and cruel world around them. Nobody notices
them anymore and they seldom make eye contact.
I make a
point to talk to some of them, touch them, bring a treat, and say hello. A
twinkle of the former liveliness softens their furrowed faces, bringing out a
short-lived smile. And a bit of sugar free chocolate sweetens the day, albeit
it momentarily.
Catalina
Grigore wrote recently about a 70-year old who died in a nursing home. Having been Europeanized, Romania now has
nursing homes, sad places where people go to die. The nurses did not like her,
she seemed mean and uncommunicative. She left behind a pointed lesson in
kindness that brought many to tears. https://voce.biz/info/2017/mar/23/aceasta-batrana-nu-era-suportata-de-nimeni-din-azilul-in-care-si-a-trait-batrinetea-ce-au-gasit-ingrijitoarele-dupa-ce-aceasta-a-murit/
You see an
old lady, senile, with strange habits, a sad face, lost eyes who mentally contemplates
times gone by, forced to do things she does not want to do, and stubborn. You
think, she interferes with your daily routine, and that’s irritating, but you
have no idea who she was or how she got there.
Inside she
is the naughty child she used to be, skipping, jumping rope, and climbing trees
in her grandma’s back yard; she is the beautiful twenty year-old who just
graduated from college, in love, engaged, and soon to be married; she is the
forty year-old with kids who are now adolescents; she is the fifty year-old
crying into the pillow at night because her house is empty, the children’s
laughter is gone, the nest is empty, and the life that revolved entirely around
them is now gone; she is the sixty year-old who took care of and spoiled her grandbabies;
and she does not know how she got to be seventy and then eighty, and so sick
and lonely.
Everybody
abandoned her – they either died or moved away and forgot her while living
their busy lives. Her husband passed
away and she is frightened. She is now old, no longer the vibrant young woman
who could move mountains. She is no longer a mom, a wife, a grandma, a sister,
or an aunt. She is just a door number in the nursing home. Her name appears on a
small plaque but the nursing staff calls her by her door number. It is much
easier than trying to pronounce her foreign name.
Mother
Nature is cruel – it robs us in the end of all that makes life worth living.
Strength, health, youth, stamina, and joy of living abandon us.
In her
moments of clarity, I asked my mom how she felt about her treatment in the nursing
home. What she said brought me to tears.
“We are
still young inside and healthy, dressed in our finest, ready to go shopping, to
work, to a fine restaurant, dancing the night away at a party, loving and
living. But the nursing staff treats us
with contempt because we are helpless. They argue with us to do their bidding. They
want their shift to go smoothly and fast. Can you not see my soul and my
crushed desires behind my shaking hands and my wrinkled face? I lost my
children, my family, and everything I’ve ever loved; can you not be patient and
kind with me? I don’t have much left in this world, just this old, aching, body
who does not want to respond to movement. We are not ready to die and we
certainly don’t want to die alone next to strangers.”
Just
remember, if you live long enough, you too will be old someday, at the mercy of
strangers, helpless, racked with pain, and arthritic.
A beautiful and thoughtful writing, Iliana. It is indeed sad what we do with our elderly. I have lived in societies that not only honor their elderly but celebrate them in death as if they were still alive. It seemed very odd to see an extended family with picnic baskets and cloths celebrating on their relatives graves, but it is a very noble act of love, reverence and respect.
ReplyDeleteWe took turns to care for my paternal grandma. She had eight kids so she could choose rotations of eight families. Fortunately, she was very little, very active, and died a natural death, she was never sick. My maternal grandma was not ambulatory, she had no knees left from arthritis. She died in her home from a bleeding ulcer which was exacerbated by the village nurse who gave her aspirin for pain.
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