Search Results for: Madeline

I got an e-mail during the pandemic that June 4 had been chosen as Jon Katz at The Mansion. The idea was that this would be a celebration of me and Red and Zinnia and the work we have done at the Mansion with the Army Of Good.

Julie, the Activities Director, called me a couple of months ago and asked what kind of event I would like. Honestly, I’m not comfortable being honored or getting awards, which may be why I get so few.

I decided that we ought to celebrate the day by singing, so that was what we did. Debbie, the much-loved volunteer pianist, came in to join Jon Katz Day with some much-loved oldies.

Madeline, well into her 90’s wanted to get up and dance. She made it for a little bit.

Maria came and Zinnia, too. I would not have dared to go without Zinnia.

For me, the Mansion work is all about faces when I think of it. So I took some photos of the faces that came to honor me.

We had a sing-a-long, it was great fun.

The Mansion faces are full of character. In a way, everyone at the Mansion is fighting for his or her life spiritually, literally, figuratively.

Because of Covid-19 restrictions, we could only seat do five people simultaneously in the Great Room. They came to see me in two groups, each 30 minutes long. There was no room for everybody who wished to come.

They baked me a cake and Zinnia some cookies, and we had punch and iced tea.

I gave a brief speech, and come of the aides said some sweet things about me and the work we do there.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the faces, these brave, funny, wise, and often quite feisty residents of the Mansion. I see a lot of ghosts sitting in the room – Connie, Joanie, Art, Tim.

In my own strange way, I came to love them all.

Today, one of the residents came by in the hallway and demanded that I buy her a cell phone. I said no, that’s not what I do. Okay, she said, I’ll tell my daughter to get one at Wal-Mart.

She’ll be back.

I’ve known some of these faces for several years now, and many of my friends are gone.  I love these faces, and some of them have come to love me. I know their bra and pants sizes, the things they like to read, the movies they like to watch, the snacks they can and cannot have.

We have walked around the bend together more than once.

The best way I can think to honor Jon Katz day is to share some of those faces with you.

 

The people behind these faces worked hard to give me my own day and then sing along with me and fuss over Maria and Zinnia. They owe me nothing.

 

I sometimes wonder what they think of this strange man and his dog, popping up several times a week to bring cards and clothes.

The residents are nothing but a gift to me; my work at the Mansion has been one of the most powerful and meaningful works of my life.

Most days, I dread my first few minutes at the Mansion; I see the empty rooms and crying aides. I’ve cried twice at the Mansion. Once, after Connie died, after Joannie was transferred to a nursing home, and once when Sylvie left.

I thought of their faces today.

They love to sing, pet Zinnia, and talk about their lives, which many are struggling to remember. Whenever someone tells me that they need something, my heart lifts. It feels so good to be able to give them what they want.

Most of them are in pain most or all of the time. They are never far from death on the edge of life, but they never stop fighting for hope, humor, and empathy.

They always worry about each other.

They ask me for shoes, come to my storytelling, sit quietly for my meditation lessons. They are so good to me every day; I was embarrassed to have a day named for me.

I was grateful for Jon Katz Day, grateful for the good people on their canes and walkers to make it down the halls and into the Great Room.

We hugged, kissed, waved, stared vacantly about the room, trying to put the pieces together.

I wish for each of them to have a day that honors their big hearts, determination, and love of joy and hope. I honor the spirits of the people we lost. I hope I can be of comfort to them for years to come.

In the past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time walking the halls of the Mansion, a Medicaid assisted care facility in Cambridge, N.Y., talking to people at the edge of life.

I’ve lost count of how many have moved on – often quite suddenly and unexpectedly – to nursing homes or funeral homes. It used to chew me up to find the empty rooms of people I’ve been talking to and photographing over and over.

Volunteers are appreciated, but nobody calls them when somebody leaves or dies, we are the last to know.

I’ve had some powerful friendships and intimate conversations in the quiet afternoon hours of assisted care; the Mansion is a loving place, but at times, also a lonely place.

I’ve found over time that every resident has something that truly matters to them, that defines or identifies them.

Joanie sang and danced, Donna Crocheted,  Mark loved baseball, Georgia loved to smoke and play cards, Sylvie her members of Europe after World War II.  Peggie loves her children and grandchildren and stuffed bears and cats, Madeline her crossword puzzles, Charlie his fly fishing.

I found in these conversations that I could always find something that people really cared about, something that would lift them and reaffirm their dignity and connection with the world.

This is always what I try to do- lift their spirits and hearts up with things that matter.

This is important because everyone who lives in that place is edging closer to the end and knows it, and time is precious and full of meaning.

I’ve known Ruth for several years now; she is often moody and silent and capable of bursting into song and dance at the drop of a hat.

Mostly I’ve gotten to know her through her need for special size clothing. I’ve become an expert on the construction and quality of sports bras, something I would never have to know about if not for the Mansion.

Ruth also is in love with bubble gum.

She loves it; it calms her, soothes her, inspires her, lifts her. Every time I saw her, she asked me for bubble gum, and every time I would run over to the nearby local grocery and get the only kind they had, a five-pack. Bubble gum, it turns out, is out of vogue these days and not easy to get.

I didn’t see Ruth for the past year, I wasn’t allowed in, and she wasn’t allowed out.  I thought about her often, wondering how she was getting along without her beloved bubble gum.

This week, I walked into the Mansion, and I  heard her shout from across the room: “Hey, come here!”

Ruth and I butt heads sometimes; she can be imperious and try to order me around. I resist politely, shouting back as softly and pleasantly as possible, “please come here if you want to see me.” It’s a dignity thing.

Ruth did get up and come over to see me. She said she wanted to see Zinnia, but she paid no attention to Zinnia. She beckoned me to come close and looked around to see if anyone could be listening.

“Hey,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper (she never mentions my name), “could you get me some bubble gum? You told me a couple of years ago that you would help me get things I needed if I asked.”

I listened carefully, and I asked her why she was whispering. Bubble Gum didn’t seem controversial to me. She just shrugged.

“Will you get me some?”

“Yes,” I said, and I went to three different stores, including the grocery. Even the convenience stores didn’t have bubble gum. I got out my Iphone and went on Amazon. I found a box of bubble gum right away – “60 pieces” and ordered it.

This morning, it came first thing in the morning, and I dropped it off at the Mansion with a note on it that said, “For Ruthie. Good chewing.”

A few hours later, Tania Woodward, a hard-working and loving Mansion aide, sent me this photo of Ruth via text message. She said Ruth was very happy and smiling again.

The photo said just about everything. Nobody has been able to see Ruth h smile for a  long time. It’s the small things, really, so often it’s the small things.

The small acts of great kindness.