Back in his room, Room 282, the man had packed his things believing that he was indeed going home. He didn't have a suitcase so he took three hangers from the closet. Over each, he hung a t-shirt, outer shirt, pants and a jacket. In the jacket pockets, he stuffed socks and underwear.
He noticed a box sitting next to his recliner that held the Time magazines and daily newspaper that his wife had brought for him to read. (It was Thursday's paper, but it didn't matter. All news is new news to him.) He pushed the papers and magazines deep into the box and stuffed in a family photograph that hung on the wall -- the one of the family whitewater rafting on the Colorado River in 1986. He wrapped another jacket around the box to hold everything in. (He had a lot of jackets because of always being cold, you see.) The box sat neatly on the table next to his recliner.
"Let's have you wait in the activity room. I think they are doing morning exercises. You don't want to miss that," the CNA spoke gently to the man. The staff was used to hearing this from most of its residents, especially during the transition phase when the residents were still adjusting to their new home.
"Will you tell my wife I'm there? I'm leaving today, you know," the man replied, letting the aide lead him by the elbow to the activity room.
"Yes, I will tell her."
The thing about announcements is that they usually speak the truth.
Except when they don't.
The moments you are capturing in this new "life" are heartbreaking, but oh so true. My breath caught on your last line. Such tender writing you are doing, and I know this isn't easy.
ReplyDeleteMy husband's grandmother was in a nursing home due to dementia. I remember hearing stories of her packing. My husband's father was packing for trips on his death bed. Something about this stage of life and packing. Your writing is capturing these moments and connecting your life to all of ours. We've been there or we will get there. Thanks for your truth.
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