Mighty Mango #12
I don't know why I started working in a nursing home. I made up a joke: when people ask, I say, "I thought it said nursery. I love kids." Weak laughs, usually, but it's better than "I don't know," followed by "ah," and a few moments of head nodding. People don't ask quite as much as they used to, of course. I mean, I've been working here... Christ, forever and a day, it feels like.
I guess I thought it would be romantic. Or unexpected. Like those stories you always read, about old people with tons of personality, tons of life in them. Someone's salty old grandma with a zillion stories, who can totally keep up with the young whipper snappers. Or maybe old people, reconnecting with romance, and life.
You read those stories, places. Newspapers. A rash of elderly STDs because the guys can't keep it in their pants. Viagra and everything. So you get this image in your head. "Old People: Basically Like You And Me." I'm not saying I imagined PlayStations, but bridge. Cards. Volleyball?
That isn't how it is.
The people living where I work have been, mostly, abandoned. Their families are still alive, healthy, and often numerous. But they don't visit. Yet that is all these old folks talk about: when their son, daughter, or grandchildren will visit next. And when they visited last. I know. It sounds like a cliche: something you'd read in a bad story written by a mean-spirited girl who just didn't like her job.
Surely, they have other things. A lifetime of memories. Wisdom with which to see the world. It just can't be true that they sit around and talk about their bastard children, who loathe the smell of that place (is it urine? is it the low-quality cafeteria food? little of both?) so much that they abandon their parents there.
But it is true. That's how everyone is. None of them even speak to me--and I'm young, here to help them!
"Beatrice," I say. "It's time to change your clothes, dear."
Beatrice is 83 years old. That makes her 60 years older than me. I take care of her.
I imagine life stories for all of the people here because I'm too scared to ask them anything about themselves. So, in my head, Beatrice was an awkward child growing up, and remains an awkward old person. She has a hard time making friends here because she thinks no one likes her, so she stays in her room. She watches Jeopardy! every day at 4:30pm, during dinner, because she thinks Alex Trebek is a nice boy.
I don't know if any of that's true, but couldn't it be?
She doesn't take her gown off, though: she just looks at me, right in the eyes. "Elsie, dear," she says, startling the living fuck out of me.
"What!" I gasp.
I realize I've been rude, but damn, it's the first time she's ever said a word to me. I can literally not remember a single previous conversation we've ever had--and now she's interrupting me while I try to take care of her, to change her? How does she know my name?! Oh. Name tag. That must be it. I work here, so I have a name tag.
"Elsie, dear, I'm feeling a little ill. Would you give Felix a message for me?"
"I... what? Yes."
"Tell him I can't meet him for lunch today. Thank you, sweetheart."
Meet... for lunch? Beatrice doesn't meet people for lunch. She does not. Felix? That guy hasn't left his room in a hundred years! I've never seen them hang out.
Oh, that poor woman. I immediately conclude that Beatrice's mental health has taken a turn for the worse, and go to speak to my supervisor, Craig. His office door is always open, but I've never really had occasion to speak with him before. He and the other employees here went out for drinks and things sometimes, but I wasn't really interested.
"Craig?"
"Ms. Berry... how can I help you?" He seemed confused that I was there. Well, no surprise. I'm a bit of a model employee: I always do my work, quietly, without bothering anyone. I don't bother my supervisors. I don't bother Craig.
I told him about the strange incident. He refused to seem surprised. He just nodded along, until I finished my story.
"So, pretty weird, right?"
"Why would it be?"
"Because that woman never eats lunch with anyone. She's a total loner, Craig. Felix? Felix hasn't left his room in a hundred years." I was repeating myself, I knew, but Craig hadn't heard the thought the first time.
"Elsie... those two eat together every day, dear."
Dear? Dear!
"Don't call me dear!"
Why was I getting so angry?
I tried to stand, but slipped a little bit, tumbled, and before I knew it I had hit the ground. Hard. Hard enough to hear a dull, sickening snap as I went down.
I woke up a few hours later, in what I can only assume was the city hospital. Thank God they'd taken me out of that urine-soaked hellhole. I resolved to quit my job immediately the next morning.
"Ms. Berry?"
That was me. Elsie Berry.
"Yes?"
"You have visitors."
And in came three little boys and two girls, none of whom I recognized. Two adults--their parents, I guess? They looked concerned. The woman was on the verge of tears! And she looked like... someone. Like my mom, a little bit. Why were they here?
"Auntie Elsie Auntie Elsie. Are you okay?"
"Broken hip," said the doctor.
The woman burst into tears. "That place! It's that place, it's a hellhole!"
"Who the fuck is Auntie Elsie?" I said.
"Shh. Honey. Honey. Elaine. It's not a hellhole. They said she was having a hard day, that she was right in the middle of an episode. Yelling at Dr. Craig."
Episode?
"Doctor" Craig?
Who the fuck are these...
Oh, God.
I guess I thought it would be romantic. Or unexpected. Like those stories you always read, about old people with tons of personality, tons of life in them. Someone's salty old grandma with a zillion stories, who can totally keep up with the young whipper snappers. Or maybe old people, reconnecting with romance, and life.
You read those stories, places. Newspapers. A rash of elderly STDs because the guys can't keep it in their pants. Viagra and everything. So you get this image in your head. "Old People: Basically Like You And Me." I'm not saying I imagined PlayStations, but bridge. Cards. Volleyball?
That isn't how it is.
The people living where I work have been, mostly, abandoned. Their families are still alive, healthy, and often numerous. But they don't visit. Yet that is all these old folks talk about: when their son, daughter, or grandchildren will visit next. And when they visited last. I know. It sounds like a cliche: something you'd read in a bad story written by a mean-spirited girl who just didn't like her job.
Surely, they have other things. A lifetime of memories. Wisdom with which to see the world. It just can't be true that they sit around and talk about their bastard children, who loathe the smell of that place (is it urine? is it the low-quality cafeteria food? little of both?) so much that they abandon their parents there.
But it is true. That's how everyone is. None of them even speak to me--and I'm young, here to help them!
"Beatrice," I say. "It's time to change your clothes, dear."
Beatrice is 83 years old. That makes her 60 years older than me. I take care of her.
I imagine life stories for all of the people here because I'm too scared to ask them anything about themselves. So, in my head, Beatrice was an awkward child growing up, and remains an awkward old person. She has a hard time making friends here because she thinks no one likes her, so she stays in her room. She watches Jeopardy! every day at 4:30pm, during dinner, because she thinks Alex Trebek is a nice boy.
I don't know if any of that's true, but couldn't it be?
She doesn't take her gown off, though: she just looks at me, right in the eyes. "Elsie, dear," she says, startling the living fuck out of me.
"What!" I gasp.
I realize I've been rude, but damn, it's the first time she's ever said a word to me. I can literally not remember a single previous conversation we've ever had--and now she's interrupting me while I try to take care of her, to change her? How does she know my name?! Oh. Name tag. That must be it. I work here, so I have a name tag.
"Elsie, dear, I'm feeling a little ill. Would you give Felix a message for me?"
"I... what? Yes."
"Tell him I can't meet him for lunch today. Thank you, sweetheart."
Meet... for lunch? Beatrice doesn't meet people for lunch. She does not. Felix? That guy hasn't left his room in a hundred years! I've never seen them hang out.
Oh, that poor woman. I immediately conclude that Beatrice's mental health has taken a turn for the worse, and go to speak to my supervisor, Craig. His office door is always open, but I've never really had occasion to speak with him before. He and the other employees here went out for drinks and things sometimes, but I wasn't really interested.
"Craig?"
"Ms. Berry... how can I help you?" He seemed confused that I was there. Well, no surprise. I'm a bit of a model employee: I always do my work, quietly, without bothering anyone. I don't bother my supervisors. I don't bother Craig.
I told him about the strange incident. He refused to seem surprised. He just nodded along, until I finished my story.
"So, pretty weird, right?"
"Why would it be?"
"Because that woman never eats lunch with anyone. She's a total loner, Craig. Felix? Felix hasn't left his room in a hundred years." I was repeating myself, I knew, but Craig hadn't heard the thought the first time.
"Elsie... those two eat together every day, dear."
Dear? Dear!
"Don't call me dear!"
Why was I getting so angry?
I tried to stand, but slipped a little bit, tumbled, and before I knew it I had hit the ground. Hard. Hard enough to hear a dull, sickening snap as I went down.
I woke up a few hours later, in what I can only assume was the city hospital. Thank God they'd taken me out of that urine-soaked hellhole. I resolved to quit my job immediately the next morning.
"Ms. Berry?"
That was me. Elsie Berry.
"Yes?"
"You have visitors."
And in came three little boys and two girls, none of whom I recognized. Two adults--their parents, I guess? They looked concerned. The woman was on the verge of tears! And she looked like... someone. Like my mom, a little bit. Why were they here?
"Auntie Elsie Auntie Elsie. Are you okay?"
"Broken hip," said the doctor.
The woman burst into tears. "That place! It's that place, it's a hellhole!"
"Who the fuck is Auntie Elsie?" I said.
"Shh. Honey. Honey. Elaine. It's not a hellhole. They said she was having a hard day, that she was right in the middle of an episode. Yelling at Dr. Craig."
Episode?
"Doctor" Craig?
Who the fuck are these...
Oh, God.
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