Stories of Age: Nursing Home

Polly--Polina--always sat in the same chair, in the same room. I would sometimes stop by and sit with her, and, most of the time, there would be no talking. She would hold my hand, and I would hold her's back. Until one day, she spoke to me herself.

When I first came to Lillian J. Nursing Home, all I could see was old people smiling back at me. Several months later, I could see people who have lived through more than three folds my life, people that have experience all. Also, after several months, I actually knew them.

I knew why Mr Elberg didn't like to sit near windows. He would always flinch if a door was shut too hard, or if a chair was dragged across the floor. The worst, however, was when an airplane would thunder through the sky many miles above. He would flinch, clutch the chair's arms and vigorously shake his head, whispering something under his breath. 

I also knew why Allison repeated only one set of words, always nodding, smiling so kindly that you would think she understands your compliment or joke. She would never speak if not asked; she always listened. She listened to people, and the talkative ones loved talking to her, mainly because she never interrupted. As to her, she loved listening, because, although she couldn't understand, she felt less lonely that way, more alive.

I understood why Bob never answered when he was given a choice between coffee or tea--he would nod for tea, he would nod for coffee too. He did prefer coffee--you could tell by his childish smile--but he couldn't express himself, couldn't choose. 

The reason Margie always talked of death was simple: nobody she knew or loved was alive. "Why hasn't it taken me yet?" she would ask, "I have nothing here."

There was also Mr Dewitt and his crude comments, Violet and her depressing stories, Margie and her obsession with home medicine, Pat, always talking about his grandchild, and many others.

Polly talked very rarely. She just sat there, wherever we'd take her, and look at her lap. She loved talking to us, the younger nurses, but we couldn't understand her, because she spoke incomplete sentences with unrelated words. Soon, however, she would get frustrated, and sit there in silence. It got worse and she stopped talking, replying only if talked to first... Until that one day, when she spoke to me, and I could understand it all...

"I... I could do... but now... no... I used to... I used to know... I had..." Then she paused. She looked into my eyes, silent for another moment, and then asked, her voice calm and aware, "Why? Why me?"

And I sat there, looking into her eyes, seeing a beautiful mind that was going through its slow shutdown.