I’m going into my third year of work as a volunteer at the Mansion Assisted Care Facility, it has been and continues to be one of the most transformative experiences in my life.

I think I learn something every time I go there, one of the most affecting things I see is a phenomenon I think of as When The Light Goes Out.

It’s nobody’s fault really, the Mansion is a beehive of activity, exercise and spiritual classes, puzzles, outings, movies, crafts and drawings, paintings and story-telling. There is plenty to do for anyone who wants something to do. Activities are voluntary. The aides are present, affectionate, pro-active and caring.

There are lots of people worrying about every resident every day. There is nothing I can ever tell the aides that they don’t already know.

But sometimes, and for all of that, the Light Just Goes Out in a resident’s face, and when that happens, everything is different.

In my work, I get to talk with the residents, read to them, listen to them, observe them.  The families know about this and talk about it, they see it right away.

I met one of the residents several years ago, she was one of the brightest people I had encountered there, she was an avid book reader, she followed the news, she loved to talk.  She had a quick laugh and a sharp sense of humor.

A few months ago, I just stopped seeing her other than at meals.

She no longer wanted to do puzzles with me, be read to, get new clothes, see the dogs, or chat with me about books. She stopped doing activities or going to scheduled events and concerts, even birthday parties.

Everyone noticed this change, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.  The Mansion is not a prison, people get to make their own choices.

I went to see her, but she didn’t want to talk to me or see Red or Fate. It’s happened, I thought. The Light Had Gone Out. I say hello when I pass her room, but I only occasionally knock and go into her room.

I don’t want to make her work by pretending to want to see me.

I’ve seen the Light Go out three or four times at the Mansion, sometimes it happens over time, sometimes it happens suddenly. I’ve seen it every place I ‘ve done dog therapy work, even the expensive facilities.

There is a gathering of the self, a withdrawal from the world and all that living in it ask of us. A great quiet descends on the soul.

It seems as if the spark of life is gone, the animating spirit of a person shuts down, goes quiet. But it’s more complex than that.

I want to say I undertook this Mansion work in the first place to give voice to people who are often invisible to the outside world. Our culture does not spend a lot of money on Medicaid assisted care or any elder care facilities, there are few resources available to an underpaid and overworked staff – some fast-food workers make more than health care workers.

As a culture, we don’t really want to know much about the lives of people who are generally hidden away and isolated from the rest of society. I’ve never seen a warmer or more loving assisted care facility than the Mansion, yet I would never expect every resident to be happy all the time. That is God’s work, not the dedicated and caring aides.

It is not realistic to expect that people taken from their families and homes, often with chronic illnesses, and hidden from view will be happy all of the time.

Every problem in life is not treatable with pills. Some situations are just sad, some are not, every person is different, and every person responds differently to aging.

We don’t want to know much about it, the elderly have vanished from media and the consciousness of many people. Out of sight, out of mind. Federal aid for the elderly is being slashed every day, and state and local governments have little money to spend on them. .

If you look into the faces of most of the Mansion residents, there is plenty of sparkle, plenty of light. The animated spirit of the soul is evident in the eyes. When the Light Goes Out, the animated spirit fades with it.

There is no medical explanation, the doctors say it is simply a function of aging, maybe medicines,  and perhaps also the long and painful separation of people from their familiar and ordinary lives, from the loss of work and responsibility.

Everyone handles it differently. I see people in the Mansion like Peggie or Georgianne who relish every minute, go to every activity, play Bingo with a vengeance, sign up for every outing, play computer games and e-mail friends. They are so very much alive.

Tim, who last his leg last year, sails out every morning in his motorized wheelchair down Main Street, he heads for the bookstore and the Round House Cafe and the pharmacy, he buys books, personal things, he is known everywhere, and has pals all along the way.

Every other week I buy Tim a gift certifiate for $25 at the Battenkill Book Shop,  he is a ferocious reader.  Right now, he’s writing a play.

Connie always calls me when his certificate runs out and he’s on fire to get a new book. His inner spark is strong. His light has not gone out.

And then there is the woman whose Light Went Out. I think about her.

I think she just surrendered to the aging process, perhaps is preparing for death in her quiet way. It is a sad thing to see, of course, but it is also sometimes an inspiring thing, maybe an acceptance of some kind, not a surrender necessarily, but a letting go of the cares, trials, and conflicts of life.

What must it be like, I wonder, to let go of all the cares and worries of living? Is it a release, a relief of some kind?

At this point in life, death is no longer a remote mystery but a constant presence at the Mansion, almost a member of the family. Everyone, there is used to it, no one is shocked when it comes.

I’ve met many people in this work who are very content getting older, living in assisted care, not having to cook or shop or pay bills every month. In a sense, they leave many of the travails of life behind. It is sometimes sad, but more than that, there is a kind of quiet beauty about it as well, a release.

I think that when the light goes out, it signals the beginning of the dying process, the first step on that long journey, the place we all will go.