Mum: the most precious thing I’ve ever lost. Mum passed away after a long battle with secondary complications following a severe stroke.  I had many encounters with medical mis diagnosis and poor care while 

Nursing Home Blues

By Elaine Cebuliak

Nursing home blues

by Elaine Cebuliak

Nursing home blues

 

 

It was a Lavender afternoon.  Mild, soft and ambiguous.  Not quite the

pastel  blue of depression, or the bright  azure tones of summer,  or

the royal blue of navy patriotism. It was a bland Autumn day, a

cummulous clouded afternoon that  no longer contained the reds or

yellows of the enthusiasm of active, sunny youth.

 

No, today was decidedly a dilute purple.  The colour that says to the

observer “I am not a threat, I am innocuous”.  The colour that blends

well with silvers and greys.  It is the colour that defines  the walls

of the(euphemistically called)  retirement  home, from the reception

to the nurses  desk.   The paint tones belong to one of the

decorator’s varied attempts to calm the spirit of those who enter this

stage.

 

 Lavender is the fading spirit of the refined elderly.  It is the

colour that my mother wears.   It is also the scent that elegantly

covers  the stale urine smells of the nursing home that discarded

family members find themselves in.

 

Ah, to be a famous poet or an artist of some distinctive flare.  No

one is likely to critically analyse your carbon footprint or your

reason for existence in this planet in years to come.  You would not

need to justify your relativity theorem, or put up with endless

debates about accreditation, scientific relevance,  or have to make

endless policy adjustments to please the crowds. You just were. What

mark have you left?   At least you would have made a difference with

your time on earth, in a relatively nondestructive sense of being.

Some aesthetes would have appreciated you.  What is the best way to

move forward, in life’s greater scheme of good?

 

The insignificance of many people’s lives in their sunset years seems

like an unappreciated flower, left to wither in the melting pot

cupboard where vases are closeted away from the bustle of modern day

lives.  Accountants, lawyers, teachers and even ministers hurry away

on their buck chasing finer agenda with a chronology that forgets that

they once had (and still have) a mother or father or aunty or uncle or

grandparent locked away in some nursing home waiting for the other

side of the closet door to crack open a little to let some light in.

 

I ponder these thoughts as I wheel my paralysed mother up a capricious

curve that clearly was not designed to be wheel chair friendly.  Where

were the town planners when they designed these shopping centres?

Obviously they never had to struggle with ridiculously

under-engineered moebius stripped tread and low traction plegic

mobiles.   Disabled signs tease and placate the politicians and

council workers, but bear no true meaning to the reality. They taunt

plegics into believing that some real thought has gone into the

process of their needs.

 

Mum lets out a sigh as if the weight of having lived past 90 years is

oppressive.  The fog of the stroke clouds her mind, as she struggles

to find the words that used to flow so freely.  Are you cold dear? She

says with great concern.

 

No, I reply, I am fine. A slight smile comes across my dour facade.

Mum will always be a mum. Her concern for her offspring is tantamount

to Presidential care for the country, she will defend their rights and

balance the budget always willing to give up her time for others.

 

I am sorry I am so much trouble for you, she says.

 

DeNada, I think the small sacrifices I make are very few compared to

the years Mum had in carrying, diapering , feeding and couriering me.

Mum its ok, no problem, I say.

 

Where would you like to go today?

 

Anyplace you want to take me, she says.

 

How about the park? She remembers, as well as I, that the slate laid

some 30 years ago in parts of the path is flaking making those said

tyres difficult to push through. We’ll just go along the asphalt and

be careful. Mum is afraid of falling out of her wheel chair and not

being able to be picked up and put back in. Her balance is fragile.

 

We could go to sushi after.  Or maybe her favourite – Chinese

smorgasbord.  Chicken and almonds. Although her glass like teeth can’t

handle the almonds anymore.

 

Let’s go to the movies, I say. “Mao’s Last Dancer” is on, and mum used

to be a patron of the arts.

 

So off we trundle in the maxi taxi that has done over a million

kilometres, and good old Joni –the yellow taxi- gets us there with

a-plume.

 

As we drop the hydraulic lift and back out of the van there is a

distinctive odiferous wave. I think I passed wind, says mum.  OK,

shall we go to the loo? I say.

 

Take me back to the nursing home says mum

 

OH, but we just got here.

 

We should go back, says mum

 

Thank goodness there is a bag of adult nappies and cleaning supplies I

have collected for such an occasion. Off we go to the wheelchair

cramped ablution quarters,  narrowly missing the sink and barely able

to turn the wheelchair around. We must roll the dial to lie it flat

and get the back down to turn the wheelchair into a change table.

There are no hydraulic lifts in these public facilities, so if one is

confined to a wheelchair and unable to transfer to a toilet one needs

to be exceptionally prepared and have back up staff to get one’s basic

needs met.

 

The wheelchair has a dial on the side to wind down the back, and the

legs come up with a forward pull. Thank goodness my back is still

strong and I can reach and bend. Now it is simply a matter of baby

care, one leg up at a time and massive amounts of toilet paper latter

and we are away.  Luckily I am not squeamish, as human faeces dribble

down the leg that needs care.  No worse than cage cleaning at our

veterinary surgery, I think quietly, as I pull layers of toilet paper

of the unforgiving roll.

 

That job accomplished and chair rightfully returned to the standard

angle, we proceed backwards through the narrow “wheelchair” friendly

door.  Some kind sympathetic man holds the door open so we can

disentangle ourselves from its self closing action.

 

Hopscotch film distributors comes up on the screen.  Is that the name

of the movie, says mum in her less than inaudible voice. Shhhh says

the unidentifiable neighbours in the movie theatre. Mum, you have to

whisper and be quiet in here, I say, soto voice.

 

Oh, she says, once a preschool teacher in command of 25 or so

rambunctious trainable and noisy 4-5 year old beings.

 

This is a long movie, she says, forgetting that whispering was the denovo mode.

 

That was colourful, and a good movie she says back in her room.

 

Yes, I say, as I change her clothes back at the nursing home while

waiting for the staff to answer their buzzer.  Sometimes they come,

sometimes they don’t, says mum.

 

They are busy, I say.

 

Usually they are pretty good when they see me come in. Years of

introductions and a proud mum bragging about her progeny probably

helped. Others are not so lucky. On some days there are no signatures

in the entry book kept out by the front door to register incoming

traffic.

 

In the last few months mums neighbours on either side have died. One,

Dougie, had an exceptionally quirky smile which he used to great

effect whenever mum passed by, I used to tease her that this was her

boyfriend. I think she liked him, she said he was probably a ladies

man previously.  Another across the aisle Edna gave up her ghost

probably due to systemically infected cellulitis, she had had enough

of the pain.  Before her dermal wounds saw the other side, she would

sing and laugh at the slightest occasion. Their beds had no time to

get cold, the human production conveyor belt churns steadily and

brings another tragic stroke victim wheeled in.  The waiting lists for

care are long, and Santa doesn’t wait for Christmas.  One needs to be

thankful that an opportunity for placement arises, because there is

little respite in some situations. Not enough families around to care.

Too busy chasing the almighty dollar. Too spread out across the

planet.

 

Its a joy when the grandkids run amok in the nursing home. It’s very

rare to see children in this time zone.  Kids are probably scared off

by the smells, I think.  Some reminiscence of normality, of

perpetuating generational purpose would be nice. The old ones smile

when they see happy puppies jumping around.

 

Pets as therapy dogs and peoples pets on leashes would also produce

some jocularity. Its not common here. We manage to sneak in our Kelpie

on occasion, who sits under the bed in bewildered fashion wondering

when her “Grandma” will get out of bed.

 

It would be nice to have a nursing home dog, a small doll like

creature that always smiles that could live there.   I guess its just

another chore for the overworked staff, and maybe a hygiene problem,

or some people are allergic or afraid of them.

 

Why don’t we do a painting mum? I’ll do one when I get home, her

perseverance kicks in.

 

Mum that may not happen, so why don’t we just do one now. No she says.

Don’t want to. Will do one when I get back to the new house. She says.

The house dad bought with her money that she will never get to live

in.

 

Ok, how about we read a magazine and do some of the word puzzles. We

manage to get through 3 of them before she has had enough. The nursing

staff still haven’t come to help toilet her and put her to bed. Shall

we brush your teeth (or what is remaining of them, I think). Ok

 

Staff must be on their break.

 

I hear buzzers going off up the hall. There is a rancid smell of urine

wafting through the corridors this evening.

 

Mum, do you want a drink of water? I realise that unless she is

regularly reminded to drink, she forgets to drink.  Her lips look like

parchment. I get her some fresh water from the dispenser up the hall.

Still no sign of staff.  I push the call button again.

 

Are you staying down tonight? She asks.

 

I have to work tomorrow so I might drive back soon, I say.

 

 

Thank you for coming and for everything you do for me, she says. I

really like it when you visit. I am sorry I am so much trouble.

 

 

Somehow that makes it all worthwhile.

 

You are no trouble mom, you are my mother, I say.

 

I kiss her on the forehead and walk away looking for some staff to

help hoist her to bed and change her diaper.  They do not like to put

her on the toilet at this time because it is double handling to get

her back to bed, and they are understaffed.

 

It was a pleasant visit, and I drive away with thoughts of mom’s life

as it is,” Mom’s last dance” in the nursing home.

 

With love, your daughter.