He walked into the assisted living facility to visit his mother. He had to be buzzed in. This place was on twenty four hour lockdown. Nobody gets out and nobody gets in unless approved.
In the common area, some old folks sit staring, at what, no one really knows. Most are women. Their husbands had worked or smoked or drank themselves to death many years earlier. So these women sit and wait.
Some are waiting for a son or daughter to come and spend an hour a week with them. If they get real lucky, they may occasionally get to see a grandchild. If they hit the lottery, a great-grandchild will visit.
But, most days, they wait for a CNA to come and change their diaper. Or they wait for someone to bring them a bowl of soup because “dammit’ they just did not feel like going to the dining room at suppertime.
Eloise calls the dining manager over to her table and asks to be moved away from Melba. Ms. Jones asks her why does she want to move? Eloise motions with a bent, arthritic finger. Ms. Jones bends over so that Eloise can whisper to her. Mouth to ear, Eloise says, “She clicks her teeth. That B is doing it on purpose.” Ms. Jones says, “B? What’s a B?” Eloise whispers again. “Bitch, the bitch is doing it just to aggravate me.”
So, Ms. Jones moves Eloise to a table with Alma and Roberta. Maybe it’ll last for a month or two.
Finally, the CNA comes and gives her the nighttime meds. The pills help her sleep. It’s only 7:00 pm, but sleep is a welcome departure from the waiting.
The next day, she wakes, and waits for the clock to tick away the long day. More waiting, and waiting, and waiting.
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