If it is the
job of a writer to sometimes see and record things that make us uncomfortable,
then this blog may do just that. In this often insane world filled with an
endless desire to be entertained, to escape reality, to run from the truth of
aging, to elect cosmetic surgery, avoid wrinkles, and as Dylan
Thomas wrote, to “… not go gently into that good night,” the saddest places in
the world are assisted living and nursing homes.
Most of the
residents in such places are women. Most men usually don’t live long enough to
go to one. The average stay is about three years, from
personal observation.
I sat in a
nursing home one day years ago observing my late mother-in-law and the others
around her, and I was moved to write what follows. It is not necessary to
explain my motivation. It speaks for itself.
To the Manor Borne
The quiet lethargy of death
Falls soft as April snow
She sits – hand pressed to her brow
Immersed in private woe
Eyes shut against the glare of light
Lips frowning in regret
Life stolen by the many years
But she is living yet
Around the others sit at rest
Bodies in decay
Minds grasping at remembered youth
Another endless day
Warehoused within the Manor
Old women and old men
Consigned to utter uselessness
Waiting for the end
The Master stands outside the door
His hand pressed to its frame
He waits for each – one by one
To make them young again
©1997
– Biff Price