Reflections of a Nursing Home Worker

We are the old people,
We are the new people,
We are the same people deeper than before...
(song)

There has been much discussion about the state of our society, our life, our planet: alienation, illness, destruction on all fronts. Many things are wrong, from the numbers of depressed people who on top of that are numbed by medication, to the destruction of the Earth's resources. The topic in this issue of Talking Leaves is another side of that discussion. Listening to children and elders is a natural thing, but somehow it happens less and less. It is another way in which we have strayed, and I ask: Why do we consider children and elders as somehow separate from us, in the first place? What are we doing to perpetuate this lack of relationship, of connection? What could we do to reach out and relate more, in a way that is fulfilling to all?

Four months ago when I came to live at an intentional community, home to many children as well as adults, I was struck by how long it had been since I last had any meaningful contact with children and babies. I sharply noticed both being moved by their innocence, their play, their openness; and becoming impatient every time some activity was delayed or interrupted because of a child.

So I began asking myself where that impatience that sometimes mounted to anger came from, and I concluded that it must be rooted in the times adults were impatient with me as a child, and how that left its mark in my intolerance of the childish parts of myself. Every time my conversation with a mom is interrupted by her daughter's needs, and she turns around to say: "What is it? What do you need?," I admire the mom's patience and care, yet I rage inside for the careful attention that I didn't get when I needed it.

A few weeks after settling into the community I took care of several of the children during whole mornings (something I was initially reluctant to do) and I rediscovered the pleasure of coloring scraps of paper, reading stories out loud, playing with building blocks or in the sandbox. I had great fun, but only when I dared to go into this other rhythm of being, only when my daily worries were obliterated by the exciting paper-folding project at hand or the intricate wooden-fort construction taking place.

I noticed the marvel of home schooling for children, the openness and flexibility that comes from avoiding the institution of school altogether. But I didn't realize the full implications of it until recently, when I started working at a residential home for the elderly and ruminating about the other side of the spectrum of human life and what it means to live it out in an institution rather than a family. Ever since then the intentional community I live in--where people are trying to reestablish deep connections with one another--and the residential home--that is becoming a symbol for the ultimate destination of people in our society--have shown me two very different ways of life.

Ironically enough, I once considered this the worst job in the world, the one thing I was never going to have to do, yet it has shown me things that I do not want to be unaware of, inviting me to make fully conscious choices in how I live my life.

I think it was Nietzsche who said: "Kitsch is the denial of shit." I would modify that to "All that is corny (or cheesy, as you say in America) is a doomed attempt to escape the scatological." Modern day nursing homes, and all institutions where the elderly or the mentally or physically challenged are safely tucked away, seem to have been created in the same attempt to smooth out a surface that is naturally uneven: that of humanity.

All it takes is a quick look around the media to realize we have created a fantasy in which only young adults are validated. The reason we even create categories dividing children, the elderly, and the rest of society must be found among the premises that we have ended up living by:

-- There is such a thing as the best years in life and they are to be found somewhere in young adulthood.

-- After that, rapid deterioration is imminent.

-- Raising children is difficult and burdensome and should be done as discreetly and noiselessly as possible.

-- Taking care of the elderly (or of anyone who is incapable of fully caring for themselves) is undesirable, let alone being one of those people.

-- Dying is horrible and must be warded off in any way possible.

And so on. These and many more ingrained negative beliefs have been effectively instilled in us by the media and its stronghold on us, with catastrophic results. Even those of us who are trying to exclude the media from our lives and to live guided by our innermost sense have adopted some of this negativity.

It is no wonder that the greatest difficulty we face in growing as human beings is accepting ourselves; no wonder that "low self-esteem" has become a catch-phrase for our self-destructive, dysfunctional behavior. How are we supposed to accept ourselves if we reject the fact that we are temporal beings who are born, grow, and die? And isn't it ironic that in our efforts to appear healthy, young, and slim we damage our bodies even more with chemicals, bad food, surgery, and psychological self-punishment?

For as long as we do not accept ourselves we will be trying to deny life's very rhythm, a rhythm we belong to.

When I started working at the home, the dirty diapers fulfilled all my expectations of horror, more so the stench of bedsores, and the subtle brush with death: spending most of my day with people whose only reason to live is their fear of dying, people who seemed to fulfill the prophecies of our culture and live the end of their days in dependent passivity. To my surprise, however, those soon became the least bothersome parts of the job. I learned that I am strong enough to be present in my work and to treat the residents there with a basic respect for their integrity and individuality. The fact that I change their dirty diapers and bathe them, that I see the scatological parts of their lives and have to deal with their sights, smells, noises, bodily fluids, has become smaller in the light of our common humanity. My body is not so different from theirs, and if I can go through life with my body, surely I can help them with theirs.

No, the worst part of my job is answering a phone call from Marianne's* son who doesn't want to talk to her because he's busy; opening the door for Gustave's daughter, who has brought the monthly check but won't step in to say hello. The worst thing is knowing that these people have been discarded, tucked away the same way we do "dirty" or "shameful" things: nobody from their families wants to look at them or spend time with them. The worst thing is feeding them out of a can or a frozen package, warmed in the microwave oven or in an aluminum pot (Who cares, right? They already have Alzheimer's anyway), and then giving them a dozen pills to counteract the effect of food that is lacking in fiber, vitamins, and, it seems, nutrients in general. The worst thing is listening to some of them say "I don't know why I'm here, when am I going home?," or "I haven't seen my family, I don't know where they are or why they left me here," or "Please don't let me die." The worst thing is knowing that they don't get any exercise, let alone physical therapy; that all they have is the television or the radio in the channel of the nurse's choice. The worst thing is being part of a system that is unethical and wrong: how can their life be worth living? How can they not deteriorate in circumstances that are so awry?

The system, however, is a natural consequence of our present society. The residents of the home (one of whom will be 100 years old this year) belong to the generation that built the 20th Century: surely they have some responsibility in it. Whether or not they deserve the kind of treatment they are getting is not for me to say, but the truth is that in some way or another they created their own lives.

I often wonder about their lives. Some of them have advanced Alzheimer's disease, some of them are lost in a world of their own, constantly talking to themselves an endless chatter, perhaps pieces of conversations from 50 years ago. Other residents have a quick mind and a fresh memory, but are nearly blind or deaf, or suffer from epilepsy, or severe emphysema. Some have incorporated the daily routine at the home as something natural, whether they are aware of the nature of the place or not; others fight every day to get out. Some say thank you when I change their diapers or put them to bed, while others try to punch me or call me names. Edward changes the television channel every time a black person comes on the screen, and Gretta turns her face in a frown when I tell her I come from Mexico. Ralph is forever wandering up and down the aisles, shouting out orders and mandates as if he was still the boss of the company he directed when he was younger: "Get out of the water, the water! Oh, yes, I like you, I like you. Good looking boy, ah yes. Fifty, fifty, fifty horses...." The other day he started chattering to David, who is always asking me for a ride home when I get off from work, and David got so upset that he punched him in the face. Another resident helped me separate the two of them. Maggie, who passed away last week, used to grab onto my sleeve when I came near and say: "Don't leave me, oh God, don't let me die." I know little of their families, but I hear similar stories from them: "My daughter hasn't called me in ten years," "My son lives on the other side of the country and never comes to see me." Although they all have pictures of their children and grandchildren on their walls, their family life is nonexistent.

I can gather from their talk and from the way they treat me that most of them were not very invested in creating good relationships within their families. Sometimes I can't help thinking that those residents who seem to exist in a world of their own, with no contact to the outside, must have denied their essence so repeatedly that they got lost somewhere along the way. Isn't Alzheimer's disease the epitome of escapism? I don't know, perhaps those diseases just happen and they could happen to me some day, and if they do I won't be able to do anything about them either; but, from the experience knowing them now, I can draw determination to take good care of myself, to express my truths lest they appear in 60 years' time as ghosts; to make sure my body gets good food, sleep, and exercise lest I spend the last years of my life without walking, reading, writing, talking to people.

In the creation of our reality and our world it is hard to know where our personal responsibility ends and others' begins. I think of the age-old myth and wonder. Oedipus pulled out his eyes when he realized he had killed his father and lain with his mother, and his actions had brought about the barrenness of his land and the plight of his people. His story has often been used to illustrate that we are responsible for our actions, even in our unconsciousness. But Oedipus's father Laius started everything: he was too scared of the oracular message that his son would kill him, and rather than sacrificing Oedipus with his own hands he left the task to someone else, someone who in turn had pity on the child and refused to kill him. Laius was responsible for Oedipus not knowing the man he killed at the crossroads to be his father. Aha!

The land is being destroyed and the people suffer; perhaps it is too late for my generation to do anything but pull out our eyes. Not only must we make ourselves responsible for our own lives, but if we aspire to create a world where nursing homes for the elderly are gentle places, or there is no need for them at all, we must also take it upon ourselves to mend the cracks between us. May we all come together in community and establish healthy relationships with our children, our parents, our extended family, and our friends.

Moira Alatorre, 26, is currently living with her husband at an intentional community, following her life's journey into alternative, kinder ways of living with people and the earth. She is looking forward to watching the gardens grow this and every year, as well as to aging enjoyably into an old, old, wrinkled and hopefully wise woman.

* All names have been changed out of respect for people's privacy.