Wisdom of Assisted Living
Recently a very articulate, very independent older friend of mine did some rehabilitation time in an assisted living home (probably the best one in town, and we know all of them), and though younger than she, I have always had a Nancy Drew kind of brain, and so I impertinently asked Marge, “What was it like?”
Back in her own home now, Marge can afford to assess how it was and could be again, for that is the question. She answered thoughtfully, sorting the words, “I was there two weeks and three days.”
That specific answer revealed a lot. She repeated the number three more times when I asked about how the aides were and did she maintain her privacy.
“I kept my door open,” she said, chin jutting up.
They can’t take away your privacy if you willingly give it, I translated.
“How was the food?” I asked, for that is the single most important question that gets asked of assisted living managers.
“It was all right,” she said. “I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life thinking about salt, sugar, and whether I like the food. Sometimes you just have to eat what is put before you and give thanks.”
“Do they say grace at the assisted living home?”
“Some do. Mostly privately, which I like. Heads go down and come back up pretty fast. If the head doesn’t come back up fast enough, someone nudges the person cause he’s napping. A lot of people nap in assisted living homes.”
“You didn’t.”
"No I was wide awake a lot of the time. I was surprised by how many people I knew who lived there permanently,” she confessed. “I saw a man who was my first neighbor in town, and it was good to see him. So many of our church friends live there now.”
True. Our church, which is big on church planting, has through this shift in the aged population of our membership sort of planted a satellite church of us over at this assisted living place. We don’t send a van for them on Sunday mornings though.
“A lot of people enjoy the talking in the common room. There was a lot of talking….” My friend’s voice trailed off.
“Too much talking for you?” I inquired for we both enjoy a solitary temperament, silence broken up by honest communication between people of shared good will.
“No,” she said, her blue eyes brightening. “My family is a big group of talkers. We love words. There, they…” she faltered. “The talking among the residents was often gossipy, and even saying this makes me sound gossipy, too. But they were often so very judgmental of each other and the staff. When your days are numbered, why spend your life and time and words talking meanly about other people?” Marge shrugged and said, “But look at me. I’m doing that right now.”
“It’s okay to tell the truth,” I said softly.
“They talked about each other. I don’t need to hear that.”
I wondered then if she minded my asking her so many questions. Were questions like this offensive, and if so, should I stop?
“Like I said, I was there two weeks and three days. Here’s how I got through it. I said to myself, ‘Get real.’”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means, get real,” Marge answered flatly.
I nodded as if I were capable of getting real in the way she intended.
“And I told myself, ‘Life is not just about you here.’”
“That’s a tough one,” I affirmed. “Anywhere you live.”
She nodded succinctly. “And then I told myself, `You’ve had your turn. Accept what is.’”
Oh. I gulped as a woman at a nearby table in the restaurant asked the waiter to turn on the silent TV.
My friend stopped talking to me to say to her, “You can watch TV when you get home. This is a public place. Don’t turn on that TV,” she directed the waiter.
He read her gaze and backed away. I stifled a grin. Marge’s turn wasn’t quite over yet.
“I’ve seen a lot of older people become tyrants,” she assessed thoughtfully. “I don’t want to be a tyrant. But I really don’t like to hear a TV playing in a public place. I like to be with live people more. I liked that about assisted living.”
“So, ultimately, what did you take away from your two weeks and three days in an assisted living place?” I asked point blank.
She assessed me, answered slowly, not at the pace of advanced age but at the speed of considered thought—wisdom. “I learned I could make a good life there if I ever need to do it full time,” she said.
And Marge sat back in her chair and smiled.