The End of the Hall − 18 July, 2007
There's a man at the end of the hall that I know nothing about. He doesn't speak to anyone, though I'm not sure if he can. He never leaves his wheelchair. Most often you can find him tucked into a corner just outside his room, near the back door where the housekeepers take out the trash.
I'll walk past in the midst of some core or another, and I'll see him sitting slumped over the plastic tray placed in front of him to keep him stationary. His mouth is hanging open, and he's crying silently. Twin streams leak from his eyes, so thin you almost don't notice them. I'm sure the staff never notices them, anyway. It's not strange for the residents to cry. Be it from pain, or from some phantom ailment that only they with their Alzhiemers riddled mind can understand. But something about this man bothers me.
He looks so young.
Most of the residents are in their late seventies, with a handful pushing one-ten. They're little more than breathing pocket books to the nursing home, and dead weight to the aides to which their charged. But this man doesn't look like he's out of his forties. All of his teeth are yellowed but clearly his. His hair is thick and only gray near his temples. I say this knowing fullwell how it sounds, but he still looks like a person. It's this that makes my skin crawl.
I never see any of the aides intereact with him. He never causes any trouble, and unless he's in the hallway, you don't notice him at all. And I am completely unnerved by him. It's not time that's sapped him of his virility, rendering his body frail and unpredictable. His mind has failed him. It's slipped out the back door and taken who he was right along with it.
I'm only guessing, of course. Like I said, I know next to nothing of this man. But I'm still left with an unshakable thought: Is that going to happen to me?
