Two months ago I started spending my Thursday afternoons at a nearby nursing home. I visit a woman named Millie who will probably not live much into next year. Since we spend most of our time in the common room, I end up interacting with staff members and other residents as well, and as Millie rarely speaks in more than short, nonsensical phrases and questions, I spend much of the time observing the room at large.
The nursing home is a sad place. Residents generally have some degree of dementia or some other mental disability. Millie often cries, seemingly out of the blue. She buries her wrinkled, mournful face in her cupped, knotty hands. Her shoulders shake. I wish I could know what specifically makes her sad, but asking questions doesn’t get me far. This week I’m going to take her some photos of my puppy. Maybe they’ll make her feel happy, at least for a time.
The nursing home can also be a warm and even comical place. The staff is affectionate with the residents, and though the residents can’t often articulate reciprocal pleasure, I see it in their faces. I observe the friendships Millie has with other women residents, like Helen. They smile at each other from across the table, wave when one is being wheeled past the other, converse incoherently in kind tones. Millie compliments Helen on her cute stuffed duckie (which really exists, and is cute). And I had to laugh last week when I heard one woman snarl, “Don’t you kick me again! Don’t you kick me!” after Helen had actually and purposefully nailed this other woman in the shin. It’s not every day I witness two 90something-year-old women in a physical fight.1