| presents excerpts from |
ISBN 0-9778140-0-9
326 pages, 68 photographs.
326 pages, 68 photographs.
Old age is the most unexpected of all
the things that happen to a man.
—Leon Trotsky
the things that happen to a man.
—Leon Trotsky
 |
....What a great day it was when I brought Mother home—
August 9, 1995. She and I were both tickled to death. Some
of the other nursing home residents couldn’t believe that
one of their own was going home. Residence
in the “unskilled area” of a nursing home is usually a death
sentence—
once you’re in, you can plan to die there or at the hospital.
Some residents stared with mouths open, as though to ask,
“Why does she get to go home?” A couple of others smiled
with understanding, as they had tapped into our well of joy.
A couple of the staff members were also surprised to see
that Mother was getting a reprieve. It was a sight they didn’
t see too often. And, I’m sure the administration didn’t
want to lose a gentle, cooperative patient like Bernice.
It was incredibly wonderful. I wrote a short article about
the experience of bringing her home. It was printed in the
Indianapolis Star March 23, 1996. I’m reprinting it below as
it appeared then. The Star added the title. It read:
Alzheimer’s can’t steal their happiness
Joy is a special feeling. It may not be bliss, but neither is
anything else in this world. When joy is really running
through you, it’s like having Tupelo honey in your veins,
and it makes you just shiver with comfort.
The best joy I ever felt was the day I finished service and
got out of the Army. A surge of freedom drove my mind
and body in a rising crescendo from the second I awoke
and dressed in Army green, until late that night, when my
head hit my home pillow and I was no longer a soldier. I
spent the day giggling in emotion, all smiles, bubbles
probably flying from my lips. I was alive; I was home; and
I was free. That was 26 years ago.
Nine months ago, I went through my second greatest joy—
I brought my mother, Bernice Buchanan, home from the
nursing home for the last time of her life. Home to live—
not for a day out or a family dinner in, but home to sleep in
her own bed, covered by her own quilt and surrounded by
her own personal things, not to mention the nourishment
of close family love.
She was so happy she couldn’t contain herself. Even
though dementia had taken a good portion of her short-
term memory, she was ecstatic.
She rushed me to get her out of the building, into the truck,
and on our way home. She was laughing and crying, and I
felt like her savior.
The joy pumped me up into the clouds, as I confirmed to
myself, “This system’s not taking my mother. Not while I
can make a difference.”
The drive home was more of the same. Our happiness kept
rising. A lively and loving camaraderie was reborn, taken to
a new level. The conversation was limited to sentences of
jubilation with the bonded “we,” “us” and “our,” while “I”
or “me” rarely came up.
We were like Butch and Sundance or any single pair who
had left captivity and were heading home. All was right
with the world.
When we arrived home, Mother was quiet for a moment
but still all smiles. Going inside the townhouse, she walked
into every room and then said with some satisfaction, “It all
looks the same.”
We sat in the living room, and she slowly settled into her
favorite chair.
As though stoking the fire, I asked her, “Are you happy to
be home?”
Her smile then changed to a giggle as she said, “You bet I
am!” Her face returned a smile as she took a couple of
breaths and her eyes began to close. That was it; she was
asleep, peacefully composed in her chair.
I felt wonderful. The day had been so rewarding, and there
would be more—more days of good food, love, warmth,
and comfort.
Still, I knew there would probably come a day when....
August 9, 1995. She and I were both tickled to death. Some
of the other nursing home residents couldn’t believe that
one of their own was going home. Residence
in the “unskilled area” of a nursing home is usually a death
sentence—
once you’re in, you can plan to die there or at the hospital.
Some residents stared with mouths open, as though to ask,
“Why does she get to go home?” A couple of others smiled
with understanding, as they had tapped into our well of joy.
A couple of the staff members were also surprised to see
that Mother was getting a reprieve. It was a sight they didn’
t see too often. And, I’m sure the administration didn’t
want to lose a gentle, cooperative patient like Bernice.
It was incredibly wonderful. I wrote a short article about
the experience of bringing her home. It was printed in the
Indianapolis Star March 23, 1996. I’m reprinting it below as
it appeared then. The Star added the title. It read:
Alzheimer’s can’t steal their happiness
Joy is a special feeling. It may not be bliss, but neither is
anything else in this world. When joy is really running
through you, it’s like having Tupelo honey in your veins,
and it makes you just shiver with comfort.
The best joy I ever felt was the day I finished service and
got out of the Army. A surge of freedom drove my mind
and body in a rising crescendo from the second I awoke
and dressed in Army green, until late that night, when my
head hit my home pillow and I was no longer a soldier. I
spent the day giggling in emotion, all smiles, bubbles
probably flying from my lips. I was alive; I was home; and
I was free. That was 26 years ago.
Nine months ago, I went through my second greatest joy—
I brought my mother, Bernice Buchanan, home from the
nursing home for the last time of her life. Home to live—
not for a day out or a family dinner in, but home to sleep in
her own bed, covered by her own quilt and surrounded by
her own personal things, not to mention the nourishment
of close family love.
She was so happy she couldn’t contain herself. Even
though dementia had taken a good portion of her short-
term memory, she was ecstatic.
She rushed me to get her out of the building, into the truck,
and on our way home. She was laughing and crying, and I
felt like her savior.
The joy pumped me up into the clouds, as I confirmed to
myself, “This system’s not taking my mother. Not while I
can make a difference.”
The drive home was more of the same. Our happiness kept
rising. A lively and loving camaraderie was reborn, taken to
a new level. The conversation was limited to sentences of
jubilation with the bonded “we,” “us” and “our,” while “I”
or “me” rarely came up.
We were like Butch and Sundance or any single pair who
had left captivity and were heading home. All was right
with the world.
When we arrived home, Mother was quiet for a moment
but still all smiles. Going inside the townhouse, she walked
into every room and then said with some satisfaction, “It all
looks the same.”
We sat in the living room, and she slowly settled into her
favorite chair.
As though stoking the fire, I asked her, “Are you happy to
be home?”
Her smile then changed to a giggle as she said, “You bet I
am!” Her face returned a smile as she took a couple of
breaths and her eyes began to close. That was it; she was
asleep, peacefully composed in her chair.
I felt wonderful. The day had been so rewarding, and there
would be more—more days of good food, love, warmth,
and comfort.
Still, I knew there would probably come a day when....
Copyright ©2006 Heydon Buchanan. All Rights Reserved.
| CHAPTER 9 NURSING HOMES — ONE, TWO, THREE |