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.