We're Waiting in the Lobby

Now it's happened once or twice
Someone couldn't pay the price
And I'm afraid I had to rake 'em 'cross the coals
Yes, I've had the odd complaint
But on the whole I've been a saint
To those poor unfortunate souls

Come on, you poor unfortunate soul
Go ahead!
Make your choice!
I'm a very busy woman
And I haven't got all day
It won't cost much
Just your voice!
You poor unfortunate soul
It's sad
But true
If you want to cross a bridge, my sweet
You've got to pay the toll
Take a gulp and take a breath
And go ahead and sign the scroll!
Flotsam, Jetsam, now I've got her, boys
The boss is on a roll
This poor unfortunate soul

"Poor Unfortunate Souls" - The Little Mermaid Soundtrack


Kathy Bates enters the room. She takes a seat in a lovely, impeccably upholstered chintz sofa, circa 1980-something. It's a beautiful sofa with American Beauty Red colored cabbage roses and shiny vines of asparagus green leaves. As the camera pans the room, we notice Jessica Tandy, a lonely octogenarian, sitting near the window. The sun highlights her amazingly long silver hair, firmly knotted at the base of her neck. She wears face powder and a classic mauve tinted lip balm. Her nails are polished with Revlon's "Teddy Bear". She smells of Estee' Lauder's "Youth Dew"....or maybe Clinique's "Aromatics Elixir"...or "Tea Rose" (who made Tea Rose, anyway?). As the afternoon progresses, the two women become acquainted with each other, share a candy bar, and relive a life well lived by telling each other humorous anecdotes. That is how we are led to believe one's last days will be lived. But that, my friends, is not reality. There are no "Fried Green Tomatoes" in a nursing home, folks.

Yesterday, I took my step-son, Carter, to the nursing home. My husband, Kevin, is fortunate enough to have 3 grandparents still alive and doing seemingly well. I must admit, I'm a little jealous. I'd lost all of my grandparents by the time I was 30. I miss them, especially my maternal grandmother, namely because she was the last to go and because I have rooms upon rooms upon rooms in my mind full of amazing memories she and I created together. I never saw any of my grandparents in a nursing home, though I believe one was in such a facility briefly. Anyway, back to yesterday. All of Kevin's grandparents are in the same nursing home! First we have his paternal grandparents - yep! Still together & in the same room, no less! They get to see each other every day. They still get to share a "good morning", a "sleep well", and even an "I love you". One floor up, however, you have Kevin's maternal grandmother who was transferred here temporarily for physical therapy after taking a bad fall and breaking her hip recently. She is slated to return to her beloved home in about 3 months, or as soon as she is deemed as healed and as mobile/independent as possible. Still, a visit was appropriate, as much for us as for them. It's very difficult, though this was not Carter's first visit and certainly not his last, to prepare a child for the alternate universe they are about to enter.

It's a lovely facility. I hear it's very, very expensive and difficult to get into. The grounds look more like an Ivy League college campus, what with all of the towering Live Oak trees, hundreds of years old, that bend and touch, forming shaded canopies to meander through on lazy, summer afternoons. It is, however, still a home for the elderly. It is for those who still walk - and those who will never walk again. It is for those who speak - and those who cannot, or whose words are no longer are intelligible. We talk, Carter and I, as we pull into the parking lot. I remind Carter that a woman tried to touch him last time, pulling and clawing at his arm as he walked by her in the hallway. He assures me that he understands. Why, he tells me, she probably thought he was her grandson, son, younger brother, first boyfriend, or such. Maybe she even thought he was an angel - he with the blond hair highlighted by a summer's worth of chlorine and sun, he with the huge green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles. He assures me, too, that he isn't scared to deal with this sudden onset of the realization of one's mortality. Those were not his young words, of course, but he knows. He knows this is how we all end up. He knows that we enter this world helpless and leave this world helpless. He senses that it is beyond our control. I sense something, too - he is far, far wiser than his 9 years.

We are lucky! Mamaw, Papaw, and Gee Gee are talkative. There is no Alzheimer's lying in wait inside any of them. They are all much more mobile that you could imagine. They have the ability and the desire to get up every morning, dress up, wear perfume, cologne, suspenders, necklaces, and the like. They do this everyday....and then sit there. Just in case someone comes to visit. Just in case something out of the ordinary were to happen. Just in case. As we enter, though, I realize I forgot to warn Carter about one important factor. I have forgotten to remind him of the smells. As we push through the entrance doors and walk back toward the elevators, it hits us like a freight train. It has the consistency of honey, thick and sticky, the aroma of liniments, human excrement, and disinfectant. Carter looks up at me and takes my hand. "Oh, DD, I forgot about the smell!" he says. "I know, baby - I did too." That is all I can think to say.

Have you seen Disney's "Little Mermaid?" Do you know the part where Ariel goes to see Ursula and all those lost souls are writhing around with oval mouths frozen in a horrible scream, except Ursula stole all their voices so they only have silent screams? That is what nursing homes are like, on the surface, at least. They are sitting in seats, in wheelchairs, on couches. Heads down, heads up, heads lolling to one side or the other. Cloudy eyes, clear eyes. Silent or moaning. Tears of happiness or tears of despair. Frozen smiles or open-mouthed with rivulets of drool that drip like a faulty kitchen faucet. Who are these lobby people, I always wonder? Are they the ones who never get company, or hugs, or conversation? Do the nurses park them in this hallway so they can at least pretend that all the visitors who walk these halls everyday are there for them? Do they sense me? Do I smell good, or have they so adjusted to this environment that my carefully chosen "Lady Primrose" perfume smells like a tragic chemical mistake to them? Do they know it's Wednesday? Do they remember the day to day happenings I have trudged through just to get there and spend a few, paltry minutes? These are some of the things I wonder.

As we leave the building, 1 hour and 20 minutes after our entrance (instead of the 15minutes per room I allotted), Carter tells me the same thing he told me on our last visit. He says," You know, D (sometimes I'm DD and sometimes I'm just D!), I always feel like a better person when we leave here. I'm always so glad we came. We're all they have." And, I always think to myself, "We're all any of them have, Cart." I'm thinking we should adopt a few more grandparents. And sit on a chintz couch. And listen to some stories. And bring candy. And learn to like the smells.