It’s all about perspective.
It’s music time at the nursing home today. They’re lining up in the halls to see the main event. There will be depends thrown and shrieking galore. Well maybe not for real but if they could, they would. How’s that for a mental moment?
They’re all here, my mom even gets her hair done because every other Wednesday is dick day. I kid you not. That’s his name. He looks a little like a human q-tip but he has a way about him that they love. As I sit back here and type this he is warming up. The air is thick with liniment and anticipation. “He`s here,he`s here”. He sings the oldies they love. And they do love those so. Ladies who no longer can speak tap along on table tops, gentlemen who cannot remember their words sing the songs. I’m looking around the room and seeing the faces of the residents and even those who cannot feel sway in their chairs to the stylin’ sounds of Dick T. It takes a bad day and makes it good.
And there are bad days lately. Bad days that to you might seem very bad, to me seem almost good. Good days that seem great to the staff are bad to my Mom. It’s a confusing world for her. She hurts but she doesn’t want to sleep all day. She’s groggy but at least she doesn’t hurt. There is no happy medium. So she exists. Awake as pain pills wear off and sleeping when she hurts the least. Every other Wednesday is looked forward to and she gears up for it for days. It starts early, I go up at the break of her dawn. I take her to her hair appt. and help the hairdresser wash her hair. Then it’s set on tiny rollers and she’s placed under the dryer. This is where I really come into play. I hold the dryer at an angle with one hand and her head up with the other. If I don’t it takes forever to dry and Shirley girl gets cranky. I no likee cranky Shirley. Once she’s dry we comb and poof and spray and tah-dah! it’s done. Seems so easy but it drains me.
My Mom always had hair done and nails filed and polished. Her clothes always matched and were taken care of. I try to give her the same. She may not care much anymore but I do. If she had her dignity in life, I want her to have it as life ends. If Shirley wants to pretty herself up for the world’s best nursing home singer then I will make it happen. I line her up with the other groupies and take myself to the back of the room where it’s safe. Why? because the aforementioned singer has a major thing for me, much to the amusement of the staff. He starts to sing and the room is transformed, a few sing along, some tap their tappable parts, even the men are enthralled. The songs are done with his own special style and I make sure to avoid all eye contact during the loves songs. I sit in the back with a friend’s Mother who is chattering away as if it’s silent. I’m not too sure what she’s talking about but she doesn’t usually come down so I’m happy to see her.
In front of us is Mom’s roommate Doris and her sister. Every Wednesday her sister comes up. Mom isn’t Shirley to Doris, Doris calls her Sadie. Mom hates it and no one knows why Doris does it but Sadie it is. In front of Doris is a new gentleman and a woman I assume is his wife. I’ve seen him at the end of the hallway, in front of the nurses desk. He doesn’t communicate well but today he’s clapping along and his wife is up dancing and holding his hand while he smiles.
My mom is in the front row, we go down early to get her spot. Next to Mom is Jean and another Jean. Both dear to me and both special in my heart. Delores is missing, she hasn’t been well. Then Rosie the former dancer whose legs don’t cooperate but her arms never stop moving to the music. We have Linda who can sing any Motown song and identify it’s singer, Sandra who sings in Italian, Pearl and Johanna, a new lady whose name I haven’t learned yet and behind all of them the rest of the crew. They look forward to this and they love it so much. And for most of them, like my Mom, this hour of music makes a bad day good. And to get a day that goes good is a blessing, one that we count.
You seem like a good daughter.
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