I went to visit an old friend today. She lives at a senior “assisted living” place on the west side of the Portland Metro area. My oncologist’s office is less than five miles from where my friend now resides, so when I make a trip to see one of the doctors there, I try to drop in on my friend.
Our visits never last an hour. She gets tired. I can’t stand nursing homes. Today, we didn’t make it past twenty minutes because she was falling asleep on me. She doesn’t look good. Do any old people resigned to living in such a space look good?
I’ve been to a number of these places over the years, and they always leave me depressed. Seeing a dear friend in the early winter of her life… That’s more depressing.
This friend was once my superior at my job. She was brilliant. Dedicated. A mathematical wizard and an innovator. Faithful to the company and the men who ran that company. She worked for a little over minimum wage, lived in a single-wide trailer, and raised three children on very little income. There was no pension plan for us at the company, only what we earned over the years that was socked away into Social Security.
She mentored me over several years. I discovered I had a small gift at mathematics under her tutelage. She had a sense of humor, a lot of dreams, and a keen mind. We went from paper files, paper storage, to digital files and even a program that could do the math for us. My friend stayed current with all those changes in her senior years. She was a legacy.
But change is inevitable, and the company sold out to a corporation that didn’t value the small people. One by one, friends and coworkers faced the axe, not the least of which was my friend. My entire department went under the axe, except for me. I left voluntarily before they could figure out a replacement for my job.
For a while there, all of us got together and had lunch or dinner together. Even that got old as we moved on to new jobs or our retirement plans.
I think it was about five years ago that my friend lost her youngest child to brain cancer. That was the beginning of the end: it is difficult to recover from the loss of a child. My friend was already faltering physically: a broken hip that set her back several weeks, an income that didn’t support her anymore, a mind that no longer fired on all eight cylinders (if my friend had been a car, she would have been a V-8: luxury, speed, and staying power. I’d be a V-6).
We talked on the phone. We called on our birthdays. We no longer had restaurant dates together. My child died. My friend found herself in a walker and in a nursing home. Pardon, an “assisted living” home. The first time I visited her there was in 2020. I have been sporadic ever since, but more regular since the cancer scare of last year. After all, my oncologist’s office is nearby.
My friend was frail and tiny in 2020. She looked much older than her 80+ years. Much tinier than I had ever known her. Her mind was still sharp, however. She was angry that she had “lost everything” in the move from her trailer to assisted living. All her collectibles. The comfort of her own home. Most of her wardrobe. Her car. Her independence. But not her memory.
Her birthday is next week. I took her a birthday card today. She no longer walks, even with a walker. Today was the first time in three years that there was no sign about Covid being “in the building” somewhere, but I masked up anyway. She hates it when I wear a mask because I don’t look like me. She doesn’t look like herself.
We talked about our coworkers and who still visits her in the home: three of us coworkers and the one son who lives nearby. Her great grands haven’t been by in a while. She’s angry. She’s resigned. She’s not ready to die. But we both know Death is hovering on the horizon, closer than she wants to admit. She struggled to stay awake during my visit.
I will be back over there in March. I’m not certain that my friend will still be there. I do know that her son will remember to notify me when she goes. I hope she will be there.
I hate going there. I hate the idea of ending up like my friend: unable to walk, tied to a bed, only a TV to entertain me with old reruns, and a small handful of people who remember to call or visit. I know she isn’t ready to die, but I also know if I was in her position, I’d be thinking of ways to end my life already. I’m too selfish to want to waste away by millimeters in a building with other dying people, and in a room with some stranger.
I understand why my mother-in-law fought so hard to get out of assisted living and back in her home with a nurse coming by daily. I understand even more why my father quit taking his medications three months before the effects caught up with him and he died in his own home, still independent. I understand why my mother, at the age of 63, chose to stop breathing rather than be tied to an oxygen machine for the rest of her life. There is nothing gratifying about lingering death. There is nothing enticing about waiting while the Grim Reaper bides its time.
Death either comes in like a freight train or it slimes in as slow as a slug. So – tonight – lift a glass of whatever it is you drink and toast my Lola. I said good-bye today and kissed her forehead. I don’t know if I will get another chance. And for those of you who have a loved one in a nursing home, assisted living space, or hospital: go visit. I don’t care how uncomfortable it makes you feel. Hold their hand. Feel the papery skin. Remember for them. Remember them.
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Jaci Dawn 