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(Every) Day at 'The Home'
I have wondered for many years what event prompts decay of people as they age; it's as if their soul departs, leaving only a withered body and fading shadow of what was once a vibrant spirit. Favourite relatives can no longer remember your name, and do not even lift their eyes from the floor as they brood inwardly over some unknown subject. Although once eager to seep in each detail of interest, they now fall into troubled sleep. A sharp memory no longer recalls words communicated the previous minute.
And I have found that the truth lies not in the loss of memory, but in a sense of detachment from the present time, the loss of inseparable companions and ultimately the will to live. And one event above all others summons this change their removal to a nursing home, or some other 'care' centre. I find those very adjectives faintly ironic, as the very atmosphere is one that banishes all energy and resolve from the patient's heart. Existence in it, however, further works to remove all sense of dignity and independence, to humble and to humiliate until all resistance to this is dissipated.
This I have witnessed on multiple occasions, and has led me to form strong opinions on the importance of a approach to healing that focuses not solely on the physical condition of patients, but more so on their outlook and attitude to their circumstances. Watching loved ones being fed by spoons or through plastic tumblers is heartbreaking, as I watch seemingly invincible characters reduced to infants with these actions. A sense of pride is essential to the spirit of man, yet how this possibly be retained when these people are fed with plastic spoons, pulpy food oozing down the faded patterns on cheap nylon bibs? It is not that people become totally incapable, it is their final acceptance of what they are told constantly by those around them, which renders them hopelessly inept in all things.
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"Don't be silly Maggie, of course you can't walk, you'll have another fall."
It seems unlikely that she will make future steps when entrapped by this all encompassing web of doubt and negativity, which leads to self-doubt and a feeling of hopelessness. This is one of the things that make me dread visiting the Gran whom I love greatly.
Before entering the building, I first type in a code, making me feel like I am going into prison and wanting to turn back. I feel trapped. And once inside, I am met with a pungent odour of urine and disinfectant. I can taste death, but walking on I pass the dining room where a few souls sit round a table, turned in their wheeled- chairs to face each other, yet completely separate in thought and existence. On the opposite side of the corridor, a mass of bodies stare at a quiz show, hearing the words without actually listening to them. Each room identical, the patients contained in them are in various stages of succumbing to the inevitable. They will all break anyway.
A man scrapes along the passageway ahead, his Zimmer frame seemingly in resistance to his attempt to live freely. I imagine that this long aisle is the stairwell to heaven, then dismiss the thought. I don't believe that a god would let these scenes take place. The home appears like a stopping place before death anyway, a kind of link between life and passing away, but I realise that it could with work be a pleasant time instead of the Hell that has been created for them. I move on into my Gran's room. She is sleeping as always, perhaps dreaming of the past, but it is obvious to me that some of her old spirit still remains intact, and it is frustrating for me to be unable to rekindle this flame, which would surely drive the demons away. She stirs, and I call to her softly, and she opens her eyes without looking up. Searching for her glasses, I hear 'Kilroy' through the cheap hardboard walls and still the smell lingers. Breathing through my mouth only makes me nauseous. I ask her how she is feeling, and she replies
"When am I going home?"
For a while I tried to explain to her what has happened, but she forgets, so now I just tell her something to make her feel better. A pang of conscience hits me, but I assure myself that it's her happiness is more important than truth. She'll have completely forgotten soon anyway.
"Soon, this is just a place for you to have a rest. This is like a hotel, so you can just put your feet up and relax."
"Have I paid for this?"
"Yes, it's all under control, you don't think that we'd let you away with that, do you?"
She allows herself a faint chuckle at this and I can sense a resurgence of her past zest. Slowly, though it fades. Subsequently, Agnes peers round the door before scuttling off. She steals things, putting them in her drawer, perhaps in defiance of the system, and it is her who I see as the sole survivor after being put in here. Or maybe she has just gone crazy, but I like her for that.
And then Gran starts again.
"Will I be here for long?"
I remain patient, but it is hard to watch her inner struggle against a demon waiting for her cease clinging to hope and life. But this is just another visit, with the same smell, the same walls, the same sounds, the same questions and the same people. Something must change, I tell myself. But it's the same, always the same.
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