Bernice carefully placed the cup she was holding on her tray, and then silently left the dining room. She had eaten half of her regular lunch of turkey on rye. Her gait was slow but steady, and she was grateful that she only needed a cane in the sea of walkers and wheelchairs.
Bernice had been sitting alone, as she often did at lunchtime, and her exit went mostly unnoticed. Hillary gave her a passing glance as she finished off the last of her chocolate cake, but Hillary’s memory was like a footprint at high tide.
Bernice thought of heading for the door, but she knew that she had nowhere to go. She was stuck in this place. She thought of it as death’s waiting room.
Bernice Alison Foster had been living at Parkview for eleven months. It was enough time to see all of the seasons from her third floor window. It was long enough to feel like she knew the family that lived in the house across the street. She saw them more often than her own children.
As she sat in her recliner, day after day, she watched them. She didn’t know their names, and they didn’t know that she was looking, but their presence was a comfort. The blue lights they hung on the weeping willow last Sunday reminded her of the Christmas long ago when Ben had surprised her with tree lights on the day she came home from the hospital with Jake.
Bernice railed against the routine, and the loneliness, and the incompetence. There were staff at Parkview whom she loved, but most of them didn’t see her. They didn’t see any of them.
The staff saw bodily functions and moods. They saw what age had done to bodies and minds. But like Bernice, everyone here had an internal life, filled with memories and regrets, and the need to be seen.
As Bernice approached her room, she wondered if it was almost time for lunch.
Bernice had been sitting alone, as she often did at lunchtime, and her exit went mostly unnoticed. Hillary gave her a passing glance as she finished off the last of her chocolate cake, but Hillary’s memory was like a footprint at high tide.
Bernice thought of heading for the door, but she knew that she had nowhere to go. She was stuck in this place. She thought of it as death’s waiting room.
Bernice Alison Foster had been living at Parkview for eleven months. It was enough time to see all of the seasons from her third floor window. It was long enough to feel like she knew the family that lived in the house across the street. She saw them more often than her own children.
As she sat in her recliner, day after day, she watched them. She didn’t know their names, and they didn’t know that she was looking, but their presence was a comfort. The blue lights they hung on the weeping willow last Sunday reminded her of the Christmas long ago when Ben had surprised her with tree lights on the day she came home from the hospital with Jake.
Bernice railed against the routine, and the loneliness, and the incompetence. There were staff at Parkview whom she loved, but most of them didn’t see her. They didn’t see any of them.
The staff saw bodily functions and moods. They saw what age had done to bodies and minds. But like Bernice, everyone here had an internal life, filled with memories and regrets, and the need to be seen.
As Bernice approached her room, she wondered if it was almost time for lunch.