Search Results for: Madeline

“Thanks for coming,” Madeline told Maria and I when we came for our Christmas ceremony,  “most people don’t want to come anywhere near here.” I thanked her and confessed that I was once one of those people, I didn’t know how much love and feeling there was inside those walls and doors.

Maria and I and Zinnia went to the Mansion at 2 p.m., I had volunteered to conduct a Christmas service – silent prayer, poetry, and discussion – for the residents whose families couldn’t take them home for the holiday or who had no place to go.

The Mansion aides helped me to set it up.

We had about eight people attend. On Christmas, most of the residents go out to their families. Some just stay in their rooms.

We had the ceremony in the Great Room. There was lots of light and space.

We had two minutes of silent prayer – people could speak to their own God about Christmas or to themselves – Maria and I took turns reading some Christmas poems – and other poetry most from Robert Frost –  and then I opened the service up to individual discussion.

I think it is so important to hear the residents speak in their own words about their lives.

I asked everyone what Christmas meant to them.

There were some powerful answers. Madeline remember the poverty of her family on Christmas days, Georgianna said the loved Christmas because it was the birthday of Jesus, Nancy said it was a day of joy, Georgianna said the message of Christmas was giving.

Peggie said she liked Christmas because she got presents (she thought I was coming to bring presents, which was, I suspect, one reason she came. I thanked her for her honesty. Peggie is focused.)

I was touched by Madeline’s idea, which was that on Christmas and New Years, she wished for a year as good and valuable as the previous year. “Every year,” she said, “I give thanks for having survived, and for being around people who love me and care for me.”

I said I had learned that Christmas was about giving.

It was a beautiful experience for me, I  think it had great meaning for the residents who came. I could see how much it mattered that Maria and I were there. They are always surprised that I still show up.

I think the biggest gift I can bring these people is to show up, it seems to mean the world to them that somebody would come by regularly to see them and help them.

Maria has a very active and deep connection with many of the residents, I can see they especially like talking to another woman, which they find more easier than talking with a man. Many of them sit with her and have private conversations I don’t think they would have with me.

We brought a box of cookies, we had enough for everyone.

I explained that this was a great gift for me, I hope to make this an annual tradition, perhaps expanding it to some other holidays as well. I often think of the residents left behind on holidays.

Maria and I had a beautiful Christmas. We loved our visit to our favorite Vermont Inn, where we spent our honeymoon. We think this should be a regular Christmas Eve tradition, the inn’s prices are very low on Christmas Eve, the skiing mobs don’t come until next week.

I told the innkeeper it felt like a Robert Frost Vermont Christmas. Daniel Webster, Ulysses S. Grant, and Nathaniel Hawthorne stayed at the inn, so did Ralph Waldo Emerson.

We stayed in the “Paul Newman” room, his favorite. The room has a giant bathtub, Maria lured me into her bubble bath there was room for at least the two of us.

We got back in time to go to the Mansion with Zinnia. I loved conducting this service, somewhere in there is the spirit of a strange and long gone pastor.

Thursday morning is my regular meditation class at the Mansion, the meditation students usually number between six and eight, sometimes nine. I’ve been playing a recorded and guided meditation lately, a series on happiness, and one on anxiety and health.

I’ve found the residents to be keenly interested in meditation, and it’s used to calm anxiety, loneliness or depression. This has surprised me.

In so doing, all of them are conceding they experience all of these things, topics that are rarely discussed in assisted care. They are very open to these conversations, and I always try to suggest or start one.

They are all waiting for me when I come, and attentive while I speak. During the first five minutes, I talk about my own experiences with meditation, my attention to my breathing, the idea of inhaling air (life) and exhaling resentments and fears.

Sometimes we meditate in silence, sometimes I play the guided meditation.

Today, Madeline talked about sex and death, two of the pillars of concern in people’s lives, she said. I was startled but pleased to hear the subject of sex being raised.

The other residents seemed startled, but also interested.

Nobody else wanted to talk about sex, but they do talk about death. And about the idea of focusing on breathing when they wake up at night worrying.

They all come wearing the meditation necklaces that I got for them, Madeline loses hers every week and has no memory of ever getting one. So she gets a new one each week. I can’t imagine where the others go.

Sylvie won’t attend the meditation classes any longer, because she is a Jehovah’s Witness and her church doesn’t practice meditation.

But the group is consistently present, and I see they are working on their slow and methodical breathing. I appreciate these sessions, we usually talk honestly and openly, I’ve learned a lot about the fears and frustrations of older people in assisted care.

(Photo above, Madeline in meditation.)

I have the greatest admiration for Madeline, she is well into her 90’s, and struggling with a number of physical issues, she always shows up for my story readings, asks thoughtful and intelligent questions, and observations.

She loves it when I read poetry, so I read a lot of Shel Silverstein poems today. She thinks he is very strange and very clever.

Madeline is determined to be relevant and engaged.

She listens carefully and shares the remarkable journey that her life is: the murder of her father by her brother when she was eight, and her life in Bronx Orphanages until she was 17.

She acted and sang in the theater for much of her life. When I walked into the Activity Room with the very beautiful lap robe that Patricia Benard of the Army Of Good made for the residents, Madeline lit up: “Oh, that is so beautiful, I would love a lap blanket like that.”

At first, Madeline couldn’t comprehend that I was offering it to her for free, she was shocked that such a beautiful thing would just walk in the door that way. She is often cold in the winter, she said, she would be grateful to have a lap blanket like that.

I persuaded her that it was hers, and that is was free, and she insisted that I thank Patricia for her. It was a  pleasure to give this to her, yet another small act of great kindness from the Army Of Good.

She clutches it in her lap all during my readings.

I decided to give out these beautiful lap robes and warm bathrobes one and a time, and more privately.

I think some of the residents might be skittish about taking “charity” in public. They are very grateful for these gifts in private. Warmth is a very important thing for the elderly, and I am continuing on our winter clothing campaign.

It is so important that the residents keep their pride and dignity, they are, to a one, lifelong hard workers who are not used to asking for help or needing any.

By the end of the week I’ll have handed out the bathrobes and lap robes that I have, I think that will cover everyone. Annette cried when I gave her this warm blue bathrobe from Caroll’s Trading Post. It cost $14.

Annette in her new robe.

I know she didn’t have a bathrobe and was very cold at night after her shower. “God made this a wonderful day for me,” she said, “I can’t thank you enough.” She put the robe on immediately and said she might wear it all day.

It fit her perfectly, and she said it was one of the classiest clothes she ever wore.

How lucky I am to be able to do this, how grateful I am for your support.

I’m continuing this clothing drive – blouses, warm shoes, perhaps blankets – and am seeking some support, you can contribute via Paypal, [email protected] or by check, Jon Katz, Mansion Fund, P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. I think I’ll need about $300 more.

I wrote a week or so ago about some people at the Mansion sometimes seem to lose their spark and spirit, seem to withdraw into themselves and let go of hope. I called it When The Light Goes Out.

A number of people were upset with what I wrote, they were angry at the thought their parents and relatives in elderly care might not be happy, or might have let go of some of the excitement and hope of life.

I wondered then and have often wondered why it is we expect the elderly to be cheerful and upbeat all the times when they are often sick, cut off from everything familiar, rarely see their families,  are never around children, are getting closer to death, and have little meaningful work to do or distract.

In my reading and meditation and reading classes and other conversations, I find the residents are often puzzled at the idea that they should always be happy as they move towards the edge of life, often feeling powerless and abandoned. It seems to them this happiness is something others expect, but not them.

“I love it here,” one Mansion resident told me a couple of months ago when I asked how she was. “I wake up every morning wishing I were back in my old home. And I love it here.”

She added: “I have good friends here and am well cared for and don’t have to cook or clean.  The staff could not be nicer. But when my family comes I have to be “happy” for them or they get upset and even threaten to move me somewhere. I am glad I am here, but why should I be happy that I am getting sicker and heading to the end of my life, and I’ve lost everything I had in life? I’m not complaining, but why do people expect me to be happy about where I am? This is not a normal life. I was happy when I had my first child and a job I loved and a husband and a sweet dog I loved and took care of them in my own house. I don’t have those things now, never will again.”

And, she added, she will never stop wanting to go home, even though there is no longer even a home for her to go to.

When I talk with the residents about aging, we talk more about acceptance than about happiness.  Life is not grim there. I see people having fun, taking walks, making friends, solving puzzles, reading books,  playing Bingo, laughing.

But I also see people who are in constant pain and are disoriented.

Sometimes, people tell me they are ready to go if everyone would just let them.  Then they always add, “but don’t tell my family.”

But no one in elder care gets to go home. When someone gets sick, the ambulances come, they head off to hospitals and nursing homes. Many never return, caught up in a system they dread with little or no control over how they will spend the rest of their lives.

When I wrote about the “Lights Going Out” one woman said I had no right to assume that some of the elderly residents had given up. She was sure her mother, who was in assisted care, was very happy. And if not, she would demand something be done about it.

This way of caring for the elderly maybe be necessary, and it may be a reality, but I would not and do not ask anyone to be happy about it. I don’t fundraise for miracles, I have no magic wands to hand out.

These people had real lives, lovers,  partners, friends, children, grandchildren, pets, and responsibilities. Of course, they miss them all, it would be almost inhuman for them to never look back on the people they lived with and loved, the dogs and cats they had, the children they cooked and care for.

Why would we expect they wouldn’t be sad at losing everything they knew and loved and are now isolated from the rest of the world until they get sick or are sent off into this insane system we call health care.

This kind of withdrawing doesn’t happen to everybody or even to most people, but when it does, it is sad.

Psychologists who work with the elderly say depression is common but not necessarily normal. Those who work with the extreme elderly, especially those in nursing homes and assisted care, find this kind of letting go and withdrawing increasingly common among elderly people with health problems in the late ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s.

Connie was the first person in the Mansion Maria and I got close to, the first one I followed to a nursing home and the hospital where she died. “I want to go to the Lord,” she told me again and again,”I wish everyone would let me.” Should she have been happy at that point,  when she was in constant and piercing pain? Was there anything anyone could do about it?

In America, we are spoiled by great advances in psychology and medicine, we think there are cures and solutions for everything. Working as a volunteer in the Mansion and other elder care facilities, I know there are some things that are just not solvable or curable. None of us are as powerful as life, none of us can turn back the clock.

At the Mansion, the staff is especially caring, and there is a constant stream of activities, movies, outings, and the activities room is humming all day with exercise classes, readings, movies, TV shows, and crafts.

The Mansion is as good a place as I have seen in my eldercare work with Red and other dogs, and much better than many.

But I often think the residents better served if they are not always expected to be joyous and upbeat about their lives. They have good days and bad days, and the bad days are really bad.

And I’ve seen many family members blame the aides if their mother or father seems unhappy or disconnected. I have been around the Mansion long enough to know that this deflation is not the fault of the staff or anything but life. You cannot persuade discouraged or ill people to be happy. In hospice, I learned it is wrong to try.

It isn’t my job as a volunteer to cheer the residents up or tell them everything will be okay, nor is it my job to bring them down. My job is to listen, and never to judge or disagree or seek to alter reality. I know this is most often a hard and draining time of life, I think they need for me to understand that.

My mission is to give them the things they need, with the help of the Army Of Good,  and accept them for who they are. Every time someone leaned over to pat Red, I saw sadness and longing in their eyes, usually for the pets they lost or left behind.

I don’t ask them to be happy or expect them too. If I were standing in their shoes, which I maybe one day, I hope I can accept my life and find peace with it. I like it when they tell me that they feel safe and comfortable and cared for.

I worry sometimes that people want our elders to be happy because we want to feel happy about them, we struggle to bear their sorry, even though no mortal has the power to make people at the edge life happy about it all the time.

One of the residents told me last week that her family is often asking her if she wants to come home, but she says she would rather stay at the Mansion. “They always want me to be happy there,” she said, “I can’t just be myself.”

For me, the goal is to provide comfort and address need, and whenever possible, just lend an ear and let the residents tell me the truth about how they feel.

I never try to judge them or talk them out of their feelings. I never tell them everything will be all right or suck it up, or that tomorrow will be better. How on earth would I know?

I am pleased if they are happy, but it is not something I ever feel I have the right to expect or demand.

Happiness and joy are difficult things for most people to find at any point in life, let alone when one is sick, on numerous medications, facing doctors appointments and surgeries, walking on painful legs,  needing help to get dressed and go to the bathroom, and missing everyone they knew or loved.

“I want to be safe and comfortable here,” Madeline told me after meditation class, “I’m very grateful to be here, this my home now. But I haven’t been happy for about 20 years now since my arthritis fired up,  don’t ask me to remember the last time.”

I won’t.

Peggie came up to me just before Bingo tonight she said she had a surprise for me, and I was surprised. It was a hard clay model of Red that she made during one of Maria’s art classes.

She wanted me to have it. I’m going to keep it in my study. I was missing Red today, his absence is keenly felt at the Mansion. Madeline came up to me in the hallway and asked where my beautiful dog was. She never did quite get to remember his name.

Red’s spirit is very much alive in the Mansion, the residents have not forgotten.