So we go to the archives, yes? I was looking through my files the other night, actually, and came across this--an article I wrote back in my senior year at Moody Bible Institute, for the 2005 Jerry Jenkins Writers Contest. (You know Jenkins--the guys who wrote the Left Behind series.) Anyway, it was a flashback to (1) something I wrote in the college days (and it's kind of amusing to see how my writing has changed even since then) and (2) an experience from that same time period--what I wrote about. Plus, this is a topic that I do feel very strongly about (though the article is narrative and thus doesn't get into the waters of Scriptural mandates re. the issue): believers' very clear responsibility to care for our aging family members...and our regrettable neglect of this responsibility and privilege.
Discarded Diamonds
A dull buzz, and the heavy glass door clicked and then whooshed open, spilling warm air over the entryway. As we stepped inside, we were assaulted with the smell of stale body odor, urine, and acidic cleaning chemicals, all laced with a strange meaty smell wafting from the kitchen…sloppy joes, maybe? I sucked in a breath, pushing back the sick feeling in my stomach and desperately wishing to escape back into the crisp autumn air. Two nurses’ aides shoving a stubborn metal cart of folded bed sheets rattled past, their sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. Trying to stay out of the way, we pressed our backs against the faded wall.
It was our first time visiting the nursing home. Every semester at our school, students were required to sign up for a weekly Christian ministry or community service, and this semester the four of us—Jonathan, David, Mai Lee, and I—had opted to visit a nursing home each Tuesday. I had chosen this particular ministry in hopes that the residents would be pleasant and content, not needing much from me. At least, that’s how I imagined my own grandparents, who were in a nursing home down in Texas. I figured we would just show up, play a game of checkers or look at pictures of grandkids, and then leave—nothing too difficult.
We moved down the wide, dingy hallway to the litter of tables and chairs that constituted the lounge area, where the director of nurses had said we could initially introduce ourselves to some of the residents. “What in the world?” I muttered under my breath, eyeing the scene before me.
The dozen or so people scattered around the large room weren’t exactly the clean, happy grandparent-types I had expected to see. Some sat listlessly around long wooden tables; others slumped in wheelchairs or portable hospital beds. Many were dirty, caked in sticky remnants of whatever had been served for lunch. Some were incoherent, muttering gibberish and staring blankly into space. One woman hurled irritable profanities at the passing nurses’ aides. Most were obviously disabled either mentally, physically, or both. One word floated across my mind: decay. I could see it, smell it, and feel it in the heavy, sour air.
A wood-paneled television mounted high on the wall blared out a rerun of “Jeopardy,” and a white-haired man impatiently swatted the air as we walked by, as if shooing a pesky fly. “Move! I can’t see,” he growled. We moved. Jon, David, and Mai Lee fanned out, each targeting a different person, wielding smiles and friendly greetings. I stood uncertainly scanning the large room. I had always had a picture of nursing home life in my mind, but apparently it was just make-believe. The reality was completely foreign to me. These people didn’t choose to be here, I thought ruefully. No, they were the outcasts, the parents and grandparents who, because they couldn’t care for themselves, had been tucked neatly away, out of sight and out of mind. Among an up-and-coming generation prizing youth and usefulness, these people no longer had any place.
Suddenly a shrunken man in a wheelchair caught my eye and broke into a toothless grin, his head bobbing up and down like a puppet’s. He began babbling happy, unintelligible phrases, smiling and drooling as he reached out a damp hand—towards me. Not knowing what else to do, I offered my own hand, along with a tentative smile and “hello.”
“His name’s Tony,” said a nearby aide who was systematically dropping pills into Dixie cups. She threw a motherly glance at my new acquaintance. “Hey, Tony, baby. Are you flirting with this young lady?” She winked at me and then went back to her rows of paper cups.
“Oh…” I turned back to Tony, who was still gripping my hand expectantly. “Hi, Tony.” He beamed—“Unghh!”—and I felt my shoulders relax slightly.
Then a booming voice rang out behind me, “Hullo! Hey, miss.” I turned and accepted another proffered hand, the property of a tall, wiry-haired man wearing a soiled Chicago Cubs t-shirt. “Who are you? I ain’t never seen you here before,” he said, his dark, wrinkled eyes searching my blue ones with child-like curiosity.
“Amber,” I replied. “My name’s Amber. And I’ve never been here before. What’s your name?”
“Michael,” he said, tugging his t-shirt down over his protruding belly and grinning bashfully.
“Hi, Michael, it’s really nice to meet you.”
Surprisingly, time began to fly by. Most residents were overjoyed to talk with me, and those who couldn’t talk seemed grateful just to be acknowledged. Several questioned why the four of us were there. At my answer—“Oh, we really just came to visit”—their eyes widened in surprise and pleasure. My uncertainty melted with their friendliness and candor…and their obvious hunger for companionship. I could read it in their eyes and their voices, as clearly as if they had audibly pleaded, “Please care about me!”
I quickly discovered that each of these “discarded” people had a unique personality and a special story to offer. Rusty, for example, an enthusiastic bottle redhead, informed me that she was a singer in her younger days. “I was on TV!” she said proudly, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. “Did you ever see me?” She still loved to sing, insisting that my three friends and I accompany her high-pitched warble in a song.
Frank was a small, eager man in wrinkled khakis and a dingy wife-beater. With sparkling eyes and fluid hand motions, he rattled on in a lisping voice. The words spilled out so rapidly that none of us could get a word in edgewise. “My roommate, he’s happy you’re here, too,” he said, nodding to his silent, stern-featured roommate. “He doesn’t know English good, but he likes company, like I do.” Mai Lee and I sat together, smiling and nodding as we listened.
Frank and Rusty were two of the “happy” ones.
Others—many others—couldn’t find nearly so much joy in lives spent merely “marking time.” Rough, dirty, and occasionally foul-mouthed Leroy revealed a surprising background: he was once a monk in training for the priesthood. Now his sunken eyes were hard and bitter, angry at a world that would leave him trapped in a wheelchair, a result of his bad back and increasing age. He had two daughters whom he had not seen or heard from in many months, he told us.
Norma was a plump Jewish woman with a vivid auburn wig and a penchant for blue eyeshadow. Her eyes filled with tears, and she spoke in broken whispers. I had to lean forward in my chair to hear her. Like Leroy, Norma was confined to a wheelchair, living in loneliness and constant pain from her multiple physical ailments. “Pray for me,” she pleaded in a raspy voice, clutching my hand. “I just want to die.”
Every person I met was different, but all had one thing in common: busy, modern-generation children and grandchildren who had given them over to the care of the nursing home. The few residents who occasionally received visits from family members were the lucky ones; most were left to finish out their lives alone.
As I sat in the middle of the stuffy, smelly room, I felt as if a light had flicked on in my mind, illuminating something that had always existed but that I’d never seen before. And what I saw made me ashamed. The truth was that these broken, dirty people were alone and desperate, silently crying out for someone to care about them, someone to love them. In our busyness and misplaced priorities, we had managed to willingly discard some of our most beautiful treasures—our parents and grandparents.
I was quiet on the ride back to school, trying to sort out my thoughts. I looked down at my hands, resting loosely in my lap. They were sticky and needed washing, and the stale odor of the nursing home still clung to my clothing. But it didn’t really matter anymore; in fact, the smell and the dirtiness somehow felt appropriate, lingering reminders of what I had seen. Maybe I’ll call Mamaw and Papaw when I get back to school, I mused. I watched the scenery streak by outside my window and thought how different this ride was from the one that carried me to the nursing home just over an hour and a half ago. Or maybe it was I who was different.
