An Hour at the Nursing Home

Bernie was deep asleep when I left him today so I didn’t want to wake him. I seldom do that. I don’t like to disappear. He’s still getting physical therapy. That means he can stand up in order to sit down on the commode or get into bed. So they don’t need that passive mover of people, the “hover” or the “hoover.” I must find out the name.

I’d spent the time watching the weather channel: bad news all the time. I had to leave a little early to escape it. I could have changed the channel and let CNN scare me with the latest news about the political situation. But walking out seemed the best move.

Earlier I talked with Lucie for a minute. She’s the small woman in the small wheelchair who goes up and down the hall. Someone went by and said, What are you doing, Lucie? and she replied, Singing. I didn’t realize. She must have been doing it in her head. And maybe she was singing and not talking to me.

The young man with the weird, exterior hernia went by next to a young aide. I call him young because he is, compared to most of the patients. But clearly not of sound mind. Perhaps he couldn’t live outside an institution.

And then I slipped into the elevator and was gone.


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