Nancy Bartholomew

One stop shopping.

Saw this sign on my way home from a day at the nursing home.  It's a lot like my life at the nursing home.  The conversations I have with people are often a hodge-podge of things that don't seem to go together- like bait and notary publics.  

When I first met Eleanor she had just arrived at the nursing home from a stay in the hospital.  She was recovering from a stroke and couldn't find the words she needed.  So, instead of wasting her time on looking for the right word, she'd wave her hand in the air and roll her eyes at me.  "Oh, doesn't matter!" she'd say and burst into tears.

Today she saw me and waved me over to her table in the day room.  "How are you!" she said, beaming.

I slid into the chair beside her, fairly certain she had no idea who I was.

"Guess what?" she demands.

"What?"

"Do you have any idea how old I am?" she asks.  Then, not waiting for my answer, she says, "I thought I was 78, at the most 85 but my daughter looked it up and guess what?" Her bright blue eyes twinkle mischeviously.  She's grinning like she's won the lottery.  "I'm 93 years old! Can you believe it?"

"No!" I say, having forgotten it myself.  "That is unbelievable."

Eleanor nods.  "Isn't it? I couldn't believe it myself!"  We laugh, partners in the grand joke.

Later, I ask how she likes her new, private room.

Eleanor nods wisely.  "You know, my father put me in with that girl.  He thought she would help me, but I tell you, he was wrong.  She points her finger at me like this." Eleanor demonstrates, jabbing her forefinger with an accusatory flourish.  "And her hand is a claw!"

Eleanor and I shake our heads, commiserating at the perfect picture Eleanor has painted of her former roommate- a scowling, shrewish woman with advanced dementia.

"I couldn't take it any more.  I told my daughter I didn't care if it made me sell my house, as long as nobody..." She stops, the word lost.  Then she waves her hand in the air, just like she did when I first met her and says, "Oh, well. You know."

I nod.  "Yeah, I know.  As long as it doesn't hurt your daughter's inheritance."

"Exactly," Eleanor agrees.  She chuckles then looks me right in the eye.  "You know, I've been ready to die for awhile now.  I just don't know why I'm here."

I cover her hand with my own.  "I know," I say, because really, I do know.  She has been telling me this every time I've talked to her for months now. 

"I mean, I've done enough.  Nobody went off into the sky or anything," Meaning she didn't raise a rocket scientist or a president.  "But they did all right.  He told me there were 284 who showed up last week."

I think about this for a second, remember she has a son and guess he is a minister.  Turns out this is correct.  

"Being a mother is a very big deal," I say.  "You raised two wonderful children."

She nods in agreement.

"You know I live here now," she says, shaking her head in disbelief.  "I never wanted it to come to this."

I squeeze her hand and she grips mine tighter.

"But," she says, and the twinkle returns to her eyes.  "Now I finally got my own ter-let.  I don't have to share.  Of course, it's big.  I sit down and the next thing I know, I'm stuck in the thing."  Eleanor laughs at her misfortune.  "I have to pull that piece of string." She waves her hand in the air, unable to find and say "call bell."  "Then they, you know."  She flails her fingers above her head, her laughter so contagious we both giggle.  "I know they're saying, 'It's the old lady again! She's stuck in her terlet!" 

I hang onto my friend's hand, hoping that should I have the misfortune to wind up at 93 in a nursing home,  I somehow  summon up half the humor, bravery and grace my friend, Eleanor seems to pull out of thin air.