The Fundamental Things Apply . . .

So already, I write to tell tales of out of school--or really, out of the section of the skilled nursing floor of the senior living community where my mother and about fifteen other people live and are cared for. I debated briefly about whether I should share these stories since they're not my own, but decided to because they have something to teach that, frankly, I didn't know, didn't appreciate nearly well enough until just recently.

 

You will probably laugh at some of what I report below. But I share it not because it's amusing (which it is!), but because it's endearing, heartening, and, frankly, dignifying. The people in my mother's section of the skilled nursing floor, though they've changed in some very significant ways over time, are in some very important ways unchanged. They have pasts, stories, interests, tastes, and personalities; the ability to connect to others; and, in most cases, the capacity and desire to give and receive love.

 

On a recent visit to my mother, I noted that a female resident and male resident, both well-known to me, were holding hands* and smiling at each other.

He was the gentleman who rose late and relished large breakfasts**--and whose first question to me months ago had been whether I was a chemical engineer who had shown up for the chemical engineers' convention that was just about to begin. In his early weeks on the floor, he worried after every meal that he didn't have his wallet with him: how was he going to pay for dinner, his own and everyone else's?

She was a fellow late-rising methodical consumer of large breakfasts who knew the words to many old songs that she could sing with excellent pitch and just the right feeling. But I had also observed her on blue days when she repeated "Hello" to someone or no one and often called for her late husband, repeating his name both hopefully and hopelessly again and again.

But that morning, the two hand-holders were all smiles, and had eyes only for each other. Since my mother and I stayed behind when most of the group went out on the patio, I could hear everything they were saying.

Generally, she was the one who asked the questions. "Do you have pain?" she asked, and was relieved to learn that he did not. She explained that she had volunteered at nursing home as a younger person, and had seen a great deal of pain--so much so that "I began to feel that it was my pain," which led her to take a break at the recommendation of the volunteer coordinator. "You have to have a lot of character to live with pain and not have your life be about pain," she explained.

"Do you visit your parents?" she asked; I was curious about whether their answers would signify an understanding of their parents as living or dead. He explained that he did--at the home where he had grown up; less frequently, they came to visit him--but they did sometimes. The same was true for her, she reported. And she added that she loved going back to her childhood home.

 

"Do you sing?" she asked, "Because if you do, I would like you to sing me a song." He said he didn't sing, which didn't seem to bother her. She explained that her parents had been in the Jewish theater and that everyone in her house was always singing. She knew so many songs as a result, she told him.

I laughed when she asked her next question: "Do you think I am too fat?" I had to wonder if, were I to make it past 100 years, as she has, would I still be worrying about my weight? Ever chivalrous, he looked at her and said, "I think you're just right." Oh, did she smile. And then, of course, they both smiled.

 

About fifteen minutes later, he explained that he had to go. 

 

"Where are you going?" she asked. 

"Home," he said. 

"Where's that?" 

"Georgia," he replied. "But I'll be back in six months, so if you're still around, we can talk again," he said.

"I would like that," she said, "But only if you really want to." 

 

As he headed back to Georgia, I was reminded of something I'd heard in an episode from Season 4 of Shetland, which I'd recently been re-watching. Before meeting an unfortunate end on the ferry from Aberdeen to Lerwick, Robbie, seen in the adjacent photo***, had worked at a "home" on Shetland. When he went missing, the director of the home explained how much the residents, mostly elderly, missed him. I'm paraphrasing here, but she said, "Old people seldom get touched, and they need it. Robbie liked them, and he would touch them; he would hold their hands."

 

The next time I visited my mother, I asked the nurse if the two hand-holders would remember their conversation. I was especially wondering if one or the other of them would feel bad if the other one didn't recollect their happy time spent together. "Neither of them will remember it," she told me. "But we've learned to put them together when either of them is having a bad day. Something about being near each other comforts them."

 

I was fascinated. One of the other staff people joined the conversation, referring me to two women who have been living on the floor since before my mother moved there and who were talking to softly to each other. 

 

"You see _____ and _____?" she said. "Sometimes one of them is the mother and the other is the daughter****; other times, the roles reverse." Interestingly, the one who more often played the role of the mother had no children of her own.

Knowing this made me understand a conversation I had overheard between the two of them a few months back. Sensing that her friend was having a hard day, the motherly childless one said, "You should do whatever you want. You've done so much for other people. It's time to take care of yourself now." She paused, and added, "And maybe soon you'll meet a nice man and get married." When the "daughter" looked at her quizzically, she responded, "Well, don't worry about that, dear; you have plenty of time." Such a reassuring Jewish mother!

So often, because my mother is in the late stages of Alzheimer's, I've gotten questions about how responsive she is: to me, to my sisters, to the people who take care of her. If anything, I've learned that different people mean different things by "responsive."***** For some, responsive means nothing less than being able to listen attentively to long stories and respond to them in long sentences. For others, it means recognizing who's visiting them and being able to call them by the right name. For yet others, it means smiling in response to a heartfelt hello.

I recognize the unspoken question of some who ask about my mother's responsiveness: "Why visit your mother if she doesn't respond to you? What's in it for you? And what's in it for her?" At this point, I don't feel obligated to offer answers to those questions. Bright eyes, smiles, and the words "lovely" and "I love you" mean "responsive" to me.

But since observing the two hand-holders, I have a new appreciation for how responsive people with cognitive and memory limitations can be to one another--and how important and gratifying their relationships and interactions can be in the moment, even in a series of moments, even over time--which no doubt feels so different to them than it does to me.

As long as we're alive, we never stop being people--which means we each want and need, by virtue of being human, what everyone wants and needs. There's so much that many elders can no longer do and do for themselves. But there's also so much they still can do for one another--something I didn't sufficiently understand and appreciate until this past month.

* Amanda Madden Pinterest https://www.pinterest.com/pin/old-couple-holding-hands-precious--364862007283583548/

** Photo accompanying recipe for over-easy eggs: https://www.beyondthechickencoop.com/over-easy-eggs/

*** Robbie Morton Shetland Wiki Season 3 https://shetland.fandom.com/wiki/Robbie_Morton

**** Screen shot of an image on Pinterest: Her Campus: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/603200943819962895/

***** Screen shot of an image on the Texas Health and Human Services Commission Website (courtesy of Adobe Stock) https://communityimpact.com/houston/conroe-montgomery/coronavirus/2020/07/27/texas-health-and-human-services-commission-to-post-covid-19-cases-deaths-from-nursing-homes-assisted-living-centers/