Nursing Old Wounds

When I was 15, I volunteered at a local nursing home. We had to take Carolina back roads to get there, and my Dad capitalized on the opportunity by trying to teach me how to drive in our cobalt blue '93 Ford Taurus.

While driving was exhilarating, what I remember most was being happy to finally get to the nursing home. I suppose my Dad would say the same.

I didn't do anything at the nursing home, really—just talked to the folks, or rather listened to them talk. About their kids, parakeets, husbands, gardens, Pat Sajak—whatever and whoever was on their minds.

Though enjoyable in its way, as non-essential as my post seemed during the six or so months that I did it, the value really came back to me when my own Mama went into to a nursing home eight years later.

Even though she was a good 20 years younger than the youngest of the nursing home set, I found that the only thing any of the folks there, my Mama included, wanted was for someone to listen to them. To stories about their kids, their parakeets, their husbands, their gardens, Alex Trebek—whatever and whoever was on their minds.

I was really fortunate that I was just down the road from my Mama's nursing home during those months and that she eventually decided she wanted to go home nine months later. Some people never leave.

I don't even like to think about how weird my experience was as a 23-year-old who had to visit her mother in a nursing home, because I can't even imagine how weird it was to be a 55-year-old woman whose 23-year-old daughter was visiting her in a nursing home. It's all relative.

During her life, my Mama touched people: quite literally as a talented massage therapist and emotionally as someone who cared about the hearts and lives of her clients. Hearing her clients' stories at her funeral made my grieving heart sing. The song was low and sad and wavering, but still.

More than her dying, it hurt recalling the months and years of watching my Mama give up on life.

I wish I had a point here. I don't.

I'm mostly just feeling sorry and sad for myself on this rainy April night. Missing my Mama. Worried about my sister. Concerned that my niece and nephews may someday be in the same position. Trying to figure out the best way to make sure that none of us ever has to worry about this sort of thing again.

Thank goodness it's spring.

In the Comments section, tell me about what you're worried.