Four years ago, in visiting my mother at a nursing home, I was struck by the wealth of life inside the drooping heads and vacant stares of the residents. It was a horrible thought; the accumulated memories of hundreds of years between them that would soon be lost in their dying, that in fact, were already lost to many who, as in the case of my mother, had already had their minds wiped nearly clean by the plague of Alzheimer’s.
In visiting my father-in-law yesterday at a similar home, it hit me again. The sadness and despair hangs like tear gas in the hallways, emanating from each room where white-haired, toothless, unmoving on beds or propped up in chairs, the elderly await some form of release. Release from infirmity, from pain, from the frustration of having lost all control of their lives and their bodies.
There are stories here. Four years ago it was too painful to write about, seeing my mother and how well she fit in among them. Now seeing my father-in-law, terminal and yet so full of hell and damnation because his mind is still with him, I want to write their stories. They won’t be able to tell them, it’s true, but from the wrinkles, the eyes, the determination or the resignation, I can guess.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Interesting thoughts in this post. I’ve often thought about the stories in a Senior’s Homes. I think telling these stories would be the best therapy for the despair you mentioned. Everyone wants to leave their mark and I can’t imagine a better way to honor a life than to cast importance on the circumstances of that life. I’ve interviewed middle-aged people for stories and find them closed and cautious, but I remain convinced that once a rapport is established, elderly people are more likely to be surprisingly open if I could only figure out the right questions to ask. But as much as I think about it, I haven’t done it because of the distance I live from town.