During the day, I can most often find Wayne sitting at the end of the hallway outside of his room. I asked him the other day why he is there, why he sits there by himself.
He always used to be upstairs.
He smiled and jerked his head towards the door. “There,” he said.
He says he can look out of the window of the door and watch the construction progress on the other side of the door. He sees the building coming together from the inside.
The Mansion is expanding, adding a 10-bed memory care facility right next door. We all expect Joan to live there.
Wayne spends hours looking through that door, Red and I visit him there. For him, this is a fascinating thing to be able to see.
Before the construction, I would find Wayne upstairs in his wheel chair watching the residents go back and forth near the office, watching visitors come through the door.
He seemed to be the Mansion’s Official Greeter.
He is a watcher, a listener. He misses very little, mostly keeps to himself. Since he moved downstairs near the door, we have had longer visits, talked more.
Downstairs, it is quiet. We can hear a radio once in awhile, or the sound of a computer clicking, or Judge Judy making her rulings from the bench.
Today, I asked Wayne, the question the residents know so well and sometimes kid me about. “Is there anything you need?” Wayne is not comfortable asking for things, as is the case with most of the residents.
But sometimes, their need overcomes their reserve.
Wayne shyly asked if I could get him a winter coat. A coat or jacket, I asked. A jacket, he said, a jacket with a hood. So he could go outside or sit on the porch.
I said of course, I ordered it this evening for him, a Carharrt farm jacket with a hood. He is getting ready for the winter. Without this coat, he could not go outside.
It is quiet and peaceful down by that door, I think that is what draws Wayne to the door. Mostly, he is just looking for peace, a peaceful way to pass the time.
I learn a lot from the Mansion residents, I have come to know and love many of them, something I never permitted myself to do in my hospice and assisted care work.
The social workers always warned me about getting too close, and for the obvious reasons. These are all people at the edge of life, they will soon sicken and die, every one of them.
I can hardly count the number of people I’ve come to know at the Mansion who have grown ill and died, sometimes over the course of months, even years.
But for me, I think the social workers were wrong.
I’ve found that sticking to one place is a profoundly moving and enriching experience. I have come to know and love many of these people, all kinds of people from all kinds of places.
A Medicaid facility like the Mansion does not draw the wealthy, the residents can’t afford the high fees of private institutions, they usually come to the Mansion when they are out of options.
I think I need to be needed, not just admitted.
This has been important for me, because the residents are needy in a way that makes my work, and the work of the Army Of Good, seem so important, even profound.
I have learned on this journey that money can be a gift or a poison, many people hate needing it, and resent the people who give it to them. It is almost always a bittersweet thing, mostly because there is never enough of it, and everyone wants it.
I’ve learned that one can never give to others with any expectation of thanks. Yet the gratitude I feel at the Mansion is powerful.
And other people, especially those far along in life, are filled with gratitude that is so powerful it is enveloping. I’m glad to have found them, they do so much more for me, than I could ever do for them.
At the Mansion, there are thanks every day for me, for you, they are so heartfelt. Everyone takes the time to ask me to say thank you, for every card, every sweater, every letter, every party, picnic, CD or art kit or box of cookies or soap.
I am overwhelmed sometimes by the deep appreciation the elderly residents of the Mansion feel for Maria, for Red. For me. They often struggle to remember yesterday, but they always remember you, they always remember to say thank you, and wonder who you are and where you live.
Every day they come up to us, hug us, tell me they love me, tell Maria how wonderful she is, and they can never say enough about Red.
You always come, they say, over and over again. Thank you, Jon, we love you, Jon. And now, I can love them back.
What matters to them is not how much money one raises, or what gifts they are given. What matters is that somebody shows up, somebody cares. That you understand the challenges of time, and respect its passage.
For them, they live with a differently reality.
Any day can bring them to a nursing home, or rehab center, any day may bring death or heart attack or seizure or stroke. Any day could be their last day in the Mansion or in the world. That changes perspective and teaches what matters.
What matters is that someone – me, people far a way, people who send letters and cards and party favors and help – know they are here and care about them. Time is precious at the Mansion, but nothing is more precious than people who care.
No one there has very much, and it matters how every moment is spent. There is a sense of relief at the Mansion, of relief. They are done worrying about ambition, envy, how they look, how they are seen.
Mostly, like Wayne, they find a peace in just being themselves. Almost all of them find time to be alone.
Before the Mansion, I would make quick visits to hospice wards and assisted care facilities, not wishing to bother people, perhaps not wanting to get to know them too well, since there could only be one possible outcome.
Yet the Mansion has changed me, deepened me, opened me, touched my heart because I do get to know them, because they do get to know me.
I asked Wayne, sitting in his hallway, about the things we share, the time we spent together. I asked him, as I have often asked others, if these visits help him.
He looked startled, and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
Every day, Julie at the Mansion comes up with all kinds of tasks – art, exercise, prayer, story-telling, poetry – to occupy the residents, yet time has quite another meaning for everyone, and certainly for me.
There is nothing more precious than time.
