I Hate Nursing Homes
(Caution: Post Contains High Levels Of Self-Indulgent Ramblings And May Be Hazardous To Your Attention Span.)
Oh, do i. But why?
Definitely because of the smell. I hate hospitals for that reason, too, if not for others, but there's more to this than that.
It might also be because of the filing-cabinet mentality with which we sometimes stick our aging relatives there when they begin to disrupt our lifestyle. Well, certainly it's that. But not everyone's there for that reason. For many residents, the nursing home is the best possible place to be, the only place they can get the medical help they need when the loving care of their family is no longer enough. My great-aunt Margaret (who has not lost one bit of her sharp ninety-seven-year-old sense of humor) enjoys referring to herself as an "inmate" to irk the nurses, but she wanted to move there, preferring it to other alternatives.
The nurses. There's another part of it. The vast majority of the aides are skilled professionals doing a difficult job for low pay with excellence and consideration. I know this. But you always seem to notice a few bad apples who treat all their patients like equally wayward five-year-olds, when in fact most residents i've met have been fully and sharply aware. Just because you're bedridden, or disabled, or incontinent, doesn't mean you've lost your sense of human dignity.
But is there a little of that condescension in most of us? Contempt can be born of fear...of knowing we're going to end up just like that. Helpless. And eventually, dead. Going gently into that good night, to me, seems less egregious a proposition than the nasty twilight that most always comes first. No way will you catch me going gently into that. If i get old, i'll put a cookplate on the bathroom counter and live on the toilet before i let someone else change my diapers. I guess the loss of awareness can be a nice thing about dementia, if you can see any humor in it. Which you really have to, because in the end, what can any of us do about it all but laugh?
But beyond all that, i think my severe aversion to nursing homes in fact comes down to a simple matter of culture. I like old people - i generally get along with them quite well, in fact - and i have enormous respect for the wisdom they've piled up over a lifetime a lot longer than mine. But once they almost inevitably lose their mobility, there's a whole brave new world of etiquette that comes into play. At dinnertime in Aunt Margaret's nursing home, her fellow residents line up in their wheelchairs from the dining room doors all the way down the hall, like they're vying for position behind an Indy pace car, like someone said the kitchen might run out of red jello tonight. And they guard their spots with ferocious cunning. There is no road rage on earth like the righteous wrath of an old lady in a wheelchair who thinks you're trying to cut in on her in the dinner line. The other problem is that as long as they're queued up they don't really bother too much about where exactly they park themselves; here and there near the TV seems to be fine. This means that as often as not the progress of other traffic through the hallway, able-bodied or not, is completely obstructed.
On encountering such a situation, the last time i was there, i reached the intersection and came to a complete stop to consider my options. Do i try to just squeeze through? No, not quite enough room; also, this seems a bad idea, knowing the value many people of such antiquity place (as is entirely fitting) on politeness. And i am way outnumbered, and they have canes. Do i ask them to move? This also is a little iffy, as i am not sure some of them are actually conscious. There's just no reasonable analogy at all to everyday life. Is it like a grocery store where, as long as you smile and excuse yourself, you can edge an inattentive patron's cart a bit to the side and continue on your way? This also seems a little rude when the cart contains a person, who, it may be said, (1) is approximately three-quarters of a century older than me and (2) may still be in some possession of other, non-movement-related faculties. Although this latter possibility was rather more doubtful, in my assessment of the scene. But now what?
In the end, i settled on a combined approach. I smiled vaguely at the room in general, looking for a little understanding eye contact from anyone - anyone? - and cautiously advanced. The aides ignored me as totally as the residents. I was getting no help. Not a single wheelchair budged, not a single eye blinked, and by this time i was almost upon their first line of defense. Time to seize the moment. I angled my approach to select a target i judged least likely to be aware, offended, or otherwise capable of inflicting bodily harm on me. With what i hoped was a cheerfully deferential murmur, something like "sorrymindifijustsqueezebyhere," i rolled her chair a careful eight inches over - slid breathlessly through the gap - smiled brightly in the direction of the nearest neighbor - and success! I was through. Several steps down the hall i threw a wild glance over my shoulder to check for pursuit, but my victory was free and clear. I was Sherman east of Atlanta. The hallway was mine, and fairly won.
But what's the moral? Be nice to old people cuz you'll probably be one yourself someday? True, but not especially compelling. To me, the same old emphasis of sanctity over quality has more backbone. Yet i also appreciate the elderly for their sheer accumulated life experience, among many other things, and i think they deserve my highest respect, even when they're glaring at me and calling me Carl. So i say, hate the nursing home, but love the residents. Just don't get in their way.
Oh, do i. But why?
Definitely because of the smell. I hate hospitals for that reason, too, if not for others, but there's more to this than that.
It might also be because of the filing-cabinet mentality with which we sometimes stick our aging relatives there when they begin to disrupt our lifestyle. Well, certainly it's that. But not everyone's there for that reason. For many residents, the nursing home is the best possible place to be, the only place they can get the medical help they need when the loving care of their family is no longer enough. My great-aunt Margaret (who has not lost one bit of her sharp ninety-seven-year-old sense of humor) enjoys referring to herself as an "inmate" to irk the nurses, but she wanted to move there, preferring it to other alternatives.
The nurses. There's another part of it. The vast majority of the aides are skilled professionals doing a difficult job for low pay with excellence and consideration. I know this. But you always seem to notice a few bad apples who treat all their patients like equally wayward five-year-olds, when in fact most residents i've met have been fully and sharply aware. Just because you're bedridden, or disabled, or incontinent, doesn't mean you've lost your sense of human dignity.
But is there a little of that condescension in most of us? Contempt can be born of fear...of knowing we're going to end up just like that. Helpless. And eventually, dead. Going gently into that good night, to me, seems less egregious a proposition than the nasty twilight that most always comes first. No way will you catch me going gently into that. If i get old, i'll put a cookplate on the bathroom counter and live on the toilet before i let someone else change my diapers. I guess the loss of awareness can be a nice thing about dementia, if you can see any humor in it. Which you really have to, because in the end, what can any of us do about it all but laugh?
But beyond all that, i think my severe aversion to nursing homes in fact comes down to a simple matter of culture. I like old people - i generally get along with them quite well, in fact - and i have enormous respect for the wisdom they've piled up over a lifetime a lot longer than mine. But once they almost inevitably lose their mobility, there's a whole brave new world of etiquette that comes into play. At dinnertime in Aunt Margaret's nursing home, her fellow residents line up in their wheelchairs from the dining room doors all the way down the hall, like they're vying for position behind an Indy pace car, like someone said the kitchen might run out of red jello tonight. And they guard their spots with ferocious cunning. There is no road rage on earth like the righteous wrath of an old lady in a wheelchair who thinks you're trying to cut in on her in the dinner line. The other problem is that as long as they're queued up they don't really bother too much about where exactly they park themselves; here and there near the TV seems to be fine. This means that as often as not the progress of other traffic through the hallway, able-bodied or not, is completely obstructed.
On encountering such a situation, the last time i was there, i reached the intersection and came to a complete stop to consider my options. Do i try to just squeeze through? No, not quite enough room; also, this seems a bad idea, knowing the value many people of such antiquity place (as is entirely fitting) on politeness. And i am way outnumbered, and they have canes. Do i ask them to move? This also is a little iffy, as i am not sure some of them are actually conscious. There's just no reasonable analogy at all to everyday life. Is it like a grocery store where, as long as you smile and excuse yourself, you can edge an inattentive patron's cart a bit to the side and continue on your way? This also seems a little rude when the cart contains a person, who, it may be said, (1) is approximately three-quarters of a century older than me and (2) may still be in some possession of other, non-movement-related faculties. Although this latter possibility was rather more doubtful, in my assessment of the scene. But now what?
In the end, i settled on a combined approach. I smiled vaguely at the room in general, looking for a little understanding eye contact from anyone - anyone? - and cautiously advanced. The aides ignored me as totally as the residents. I was getting no help. Not a single wheelchair budged, not a single eye blinked, and by this time i was almost upon their first line of defense. Time to seize the moment. I angled my approach to select a target i judged least likely to be aware, offended, or otherwise capable of inflicting bodily harm on me. With what i hoped was a cheerfully deferential murmur, something like "sorrymindifijustsqueezebyhere," i rolled her chair a careful eight inches over - slid breathlessly through the gap - smiled brightly in the direction of the nearest neighbor - and success! I was through. Several steps down the hall i threw a wild glance over my shoulder to check for pursuit, but my victory was free and clear. I was Sherman east of Atlanta. The hallway was mine, and fairly won.
But what's the moral? Be nice to old people cuz you'll probably be one yourself someday? True, but not especially compelling. To me, the same old emphasis of sanctity over quality has more backbone. Yet i also appreciate the elderly for their sheer accumulated life experience, among many other things, and i think they deserve my highest respect, even when they're glaring at me and calling me Carl. So i say, hate the nursing home, but love the residents. Just don't get in their way.
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