Wednesday, August 04, 2004
hell is.
we had the grandmother over for dinner last night, from the nursing home. this visit marks my first time seeing her in eight years. everyone did such a good job preparing me for how far downhill she's skated that i was actually pleasantly suprised. she still gives a good hug, can crack a joke on occasion, and wants to hang out. that's about it for pleasant anything, though.
nursing homes are awful. this one isn't even so awful, it's just awful to share a glorified hospital room with someone you have nothing in common with. there are a few demented folks on the same ward, and there's a lot of television noise. jerry springer is the last thing you want to hear in that place, too. like the smell isn't depressing enough.
so we bring her home for a homecooked meatloaf, and of course she doesn't want to go. my dad gently gets her things together and brings her to the car. during the mutual-support dance required to get her hundred and thirty pounds into the passenger seat, her arms locked around my dad's neck, she turns and quips, "we'll be doing a two-step next. stick around."
we got to the home, got her laboriously changed and into bed and situated and goodbyed. and she throws up. poor lady; the one good thing that happens to her all week is coming home for home-time, and apparently the evenings nearly always end in vomit. richer food, more of it, later hour, the one quarter of a beer we poured for her--i don't know what it is, but my dad, who'd been a little short with her at times in the evening, patiently cleaned her up and patter her hand like she was . . . well, me. we drove home mostly quiet. i rubbed his neck a little. i wish he had someone to talk to.
nursing homes are awful. this one isn't even so awful, it's just awful to share a glorified hospital room with someone you have nothing in common with. there are a few demented folks on the same ward, and there's a lot of television noise. jerry springer is the last thing you want to hear in that place, too. like the smell isn't depressing enough.
so we bring her home for a homecooked meatloaf, and of course she doesn't want to go. my dad gently gets her things together and brings her to the car. during the mutual-support dance required to get her hundred and thirty pounds into the passenger seat, her arms locked around my dad's neck, she turns and quips, "we'll be doing a two-step next. stick around."
we got to the home, got her laboriously changed and into bed and situated and goodbyed. and she throws up. poor lady; the one good thing that happens to her all week is coming home for home-time, and apparently the evenings nearly always end in vomit. richer food, more of it, later hour, the one quarter of a beer we poured for her--i don't know what it is, but my dad, who'd been a little short with her at times in the evening, patiently cleaned her up and patter her hand like she was . . . well, me. we drove home mostly quiet. i rubbed his neck a little. i wish he had someone to talk to.
