Humble Pleasures

The circular driveway and entry to the sprawling adobe and brick multi-winged building are charming. I've passed the place a thousand times, never thinking about its purpose, its inhabitants, its supreme care. It is my first visit and I am apprehensive. My husband, Ken, has been sent here to recuperate from a multitude of ills.

I open the security doors to a mix of odors of bodily functions, institutional disinfectants, and cooking. I stand momentarily stunned. I must not leave my husband in this place!

Feeble attempts at greetings by a few oldsters materialize only as forlorn stares. I smile and say a pleasant "Hello" to all. Bustling nurses in station "A" wrestle with charts, meds, and the persistent ringing of an impatient patient. The wheelchair brigade is backed up against the partition as I make a wide berth, rushing past with another cheery "Hi" as more greeters grunt their brand of welcomes.

I arrive at Ken's sweltering private room just past nurse station "B." It's good to see my darlin' fully clothed, and sprawled out on his bed beneath a pile of blankets. He is forever cold due to blood thinners and inactivity, and is much too weak to eat with his new companions this day. Sensing my nearness, he awakens suddenly to say, "Hi Dearest," and then begs for me to get a nurse. I show him the buzzer.

While he is being attended to, I stroll leisurely down the hall. I acquaint myself with the RNs on duty, the hair salon, the bathtub and its lift, and the therapy areas. I pass two more dining rooms decorated circa 1960, no doubt the year the place was built.

A shout greets me as an old neighbor recognizes me. How good it is to hug Sylvia! At 93, she's no bigger than a minute, has snow white hair and is decked out in burgundy velvet sweats, and looks adorable. Sharp as a tack, she pushes her walker while we stroll and chat about evening bingo, our wonderful old neighborhood, and our even more wonderful grandchildren. She invites me for lunch.

In the dining room, a small caged bird greets the diners with shrill chirps. Ravenous oldsters wheel and totter toward nicely appointed round tables, while immaculately aproned servers fondly call each resident by name as they prepare juice cocktails and salads. Main courses are served up from the heated serving cart by two white-clad chefs. I'm becoming quite content with it all.

The sign above the door reads "ACTIVITIES ROOM." Colorful blocks and a blackboard grace what resembles an old folks' kindergarten, a place where the infirm of mind and body are kept busy with clay, watercolors, and seasonal decor. The well-equipped area holds a large screen TV that seems to play to a mostly apathetic audience. Large high-backed cushioned chairs placed in a semi-circle are occupied by an assortment of dozers and droolers. One old gent insists on CNN, while a gritty little piece of fluff demands her soaps. I recognize another old friend from another time and greet him. He stares vacantly and I die a little inside.

No matter the hour, the activities room is alive with projects taught by staffers who have the patience of Job. The aloof resident golden lab wanders in and out, soliciting handouts, despite the taboo. Bookshelves display unfinished projects, ancient dog-eared Louis L'Amour paperbacks, and an unending assortment of bric-a-brac. I must remember to donate my collection of Zane Grays. In-house watercolors hang wherever there's a handy nail, and on the worktable, atop a crocheted doily, rests a bowl of mottled goldfish. When she's not cuddling with any resident who will have her, the timid calico cat laps up milk from a dish on a top shelf of the bookcase.

Periodically, a parade of fanatical smokers comes wheeling or shuffling past with their walkers to the "SMOKE HOUSE" in the courtyard. It's too late to break the habits of those who have little else to look forward to. Upon second glance, half the smokers seem to be staff! These are the hardest working and most compassionate workers in our community, and I'm proud to shake their hands.

I return to my beloved, who has been reduced from an energetic businessman to a mere shell of his former self. A young trainee is massaging his hands and arms with perfumed lotion. She tells me to hold my arms out, and she squirts a few drops into my palm. What a lovely gesture, I muse.

Other than his daily decline, Ken has little to discuss anymore. Favored topics seem to be aches and pains and cleansed bowels that mean a good day can't be far behind. But hope reigns supreme in my man of nearly 80. He relishes the constant attention and timely, copious drugs. His determination to walk and come home is all-consuming, but sadly, a mere dream.

I'm learning quickly about the inner workings of convalescence and am mightily impressed despite the blend of smells that initially struck me. Weary and eager to drive up my mountain to our pup and my own cozy rest, I leave my husband to his bed and meds. But as I reach for the home's inner door, a staffer rushes to ask if I am really Kathe Campbell. I answer yes, and she begs me to read to the diners one of my own stories from a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul.

With renewed energy, I bow to their applause, take a seat and, with humble pleasure, begin.

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