The stagnant smells of soiled linens, body odor, and assorted
chemical cleaners filled my nose as I walked through the sliding doors. Why was
my mom making me go here? My whole body revolted at the thought of staying here
any longer. I wanted to run back to the safety of the car and try to forget
this place. The dreary building had been ominous from the outside but there was
nothing I could do besides follow my mother. The lobby was painted a creamy-yellow,
probably in hopes of cheering visitors as they came and went. I thought it was
a way to distract anyone from the thoughts of running out.
There
was a large saltwater fish tank to the right. I examined the fish darting through
the water; they looked terrified, dashing in and out of the rocks. Directly in front
of us stood a desk where a receptionist looked up as we approached. “Good
afternoon, how can I help you?” the lady said to us.
Holding
my squirming brother in one arm, my mom quickly asked the receptionist, “Do you
know where room 145 is?”
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| Volcano National Park |
The lady
replied, “Right down this hall,” as she pointed to a dimly-lit hallway to our
left. “The room will be on the right side,” she finished. My mother nodded her
head and started walking in that direction. I wanted to stop my mother. I
wanted to leave, not continue! But necessity eventually won over my stubborn
body as I hurried to catch up with her.
As
we passed by each numbered door, I took a peek inside the room if the door was
open. Because of the closed blinds, I could only make out shadowed beds and
linens in the cube-like chambers. I wondered but could not comprehend why all
the blinds and windows were secured shut. It was a beautiful day out; did no one
what to see the blue sky and soft wispy clouds? I could hear televisions playing,
trying to drown out the feelings of loneliness and despair, but to no avail as
an ill mood had crept in and had made its home here. Numbered and stacked like
lifeless dominos in a row, the rooms each had the same bleak feeling and
depressing gloom that emanated from this place. I felt my chest tense; this
place, these rooms, were all so confining. I was breathing something into my
lungs but it was not air; it was death. My mind and body begged me to leave
this place.
Absorbed
in my thoughts, I almost ran into my mom who had stopped suddenly to glance at
the room number; it was 145. Rounding the corner, I saw Uncle Bobby laying
there, his face looking up at the blank white ceiling. His once attentive brown
eyes were glazed over and emotionless. The most recent stroke had accentuated
his already paralyzed face, making his left eye and lips droop pitifully. Like a
door swings freely on a dilapidated house, his mouth now hung completely open
with little muscle tone. Framing his wrinkled chin, the grey stubbly whiskered
now graced the formerly clean-shaven face. Like an oversized rag doll, his limp
and lifeless arms lay at his sides. Resting on top of the gray blanket, his rigid,
paralyzed fingers could be seen curled up into two fists.
Greeting
him, my mom walked over so that he could see her. The recognition in his eyes told
us that he might remember her, or possibly it was just the happiness of seeing a
friendly face. My mother beckoned me over and gestured for me to speak to him.
I quickly said, “Hi, Uncle Bobby.” Continuing the one sided conversation, my mom
commented on different things while my eyes fell to looking around the small
room.
Glancing
around the room, my mind went back to when I first meet Uncle Bobby. He had
already suffered two strokes and was living with his daughter, my mom’s friend.
He was able to sit in a wheelchair and be a part of the family; however, the
strokes had prevented him from using his limbs for even the most basic needs
like feeding himself. Even with their busy lives, his daughter and her husband would
patiently feed him every meal. His joy was to watch his grandson play or see
the goings on of the house. Although he could not speak coherent words, his
mouth articulated as he tried to communicate using different sounds. When his
grandson was napping or the house was quiet, he would often sit in
contemplative thought. Since the first time I met him, he had suffered another
stroke and more setbacks as his body continued to shut down and deteriorate,
making it extremely difficult for the family to have him at home. The heartbreaking
decision was made by his daughter to move him to a nursing home 35 miles away. “Stop
by any time,” she had told my mom on the phone, “He’ll be more than happy to
see you.”
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| Whittington Beach |
Memories
of how he used to be brought me back to why I was there and what we had come
for. I began to feel very sad for him. This gloomy room was nothing like the
clean cheery atmosphere of his daughter’s home. He had nothing to preoccupy his
time, no loved ones talking with him. Instead of family photographs, the only
things hanging on his wall were the checklists for the staff. A simple curtain
partition split his room with another man whose television was playing loud. Since the last stroke had taken from him the
ability to swallow food, he was fed through a feeding tube.
My
mom’s voice had continued rambling as I processed everything. I was brought out
of my thoughts when I heard her voice trail off into, “…I wonder if we could
take him for a walk?” She stopped to think for a moment before continuing, “Maybe
I should ask the nurse.” That was when she saw the feeding tube hooked up to
him, pumping in its cream-colored substance. “Oh, never mind,” she said sadly,
“he’s getting fed right now.” Her voice lifted when she said, “Maybe next time.”
Next time! My mind reeled; were we going to come back here? All I could feel
was the panic of my life slowly being sucked out of me. This place gave me the
shivers.
As
he seemed focused, we stayed for a bit longer telling him different things;
however, soon my baby brother started getting fussy. My mom looked at her
watch, “Well, I think it’s time we need to go. Adam is getting hungry for his
bottle,” she told Uncle Bobby. Once we said goodbye and wished him a good rest
of the day, we walked out. Passing through the yellow-painted lobby, I looked
at the fish in the tank. They didn’t look as terrified as I had first thought;
they looked trapped—trapped in the small box wishing for the big ocean they
once swam in. Like my uncle and the other patients at this place, their lives
had held so much more before coming here.
The
receptionist thanked us for coming as we stepped out. I never felt such a rush
of freedom. The fresh air in my lungs was beautiful. I breathed deeply and
smiled up at heaven, thanking God that I was here instead of there. I was never
happier leaving a place than I was that day. As I continued to mull over my
thoughts of that experience and what my mom had said about returning, I started
thinking about Uncle Bobby. If I had been so happy to leave that place, was he
also feeling the same way? A pang of remorse stung my heart. I had never
thought about his desires; what about him? Did he ever wish for the day to pass
through those doors and go home? The more I dwelt on the thought of him sitting
there alone, the worse I felt. Although I did not want to return, my heart was
filled with pity toward him.
 |
| Pebble Beach |
A
week later, I found myself again walking through the sliding doors. The ominous
exterior and dreary interior did not hit me as hard since I knew it was coming.
I looked at the sad fish as I entered the lobby. They looked up with what
seemed like intrigue to see me again and swam to the glass wall. The huddled
group appeared to discuss me amongst themselves. “Back again, are we?” quizzed
the ever pessimist. “I thought she’d never return,” sighed one. “I told you it
was only fear and she’d come around,” another sanguinely stated. “Had my face
portrayed the horror and fear that had welled up inside of me?” I pondered to
myself. It had been selfish of me. We did not stop to talk with the receptionist
this time; instead of fearfully following my mom, I strode in front and found
the room. Uncle Bobby was sitting up this time in a wheelchair, and I noticed
that the feeding tube was not attached. I smiled and happily called out, “Hello,
Uncle Bobby!” Upon hearing my voice ring out, the detached stare lifted from
him and I thought I saw his eyes light up.
My
mother also kindly asked, “Hi, Bobby, how are you today?” A sound escaped his
lips. Seeing that he was already in a wheelchair, my mother mumbled something about
a nurse and walked out of the room. I was left standing there looking at him. I
didn’t really know what to say to him, so I just commented, “Oh, I think my mom
will be right back. She has gone to ask a nurse something.” He seemed to
understand as I again flashed him a smile and tried not to look as
uncomfortable as I was feeling. Soon my mom came back in with a nurse at her
heels. The nurse went to his side and in a clear voice asked him, “Robert, would
you like to go for a walk?” Although he did not say anything, his eyes seemed
to agree. She nodded her consent to us and left the room.
After
walking through the hallways, we decided to take him outside. Even though my
mom never said it, I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Poor Uncle Bobby
needs fresh air and sunshine. As the mature trees sent leaves and shadows to
the ground, his body seemed to relax a bit as he enjoyed the change of scenery.
Taking deep breaths of clean air, we watched as the little breezes danced and
played with the leaves. Our half hour came to a short end and we took him back
into his room. I had brought some colored drawings to hang on his bare walls; my
mom helped me tape them up as he observed from his chair. I hoped that he would
like them. The last light of the afternoon was seeping through the cracks in
the blinds as we said our goodbyes. He stoically sat there watching us leave
his room.
That
day I walked away and no longer felt pity but compassion for this man and the
other patients I had seen. I realized that for different reasons, these people
were put into the nursing home, separated from their previous lives. If their
loved ones did not or could not visit them, how alone they must have felt. On their
last journey of life, they are just left to their thoughts and memories.
As we
continued to visit Uncle Bobby, I noted his worsening condition; however, as
our life got busier we saw him less often. I remember the day we found out he
had passed; I realized then how grateful I was to my mother. By taking me to
visit, she had broadened my limited view of the world and taught me what really
mattered in life.
 |
| Hono'apo Bay |
The
memory of that place still is vivid in my mind, causing me to reflect on the
fact that age and death are a part of life, something I cannot hide from. Nevertheless,
I have learned that even though people may physically look different from their
youth, they are still the same people inside: people are humans, needing love,
connection, and care. My interest in the elderly has grown into a passion as I
enjoy conversing with the elderly and making sure they know that they are
appreciated. They will often thank me for spending time with them, despite the
fact that I get much more enrichment from them.
When
I look back at pivotal points in my life, visiting Uncle Bobby sticks out as a
wonderful time of change, wonderful because I was there for another human
being, making his day just a little bit better. In those weeks of visiting him, I learned that
helping those who cannot help themselves is the most rewarding thing I could
do. The last time I walked out the doors of that place, the late afternoon rays
hit the yellow walls, making them warmer than ever before. I looked at the fish
calmly gliding through the water. I finally realized what they had been trying
to tell me; this was their life and they were not afraid or confined. Just like the yellow walls absorbed whatever
fading light they could, the inhabitants of this place made the most of their declining
lives.
