Homework #27: Visiting an Unwell Person

            Not particularly ill, my grandmother lives in a nursing home in New Jersey. Her second husband moved there after his Alzheimer’s became severe and she followed him, maybe not the best decision. On the car ride home my parents speculated about how it would have been if they had instead just had her move in with us, as opposed to the nursing home. They believed that it would have been better for her, that living in a nursing home with a group of ill people made her body give up and settle for the fate of those around her.

            Tired and honestly not in the mood to visit my grandmother, we pulled up to the castle-like estate in which she resides. It seems impossible that such a beautiful place can exist in which the old can reside while we complain about our health care system. Through the automatic doors we approached the desk and asked for the keys to my grandmother’s apartment. Unfortunately her nail appointment was rescheduled, leading to her absence during my visit. With age my grandmother has begun to lose her memory, resulting in a phone call to maintenance to let us into her apartment – she had forgotten to leave us keys. We walked along the hallway to the elevators, my parents remarking on how complicated the set up was considering the home houses the ill. I hadn’t been there in years so I scanned the rooms as we raced through them. In the one with wooden tables covered in completed puzzles, I noticed a Wii lying underneath the flat screen television. Why I wonder, do these people have a need for a video gaming device, when I do not even have one?

             We managed to gain access into the apartment after a series of identical hallways and elevators. Everything was perfectly aligned, not a single item out of place. My mother pulled out the pillbox, the reason for our visit. Each little compartment was labeled with a day of the week. My father noted that the week went backwards, and how confusing that must be. In the scheme of things, it appears that as much as we try to assist the ill and dying, we tend to forget for whom we are making the objects. While my mother wrote out specific instructions for her own mother I continued to explore the apartment. The walls and tables were lined with pictures of my family. I only found about three pictures of myself, the rest containing my ten other cousins. Those pictures appeared to be the only things she had left. Of course my grandmother being a proper woman in her mind has a boyfriend, but there were no pictures of him. The ill and dying hold on to those relationships, which they value most. My grandmother obviously stakes a lot of her emotion in us: her children and grandchildren. It is very much like what Beth said, “Relationships make it bearable to die.”

            After ransacking her house searching for family photos, we left. I was happy to finally get out of the building; I was scared to touch anything. I am not sure why, I am not a mysophobe, but it just gave me a weird feeling. I could not get the image out of my head of an old wrinkly person touching the same thing I was touching. The thought of their leathery skin kept me walking straight ahead with my hands glued to my sides. I am not scared of old people, maybe of aging, or the thought of disease, but it confused me as to why I was so nervous to be around them. As much as I hate to admit it, I found myself being happy that I was separated from the ill and dying, able to live without a constant fear of catching some heinous disease. I am sure I am no more likely to catch something in a nursing home than out in the world, but the whole concept is built up in our minds since we are children. Why was it such a burden for me to go visit my grandmother? She was not actually there, but I was relieved about it. I knew that I would not have to endure another conversation that had no direction.

            During our family Christmas party I sat next to my grandmother as she opened up her many gifts. Out of her habitat she appeared even more clueless, uttering nonsense just to talk, just to feel like she was being heard. Each shirt that she unwrapped she passed to me, demanding that I feel how soft the fabric was. She then would look at the tag and exclaim where the shirt was made, noting that she was surprised it wasn’t made in China. The rest of us exchanged glances, laughing at her ignorance. The time of respecting our elders has passed, and instead we put them in institutions, send them away, and build up walls in our minds, blocking them out. Most things made for them we make confusing, for why respect our audience if we normally tend to block this particular group out? My grandmother is only left with her relationships, ones with people who smirk after her comments and dread going to visit her. Maybe if she had come to live with us instead of going to the nursing home I would have a better relationship with her. Maybe I would better be able to understand illness and dying, instead of avoiding it at all costs. We need to begin embracing illness and dying because how else can we overcome this unnecessary barriers of fear?