The Last Chapter
Maybe it was a stroke. Maybe an accident. It’s impolite to ask. Her given name is Beatrice, but Honey is the name she uses. She is in her eighties. Maybe nineties. Again, it is impolite to ask and impossible to guess correctly. She sits slumped in her wheel chair all day in front of the electric fire, mostly dozing, occasionally laughing at something someone said. Her presence is so easily forgotten in the pub, the gathering place for the assisted living residents and where some of the activities are held. Until she laughs, her laugh erupts like a small explosion, deep and throaty. Honey is part of the fabric of this community of infirm adults and aging seniors.
Most of us are here because we can no longer care for ourselves. Our houses, apartments, condos are minefields that can trip us, slap us, burn us, knock us down and knock us out. Shelves are either too high or too low. Stretching to reach is dangerous. Bending is worse. For our own safety and others, we have surrendered our cars and depend on others for transportation. Family, friends, taxis, community services, until the day we realize that the time has come to go the last lap. We decide or our families decide for us. It requires giving up nearly everything except memories. Downsize. Divest. Cull. Decorators describe it as minimalist décor. There is some comfort in knowing that we are not alone in having a case of separation anxiety. Gradually, our new reality is acknowledged, accepted and life settles into a routine.
There are sixty residents here, in assisted living, thirty residents in memory care. Each area has its own aids, dining room and activities. Some of us in assisted living come down for every meal and every activity. Some need an aid all day, and some only on occasion. It’s a community of various personalities and interests as well as various ailments. Mike, at one hundred and three, a veteran of World War II, is the oldest resident and still very much alert. Mary, mother of seven, is not certain how many grandchildren she has. She knows for sure, however, that she is a great-grandmother of three.
Pretty much by myself before moving here, I now am a semi-social butterfly. I go down for meals and participate in many activities. I seem to have a backlog of stories to tell, stories that are rising to the front of my consciousness as I listen to another resident’s story. We oldies have similar tales and can now laugh at what we cried, screamed, or worried about several decades earlier.
Barbara, once a professional pianist, still plays the grand piano that fills her apartment living room. A small, quiet woman, she usually sits by herself. She walks without a cane or a walker; a purposeful walk, from her apartment to the dining room and back to her apartment where she plays the piano for most of the day.
Arthur and Katherine, a long-married couple, both hard of hearing, sit at the same corner table for every meal. He will read the menu aloud to Katherine in a voice that carries across the dining room, although she can read it herself. She will answer in an equally loud voice. We all know their choices. We also know the daily weather, which Arthur reports every fifteen minutes from the weather app on his cell phone. If he gets a phone call, we will learn about Tom, Jackie and other friends and family of Arthur’s from half a continent away. Rusty, the dog, recently ate chocolate, and was sick at the veterinarian’s.
To live here successfully one needs to be tolerant, accepting, and patient, every day, all day. Our apartments are where we retreat to be alone and quiet, a few hours respite or longer. Meals may be delivered for a fee, but are not encouraged There is no fee if one is ill. Providing for residents when not feeling well is part of the service.
Socialization is necessary. Regardless of age, it improves one’s mental and physical health. After three months of being with people daily, I am more optimistic. Even if I have some physical discomfort, knowing that I shall have breakfast with Alice or Lena or Fred is enough to concentrate on what’s pleasurable that day. Having physical therapy with Joyce, who gives great neck massages, helps me ignore any physical discomfort. When I lived alone, there were not enough days of pleasurable anticipation.
Word games are held in the pub, a few times a week, and create a little challenge, a little competition. A prod to our brain cells. There are craft projects, book and art discussions, travelogues to stimulate interest and participation, outings and special meals. There are nurses on duty and monthly health checks.
We are taken care of. Not a solution for all seniors, but for me, it is. I anticipated this move when I had to give up driving. After a year of research, visiting six facilities, revisiting four, I made a choice. Fortunately, there was no waiting list, and I could take possession of an apartment in two months.
Longevity runs in my family, so it is possible I could live to one hundred. At ninety years of age, I am on the last chapter, but not on the last paragraph, yet. I shall write that last paragraph slowly, hope to write it here and that it will be a long one.
© Adelaide B. Shaw
Adelaide B. Shaw lives in Tarrytown, New York. She has been writing stories and non-fiction for almost fifty years and has been published in several journals, including Loch Raven Review, Emrys Journal, The MacGuffin, The Toronto Star, American Literary Fiction, By-Line, Adelaide Literary Magazine and Greensilk Journal. She also writes haiku and other Japanese short form poetry that has been published widely.
The Loch Raven Review 