By the time you read this, it will be shockingly close to Christmas. I hope some things have come to fruition by then. I hope I’m finished Christmas shopping. I hope I’ve figured out a solid porch decoration plan. Lord knows the things I envisioned haven’t developed accordingly. I hope the new kitten has allowed the main Christmas tree to remain in an upright position. Phoebe is, clearly, part owl, choosing to roost among the plastic- coated branches. I hope the world has slowed its spin just a touch. This time of year tends to be a holiday version of that dreaded 70s metal merry-go-round, the one that made us all puke if we closed our eyes while some older kid did the spinning. I hope I will have taken some time to do the things that keep me sane: watch The Family Stone while snuggling with an entire box of tissue, make chocolate candy but not eat any, and surrender myself into a chapter of Luke each day. These things are good for my soul, like chicken soup for a small-town granny’s heart. If today is any predictor, I am on the right track.
Things that make most people sad include, but are not limited to, ASPCA commercials, the Home Alone scene where Kevin McAllister realizes he was abandoned, and the people in long term care facilities with few visitors. I very seldom write things to you in the moment, but today profoundly touched my heart. Congratulations, dear recipient. I appreciate the free therapy you’re offering me. Against the advice of my brain, I paid a visit to that sort of place this morning. LTC facility is a politically correct term invented by some odd unit of people unfamiliar to me. This is the same faction that informed us we cannot use terms like janitor, housewife, homeless, addict, or manhole cover, as these terms are highly offensive. We must say property caretaker, staya t-homeparent, houseless, person suffering from substance abuse disorder, and industrial street hole covering. All this to say that I do not consider the term nursing home to be offensive. How silly. My mother lived her final days in such a place. I get no warm and fuzzy feelings thinking of her snuggling down into the comforter set I lovingly bought for her, scented with her beloved White Diamonds, in a long-term care facility. That’s far too industrial for my liking. That building was her home, all she knew. She received competent and caring help from a skilled nursing staff, who took care of the things I was unable to do. That is sweet. That is compassion. That is a nursing home. Now that we’ve settled this, more about my visit.
I wasn’t prepared to wear a mask again. As the young people say, I was triggered. While I don’t want to start a debate on the benefits or lack of, I do have a firm opinion. If you want to thwart a child’s development, behaviorally or intellectually, put everyone in a mask. If you want to watch the effects of dementia skyrocket in a nursing home, put everyone in a mask. The elderly and the very young have more in common than we understand. As we are coming into this world of language and learning, we depend on the face of the person teaching us. Without the ability to see a mouth, it’s like judging a text message based on someone’s use of capital letters and bad punctuation. How is a T formed in the mouth? What do you do with your lips to make an M sound? Were you smiling when you said that? Are you angry at me? The elderly with dementia find it difficult, if not impossible, to put names with faces. Add a mask, and you can forget the whole thing. Often, hearing loss has them depending as much on reading lips as it does processing sounds. They don’t know who we are. They don’t know what we’re saying. They become isolated, scared, untethered. That played a big role in my experience today. But, I am a rules girl. So, there I sat, singing Christmas carols in a mask – playing bingo in a mask. It took me a while to acclimate. I had dressed festively, remembering how bright colors used to light up my mother’s face. I had worn red lipstick, which was surely feathering from my lips down onto my chin. Instead, I looked at the other women I had gathered with, all of us wanting to positively impact these residents. We looked like an army of CDC researchers.
Bingo turned out to be the ice breaker everyone needed! It’s hard to be scared of masked people when you’re busy placing the tiles on the numbers, even if they aren’t totally accurate. I plopped down in between Victoria and Mary. I am not 100% sure Victoria was her name. But, she looked like a Victoria. I could tell she had been a beauty, still petite with caramel skin and long gray hair pulled back into as elegant of a ponytail as you’ll find in that circumstance. She hummed softly, the hint of a smile on her face. Mary was another story. She reminded me of my mother, off in her own world. I wasn’t sure if she was awake or aware of my presence. She clutched a large stuffed animal. I was warned to keep my magnetic bingo tiles to myself, as each lady was prone to put things in the mouth that ought to stay on the table. An hour later, bingo finished and residents offering us tearful hugs and begging us to come back soon, I bent down to speak to Mary. “Thank you for letting me sit by you today, Mary.” There was a sudden head turn. Beautiful green eyes popped open and locked onto mine. “You had a good time.” Oh, Mary. You have no idea. Masks and all.
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