Still Here. But Not the Same

(Warning: Contains death)

Old age. An auspicious achievement earned through dedicated commitment. Or, perhaps, simply by fate. An indisputable testament to years of careful determination. And a rite of passage that many will never boast. But at what cost? What sacrifices are made, or taken, on this coveted journey? Like fingerprints, no two paths to it are the same. For many, though, it leads to a residential care facility. In other words, a nursing home. Places that are often overcrowded and understaffed. Funding is minimal and quality is forgotten. And, just as likely, the family member will be left in the cares of total strangers, never to be considered again until…

             Mr. Finnegan Sulley is five weeks shy of celebrating a century of breath on this Earth. Fortunately, he still retains all his faculties. The same couldn’t have been said of Bernadette, his wife of 71 years before her passing a year ago. The Sulley’s initially roomed together when they moved in 12 years ago. They were a dynamite duo! Only needed minimal assistance and kept the staff on their toes with shenanigans and pranks. Like rearranging things on bulletin boards or teaching the birds to say, “Not today.”

             About every other month, they would viciously proclaim the other’s faults for the whole unit to hear. Then laugh about it five minutes later. An aide asked them about it one of the first times it had happened. Bernadette answered, “How else do you think we’ve lasted this long? It’s not healthy to bottle it up and sit on it, you know?”

             After that, staff would sigh or smile whenever the exchange occurred. Sometimes, they’d race to eaves drop on their absurd rants. “Last week you got up FOUR times in the middle of the night! You know I’m a light sleeper!” “Well on Sunday, I saw you fold your green beans in your napkin while I was talking to Winifred. You can’t fool me, mister! You need to eat more vegetables!” It was a different complaint each time. Without fail. And never too serious. Until Bernadette’s tone shifted, confusion laced her thoughts, and the arguments became more frequent.

             Dementia stole all recognition of her husband. The decline that followed the diagnosis was rapid. As a result of two attacks in the middle of the night where Bernadette attacked him with her cane, thinking he was a cat burglar, Finnegan was moved for his own safety. Despite arguing that it was unnecessary and insisting on adhering to his vows to stay with her in sickness as in health. But the risk severely outweighed any benefit. Out of respect, they were able to move him into the room across the hall from her so he could still be near her. It was from that distance that he had to watch as the disease ravaged the love of his life. It changed her so much, he hardly recognized her at the end. Her entire personality shifted. So much so that Finnegan would hear staff betting on how long newbies would last after caring for her. And there was nothing he could do to ease her frustrations. It was torture for everyone involved. Although Finnegan mourned her loss, he was also relieved that she finally had peace.

             The wrenching sadness he felt during and after Bernadette’s battle manifested in a long self-reflection. After witnessing their three children bicker over assets and inheritances at his wife’s funeral as if he was lying in the casket beside her, he began writing about his experiences throughout his life. He organized the memories by stages of life using a different colored notebook for each stage.

             Green for early childhood. The embarrassing stories he endured hearing at every family gathering, of things he did when he was too small to remember himself. Like climbing to the top of the windmill at two years old to avoid a bath, just before a storm came in and had to be rescued because he was too scared to move. Purple for the school-aged years. The time when his four brothers and one sister were born. And when he learned to play the piano from the organist at church. Yellow for adolescence. The transitional years that changed him. Leading to his voice cracking, center stage, during a recital. Then, later, winning a medal at the state Track and Field meet his Junior year. Black for early adulthood. Finnegan was drafted into the Air Force the day he turned 18. With his reflexes, he was trained as a pilot, deployed, and returned with accolades for bravery beyond measure. Then he pursued college and earned a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Blue for the greater adult years. A vast majority of memories derived from this time period. From starting his career, to falling in love with the nurse who scolded him for removing his own stitches after an accident at work, to starting a family with that woman. Then, eventually, retirement.

             Each of these notebooks were filled with mischief and heroism. Some were light memories. Others were heavy. But they were all proof of the sundry life Finnegan had forged. Now, he is starting the final notebook. A red one for the elder years. On the front he writes, “The Beginning of the End”.

             On the first page he writes a single paragraph. Which reads, “I have attained a long, fulfilled, and satisfactory life. Faced numerous trials and tribulations of varying degrees. But nothing could have compared to or prepared me for what I faced crossing the threshold of a nursing home…” The pages that followed, each had a single word written in the center and were split into two categories:

             Losses… Privacy. Pride. Purpose. Dignity. Quality. Self-esteem. Self-worth. Mobility. Mentality. Control. Independence. Family. Friends.

             Feelings… Overlooked. Lonely. Unwanted. Burdening. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Boredom. Defeat. Regret. Wishful. Frustrated.

             With the last word written, he closed the tear-stained pages and watched the lights of the sky change outside his window in a mindful silence. When he woke up the next morning, it was three days until his birthday. With a newfound resolve, he penned a letter and made a call. Two days later, ten minutes before midnight on the eve of turning 100, Finnegan took his final breath while holding a picture of Bernadette.

             When his children discovered that the letter had, in fact, been their father’s new will in which they were not included, they attempted to contest it, saying he wasn’t in his right mind because of his age. However, the lawyer was the person who Finnegan had called. When he asked him if he was certain of the changes, their father had replied, “My ungrateful brats don’t deserve what I worked hard for. Neither do their ungrateful brats. Except my granddaughter, Jaci. In the past 10 years, she was the only one who visited. The only one who truly cared. Without expectation.”

             The farmhouse and three acres of land were left to her and her daughter. The other 50 acres of land were given to a local animal rescue. His other possessions were divided between a few non-profit organizations he respected. Then all his financial assets were donated to the nursing home where he lived his final years. For the specific purpose of purchasing new equipment for care improvement and renovation of the patio garden he and Bernadette had visited so frequently.

             And the notebooks Finnegan had worked so diligently on? They were compiled and published, with permission from Jaci, by an aide who found them in the drawer of the bed side table when he was packing his things. He titled it, “Still Here. But Not the Same”. A copy now sits in the reception area of the nursing home as a stark reminder of the greatest loss many elderly yearn for…