This past weekend my grandmother’s roommate at the nursing home passed on to the positive side of heaven and
earth. It was sad to visit last night and notice how empty and still it was on
her side of the room. The experience left my grandmother shaken and confused.
When I arrived my grandmother was looking for her mother. I stayed with her a
little longer than usual and even crawled into her bed and laid down with her.
I hugged and loved on her and spoke softly in her ear to try and give her (and
myself) some comfort.
It was a difficult decision my mother faced when placing Grandmother into this
facility for her medical and day to day care. The first night she was admitted,
I stayed with her and cried silently throughout the night listening to the
sounds and seeing how the light fell into her room. She was safe here, but it
was hard to leave her there without one of us present. The facility is clean
and bright, the nursing staff is extremely professional, the aides respectful,
positive and some are very loving to their patients. However, to borrow from
Dorothy, “There’s no place like home.” On a personal level, it’s difficult because from the moment you walk through the front door you are
facing your own mortality.
My mom visits my grandmother every day. My sister comes from out of town and
stays for weeks and spends entire days with her. My daughter and I visit her
every Saturday and Sunday. We try to go for Bingo when she feels like playing
or afternoon church services on Sunday.
In this weekly ritual, we have inadvertently gotten to know some of the other
residents. There is the stripper at the end of one hall—she strips in the doorway of her room every night at 7 p.m. It is said she
targets the thirtysomething male charge nurse who works the weekend shift. I
try to plan our visits around this nursing home special revue.
There is a klepto, who steals shoes, stuffed animals, candy bars, Mardi gras
beads and newspapers—and only she knows what else. I guess it gives her a little bit of power in the
world she lives in. There are also those who count cards at Bingo and will
vehemently complain if they feel someone has an unfair advantage.
In all fairness, my grandmother is a butt pincher. It’s her way of showing affection to those she cares about. We tried to warn the staff and luckily most of them laugh and do not take
offense.
And then there are those who are sadly lost in their own world.
The week my grandmother arrived, a sweet gentleman was stationed across the hall
from her room. He introduced himself as Arthur Wright and proudly congratulated
us “You have finally found Mr. (W)Right.” He shook our hands and told us that he would check on Grandmother for us. We
were tickled to say the least. The next week when we visited I couldn’t wait to greet him “Hi, Mr. Wright —I finally found you!” And he looked at me with an unsure almost angry gaze like he had never seen me
before. When it dawned on me that he didn’t remember our conversation I realized that not only was he not Mr. Right, but
that he wouldn’t be checking on Grandmother either.
One day he was confused and asked me to help him find the restroom, I pointed
him in the direction of his room and he said “No, that’s the ladies restroom, I can’t go in there.” An aide overheard us and gently guided him into his room. The next visit I
spotted a huge sign on his bathroom door—with a drawing of a toilet and the words “BATHROOM HERE” displayed in large letters. Another day, he got mom to verify the name on the
door was his wife’s name because he said the woman in the bed was too old to be his wife and
showed mom the photo of young Mrs. Wright in her 20s. Other days, he was back
in the hall welcoming us and reminding us that if we needed anything, we had
found Mr. Right, he could help us on our way.
His forgetfulness prepared us for the days when Grandmother would endure the
same confusion. It may have really worried me if it didn’t provide some comfort to me that at least she wasn’t the only one—in a sense they were all on the same journey together.
Shortly after, I had a conversation with my mom and some friends about a list of
characteristics that I would prefer if I were to start dating again. That’s easy I told them “Kindness has to be at the top of the list—outgoing, fun, smart, financially stable, spiritual, everything else is just
icing on the proverbial cake.”
“So,” one of my friends replied, “you are looking for Mr. Right?”
“No, not quite,” I said, “because I’ve actually met Mr. (W)right and he’s down at the nursing home and some days he can’t find the bathroom. Mr. Right is just a figment of the female imagination.”
On a weeknight visit to see Grandmother, I noticed Mr. Wright was not out in the
hall, but strangely his wife, Sallie, whom I had never seen out of her hospital
bed was up walking around their room. Mr. Wright looked like he had fallen back
on the bed, he was just lying there taking a nap. It was as if their energy
sources had swapped bodies.
We visited Grandmother and as I came out of her room I noticed he was still in
the same position. As I approached the nursing station to tell them my concerns
a team of EMT’s passed me in the hall and turned down the hall towards Grandmother’s room. I grabbed my daughter’s hand and rushed back to Grandmother. I knew that she was OK, but I had to go
back to visually check on him. They had stopped at his room and were checking
his vitals. We gave Grandmother one last kiss, worriedly glanced into his room
and left.
I called my mom from the car crying. I knew something was wrong with dear, sweet
Mr. Wright. As I expressed my worry about him I was surprised at the tears on
my face, I never dreamed that I would get so attached to him or any of these
other residents of the nursing home. But I was. I couldn’t stop thinking about the first night I met him. How great would it be to walk
up to a guy and hear him say “Congratulations, you have met Mr. Right...” if only it could be so easy.
My mom called me the next day with the news that Mr. Wright had died. He
probably already had passed to that positive side of heaven and earth when I
saw him lying back on his bed. I sure hope it was peaceful. I sent up a silent
prayer and just quickly thanked God for allowing me the chance to meet Mr.
(W)right, if only briefly. The stripper, the klepto, the butt pincher, the
bingo police and the lost who live in that space all hold extremely special
places in my heart.
Every weekend when I visit Grandmother, I can’t help but picture him standing across the hall stationed just outside her door.
And thanks to this sweet man who could never remember our names I have a hope I
can’t describe. Because he verbalized that, maybe, just maybe, it could be possible—I will never stop looking for the outstretched hand of Mr. Right.
