The oversized elevator opens to the third floor of the hospice facility. Urine. That's the overwhelming smell, not death, not "old people."
At least one big black housefly is always visible. The vinyl molding along the floor is missing, oxidized glue residue exposed. Two nurses sit behind a desk talking, avoiding eye contact with patients.
There was an "Activity Room" on the first floor, at the end of one of the hallways, but it was empty.
Those residents not in their rooms' hospital beds sit, at various distances, around a small television, watching an episode of What's Happening!!. Here's what's happening: a frail man throws his plastic water bottle to the ground, and puts his head on the table. A large woman, relatively young, perhaps 50 years old, moans with increasing discomfort, "nurse, nurse, NURSE." Another woman half-heartedly yells the same… they are wheelchair-bound and unable to move themselves. They want to go to their rooms, but staff are either too few or too lazy to move them move than a couple times a day: once in their wheelchairs for breakfast, they stay in the common area all day until bed. Catheter tubes, filled with dark urine and sometimes spots of blood, loop toward the ground into collection bags hooked under their wheelchairs.
The frail man jolts awake, frustrated, angry, walks to the moaning woman, raises his hand with clear intent to strike her, "if you say nurse one more time," when one of the few patients who can walk stands up as briskly as she can and grabs him, "don't you dare hit her." He relents and returns to his chair. He probably doesn't remember his near-violence a few moments later. Another patient, in a wheelchair but able to roll himself, pokes hungrily through stacked plates of old food balanced on a thick railing that extends from the hallway.
The woman who intervened to prevent physical assault talks with another patient. She says knows she had a good childhood. She knows what hair color her two sisters had, and she has red hair, but maybe it's a little gray now. She knows exactly what her job was, a great job, on the assembly line of a Detroit automobile company: use a small power drill to tighten two screws on the brake light assembly, "drrr, drrr!" and she believes that soon, she'll move back into her house, where she wants to be. Or did her son sell her house? Will she move back to Detroit? Her doctor said she's safer living here, just for a little while. For years. Her sisters had brown hair and black hair, and she has gray hair. She used to work building cars, in Michigan. And she has a house nearby, she's here now though, and she might not be here for long. Her childhood was peaceful. She had two sisters, and she has red hair, one sister had brown hair, another sister had black hair.
Cries for a nurse are unanswered. Urine drips slowly. Crumbs from prior meals rest on tabletops, fleece lap blankets, and linoleum floor tiles around patients' wheelchairs.
Where is the humanity?
Where is the gentle, compassionate response to a patient's cries for help?
The empathetic de-escalation when the Alzheimer's, not the man, raises an open palm above the head of a distraught immobile woman?
The companionship, whether spoken or soft and present, for everyone, at least for a little while each day?
The support for staff, who deserve recognition and respect, but must also be empowered and held responsible for a higher level of quality?
No AI was used to write this post.