The Home  − 25 June, 2007

I flow through the halls as an observer. I pass room after room, catching glimpses of their crumbling occupants. Some look back at me, but most, I’m sure, don’t even know I’m there at all. Eventually, I grow used to the smells, the sounds. Women in white with their baby talk and cleaning supplies scurry here and there like oversized bees without a queen. Though, I suppose if there were a queen it would be that pompous bitch that sits in the front office.

I spend the day with a constant chill down my back. Around every corner you can hear someone crying for attention, crying for help, or simply crying, their mouths black holes in their faces hanging open and spouting nonsensical syllables. Feeble bodies circle the building without aim with deliberate, shuffling steps.  Others sit in wheelchairs outside of their room for hours at a time, snatching what conversation that can from you as you pass by. Most of the time I just smile and nod, not missing a step. I don’t know how to talk to these people. I don’t understand their words, and I’m certain that don’t understand mine.

The staff sees them as pets. If you said this to one of them, either the nurses or the house keepers, they’d be insulted and tell you you’re wrong, but they really do. You can sense that emotional distance when they speak to them, talking to them like they would their house cat. At any rate, any shred of humanity that may have clung to these people earlier in their lives has long since been pressed out of them by years weighing down on them. As I go about whatever task my new supervisor has assigned me, I begin to think that maybe people weren’t meant to live this long.

I think there should be a sign coming into the nursing home that says ‘Leave your cynicism at the door.’ Hell, maybe there is. Everyone else seems cheery enough.