Growing Up in a Rest Home

I grew up in a 19 room house.  In the late seventies my parents turned it into a private rest home and it was like growing up with 15 simultaneous grandmothers.  It was very sad to see them pass on to new life, surrounded by us, their new family - usually.

A news reporter commented that 81 was too soon for Joan Rivers to die.  What is the right age to die?  75, 80, 98?  It depends on the person and the life lived, I guess.  Joan once said while she was in her sixties that she could die right now knowing that she has lived a full, satisfying and productive life.  In the rest home, I knew 65 and 90 year old women who prayed nightly to die. 

When my mother was in her sixties, she told me the same thing and gave me the dreaded instructions most children are uncomfortable with. . .  While on her deathbed, her four week long deathbed, in a morphine induced coma, her body fought long and hard to stay alive.  My pal Nancy jokingly said, "Give her the whole damn bottle."  My mother would have approved but I was not strong enough.

That was the most pain-filled experience in my life and I would do it all over again for grief is just love with a bad reputation, love hurts.  Illness and death bring enormous amounts of love, patience, humility and forgiveness into our lives and the lives of our families and friends - if we let it.  Illness and death are not the enemy.  Selfishness, greed, being judgmental and hateful are.  They remove us from the bright/dark places of real life which help us to grow.  I often listen to musicians and singers perform and think to myself that they have not experienced deep and profound loss yet.  There is nothing wrong with heartbreak for it is love that breaks it and that love and loss can come through a musician's craft.

Have you ever noticed that after somebody has a heart attack, loses a child or goes through anything really heavy, their outlook can change overnight?  They see life on a deeper level than before.  They tend to think about the bigger things and not care so much about their hair, makeup, clothes or what anyone thinks.  That is how many of my mother's residents were like.  How they loved desert, a sip of wine, the raunchiest of R-rated movies or a can of beer, then more desert.   

One of my mother's ladies once swiped another resident's un-eaten hotdog off her plate while clearing the table.  Trying to eat the whole thing fast it got caught in her throat and she began to choke.  It's a long story but I saved her life and she had to spend a few days in the hospital.  When she came back, this woman who prayed for death was a new person.  She took our dog out into the two hundred acres of field behind our house and walked for hours.  She became a very hug-happy person after that event.

When my parent's first opened their home, they did not need a license to operate but eventually the state laws changed and they had to get one.  In those days the state laws were a little more lax than they are today.  For instance, the residents would have a glass of wine or brandy in the evening.  Today that would not be permitted.  The residents used to love helping around the house with cooking and cleaning but that would not be allowed today, either. 

Since we all lived in the same space, shared the same kitchen and the same bathrooms (we had four), they were all part of the family.  They even took turns going with my mother to do grocery shopping.  That is one of the reasons there was a list of people waiting to get into my mom's home, because it was a home, complete with pets, children, home cooking and inclusion into the dynamics of a family household.  There was always the smell of food cooking or baking.  I don't know how my parents did it.

The residents  participated in all the holidays with our family and even on Christmas morning, they opened presents with us around the tree.  My mother always made sure everyone received gifts since many of their biological family failed in that responsibility.  She was careful to label the presents "From Santa."  For some reason that was acceptable as my mother found that if a gift came from any of us, the residents would be upset that they didn't get us something in return. 

My mother contacted the local Roman Catholic church to have the priest bring Holy Communion on Sunday.  The priest wouldn't come but sent lay Eucharistic Ministers.  I was okay and enthralled with that but the ladies were from another generation where they viewed the priest as a little more elevated than the rest of us mere humans (many priest continue to believe that today).  The ladies didn't respond to the laity and my mother sought another priest from another church.  He came but refused to administer communion to the residents who were not Roman Catholic so my mother made contact with a Protestant pastor who would come every Sunday afternoon and administer Communion.  He was wonderful to the ladies.  He would often stay for half an hour to an hour to pray privately, chat, hear confessions and sing with my mother's people.  They didn't know or really care about his denomination and they often called him "Father" and he never corrected them.  Everyone loved him and my mother started giving him an envelope each week with fifty dollars cash in it.  At first he refused it but my mother said that if he wouldn't take it, do something with it for the church or a needy family.  I know many priests who would have just pocketed the cash.

He made our rest home part of his church's ministry.  The choir would come caroling around Christmas, the church would provide little gift baskets for the ladies during the holidays and he always wore a collar which which meant a lot to the residents. His Sunday School kids would make cards for them and receiving those cards was a source of great joy for the ladies.

The state was good to my mother.  She was licensed to have only six people but she had room for more if she doubled the beds in the rooms as some of them were quite large.  DSS contacted her one day asking if she would be willing to take additional people, despite the legal limit.  My mother said she didn't have the beds or furniture.  They said no problem and a shipment of beds arrived a few days later.   As the laws began to change, for instance, requiring the house to have hard wired smoke detectors or safety railings around the toilets and tub, the state provided that, too. 

One day a law or regulation was passed requiring rest homes to provide menus displaying a whole month of meals.  My mother refused saying that she goes shopping every few days and she never plans a month let alone days in advance.  She shopped at the Farmer's Market and never knew what she was going to find.  So, one of the state representatives gave her a pre-made menu and told her if an inspector ever wanted to see one, just present them with that one. 

My mother was an amazing cook (I wish I paid attention) and the ladies loved her meals.  No matter what my mother cooked though, the ladies loved the simple things like BLT's, toasted cheese, tomato sandwiches, hot dogs, egg sandwiches or fried bologna.  The state provided free eggs, milk, cheese, butter and bread.  Having 15 ladies there meant that there were a lot of dairy products coming in but there was no problem with the ladies consuming it.   My mother would make the thickest toasted cheese sandwiches, or the richest mac and cheese.  One of my mother's secret ingredients was all that butter.  My God, everything tasted so good.  The ladies were in gustatory heaven. 

Many of the women had amazing stories.  Mary was from Canada and when she was 15, she got pregnant.  To spare the family of her shame, they sent her down to Troy, NY for several months to live with relatives until the baby was born.  While down here, Mary met another boy and fell in love with him.  After giving birth, she traveled back to Canada where they gave the baby to their neighbors who then raised the child as their own.  Mary moved back down to NY to be with and marry her new boyfriend and her parents watched their grandson grow up from next door.  The boy never knew his relationship to them until they died and his adoptive parents told him the truth.  He got the address of his birth mom, Mary, and began writing to her.  Mary corresponded but refused to allow him to come down and visit as she had gotten married and started a new family down here.  After Mary died, the son from Canada, now with his own family, contacted the son in NY to connect with his step family.  It was both shocking, exhilarating and sad for Mary's NY son to discover that he had a half brother and nieces and nephews up in Canada.  It saddened him greatly that his mother took her unnecessary secret and shame to her grave.  The Canada son was willing to let Mary live with him and his family while in her old age but she refused because of that seventy year old shame.  Her story reminds me of the song NO MORE from "Into The Woods" sung by a father who ran away, leaving an infant child who grew up to contemplate running away, leaving his infant child:

Running away - let's do it,
Free from the ties that bind.
No more despair Or burdens to bear
Out there in the yonder.

Running away - go to it.
Where did you have in mind?
Have to take care: Unless there's a "where,"
You'll only be wandering blind.
Just more questions.  Different kind.

Where are we to go?
Where are we ever to go?

Running away - we'll do it.
Why sit around, resigned?
Trouble is, son, The farther you run,
The more you feel undefined
For what you have left undone
And more, what you've left behind.

We disappoint,
We leave a mess,
We die but we don't . . .

I would often sit down at the piano and the ladies would wander in to listen to me play.  It was amazing how these elderly women would not know the names of their own children but would know every word to a hymn, song or prayer.  I would play music from the 20's and 40's for them and they would suddenly come alive, singing along, tapping their feet or "dance" with my father. 

Every one of my mother's ladies had a story, some sad, others filled with great joy.  All of the women were filled with tremendous love and stories of regret.  I learned that some of the greatest saints were murderers first.  That's all I'll say about that.

I can't imagine what my life would be like if I didn't grow up in a rest home.  I know my work as a pastoral musician would be different, I'd be more a worshiper of music than of people (or worse - a worshiper of the institution).  For certain, if we don’t suffer pain, we give up a good deal of spiritual growth.  I think I will go play the piano.

"Time weaves ribbons of memory,
to sweeten life when youth is through."
-Pippin.

The Smell of Death

When I was about eight years old, my parents turned our 19 room house into a private rest home for elderly women.  My mother named the home after herself: The Fran Kogut Rest Home.  The private rest home business in those days was competitive and insidious.  A lot of people who opened private homes were not always the nicest people and did it for reasons of greed.

My mother grew up taking care of people and in the running of her home, would not turn anyone away regardless of what they could aford to pay.  There were many times the Department of Social Services would call her and beg her to take someone whom they couldn't place anywhere else and my mother would always say yes.  Because of my mother's amenability to help out and not turn anyone away, the DSS was constantly assisting her with additional beds, food, clothing, money, coverage, ambulatory items, expediting paperwork, inspections and being at her beck and call.  I remember once that they asked her to take an additional two ladies but my mom didn't have the beds (and was over her legal limit on how many people she could take) and the next thing we knew, two new hospital beds were delivered.

My Mother wanted her rest home to have a family atmosphere.  The living room and dinning rooms were large and we all shared the same space.  Despite having their own TV's, most of the ladies converged wherever everyone else was.  We had two large outdoor decks and a very pleasant sun room.  The ladies were welcome to help cook and clean and they were free to leave the building provided they were ambulatory and let us know where they were going. 

Mary, for instance, loved taking the dog for a walk or going up into the 200 acre fields behind the house to pick flowers.  Most of the ladies were content remaining in the house and just socializing with one another.  Stacia didn't know where she was and was constantly wanting to go home.  My mother would put her in the car, drive her around the lake, pull into the driveway and tell her that she was home.  Stacia would thank her, go inside and proceed straight to her room. 

Both my sisters subsequently opened their own homes to elderly people.  One sister eventually started a visiting nurse business and had up to 19 employees.  The other sister purchased three houses next to one another and converted those into assisted living space.  Caring for others has always been in my family's DNA.

Growing up with dozens upon dozens of elderly women was like having 15 grandmothers at one time.  Consequently I saw a lot of death.  Working in the church, I saw a lot of death too and had at least one funeral each week.  I also witnessed a lot of these elderly women yearn and pray for sweet, sweet death.  They were in pain, tired or alone.  I sat by the side with many of them as the moment occurred and it was always a beautiful event.  Equally beautiful was telling the family (if they cared) that I was there and it was peaceful.  It was always a comfort to them knowing that their loved one did not die alone.  All this death has taught me not to take anything, any time or anyone for granted.

My mother had a unique gift; she could smell death.  She told me that when a person was dying and their body was shutting down, the  body would give off a distinct odor.  She would often invite me to go into the bedroom of one of our residents and say goodbye or sit with them because she was going to either die that morning, in a few days or within a few hours.  My mother was never wrong and was very accurate. 

Since I've been around death so much, I don't fear it.  That is why I would not hesitate to bungee jump, para-glide or jump out of an airplane.  What's the worse that could happen, I die?  That's inevitable.  I may as well enjoy every ray of sunshine, every drop of rain, every pull and challenge of gravity and, love and serve every leper in my path until that day (but, don't bungee jump with lepers).

We humans don't require much to survive or to be happy. We crave stuff, money, more stuff, Facebook, other peoples' stuff  and a false sense of freedom.  None of that is important.  I challenge everyone to take a sabbatical and live in an ashram for six months and not only discover what you don't need to be happy, but when you leave, to then occupy that new found stillness with things and people who are truly  important.

One of my mother's favorite songs was "Others," as sung by Tennessee Ernie Ford. While ushering her into new life, I softly sang it to her, as she did to me many times while growing up. 

–Malcolm Kogut (and buy a junk car so if you get a scratch on it, you won't care).