The Nursing Home
I wrote this piece in 1982. It's about my great grandmother. After 98 years she could no longer care for herself. She told me she was mad because she had lost a contest with her older sister. What contest? Whoever lives the longest wins. Her older sister lived to be 101.
"I was often with her at the nursing home. Her hair was cut short and permed. In the past her thick snow white hair reached down and past her mid section. She looked at me and didn't seem to recognize me right away but her eyes were not so good. While talking to her I realized her hearing aid was old. Squeezing my hand in hers our palms began to sweat. We were afraid to let go. I didn't want to let go.
She told me she would never get better that getting old was not so nice. Her legs were like rubber. Her good hand was squeezing and petting mine. She told me how soft and firm my skin was. She got so tired but she didn't want to sleep afraid she would miss the day. She had so few days left.
She told me that the nurses were very nice there (especially a very young male nurse). She told me that she hated being helpless. She wanted to live in her own home. I could see the tears in her eyes. I could feel the tears in mine. I knew she would never go back home.
The family told her the nursing home was a school and that when she learned to walk she could get up and walk right out. We thought she would forget. But of course she did not.
She told me that she was in college but that she would never get out because her walking classes were only once a week. If only they would walk her more she wished out loud.
The family just kept waiting, looking at her sadly, hugging her and loving her. Some were fighting when she left the room for therapy over who would take her to the bathroom next...but loving her.
She told me that she was afraid to die. So was I. I was afraid for her to die and afraid to die myself."
Now it's 2009. I wonder about my parents. I wonder about myself.
My father is dying slowly from cancer. My mother is getting on in age but probably has twenty good years left if genetics play a part. I don't ever want to have to make the decision to put anyone in a nursing home. I don't ever want anyone to have to make the decision to put me in one. I've decided I'll choose my own home and check myself in. I'll pretend that I believe it's only for a little while.
Yes, I'm still somewhat afraid of dying....but more afraid of living long enough to revert back into an infant. However, I don't think I'll care much at that point. I just don't want to go painfully.
I wrote this poem about my great grandmother, Unabelle McCallum when I was about 17. She had it hanging on her wall for a very long time. I hadn't had my children nor my grandchildren at that point or the poem would have been much much longer.
I'm Not Yet Born
A solemn breeze passed through the sky
I'm not yet born.
It carried tenderly the seed
Through winters morn
And placed it in a bed of sand
To root a home
I'm not yet born, but leaves came forth
The bright sun shone
And from the tree came many seeds
The wind still blew
And carried them and laid them down
To start anew
And as time flourished through the years
The wind blew by
It carried forth another child
Through summer sky
Then I was born to see above
The great tree bend
We all look up and now I wait
To catch the wind.
Debra K. McKee
Copyright 2008-2009 © Debra K. McKee
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