The "Second Home"

There's a heavy feeling in my chest as I dream about memories that have now dented my shoulders and have ridden me with back pain. I finally make myself open my eyes, as they adjust onto the empty ceiling. Sunlight seeps through my thin curtains as if the sun wants me to keep going. So, I roll over in a heave and pry myself up as the bed creaks. I slowly scoot over to the edge and my eyes stay glued to the floor.

I slowly move my head up to face the wall in front of me and then to my nightstand where my glasses sit on top of. I go to pick them up and then hesitate for a second as I glance at a picture frame that is faced down. I gently reach and raise it up, bringing it onto my lap. I brush my fingers over the frame, staring at the picture of all of my kids and I when I was much younger. For a second, there are a million thoughts that cloud me.

Then, nothing.

I place the frame back and reach for my glasses. 

______________

There's this bittersweet feeling of knowing that you're all alone. Never expecting a knock on the door, but always having that aching feeling of sitting at an empty table. My home has several bedrooms, but only one of them has all of my things. There's a fenced backyard with a beautiful garden and a vegetable patch, but I am the only one that wants to water it.

Course, I am alone, but I won't admit that I am lonely. I have everything I need here. I have a table to sit at in peace. Treats whenever I want. Coffee mugs that fit my taste. No one bothers me (usually) and nothing bothers me anymore (usually).

Though sometimes, I do leave my bedroom television on to drown out the silence. There are days where it works. Hearing the news telling me what natural disasters are going on in the world somehow comforts me and makes me thankful that I'm where I am. Or other times it’s the voices and laughter of an audience as a comedian jokes about misogyny and racism that drowns out the sadness I feel most of the week. More often than not, I don't find the jokes as funny as everyone else there, but I still laugh because I want them to know that I understand the gist of it all, even though I don't. The good part about that is that they’ll never know either. 

I tend to leave my bedroom door closed and each time I do, I’m reminded to leave it open, just in case. But I don’t. I leave it closed all the time in hopes to lock out the noise and the beeping of the machines going off every which way. I close it to stop hearing the voices of which patient has low blood pressure (it’s always Eunice) and which patient has requested to have another bath (it’ll be Rudy or Keaton). 

I often try to forget how many people know my name and how many don’t care enough to know why I was named. Every time my door is opened and I attempt small talk, I realize again and again that this 17 year-old girl or 32 year-old helping me get dressed- just hear me as noise. It’s not to say I am ungrateful, like I said, I have everything I need here. Just sometimes I wonder what’s going on in the lives of all the people that come in and out of my room, and wish they would ask me what I would do in their position because I would tell them exactly what to do. 

See, I have years of wisdom. Hell, I have 76 years of wisdom. I’ve done every stupid choice in the book and have made the best decisions learning from them. I did well with my family. My three kids: Nicholas, Mariana, and River- all became excellent adults. They exceeded in their careers by never giving up their education. They got that from me, y’know? I never gave up and always did my best to give my family everything they needed. I know that-

“Alrighty, Myrtle! Your stories are ever so interesting, but it seems like we are finished! Your blood pressure is just a tad higher, but nothing too serious. I’ll just jot this information down for our records real quick. In the meantime, are you feeling a little anxious? I can get you a yummy popsicle or- oooo! What about a chocolate pudding, eh?” Benny, one of my CNA’s, nudges my shoulder a bit in hopes of convincing me, but I don't respond. He brushes away my silence and removes the blood pressure cuff from my arm. I blink in confusion, finally registering to myself that I had been talking out loud for the past minute or two.

“Oookay! Sounds like you are a bit on the jumpy side! No worries, bud, I’ll go ahead and let the nurse know. Now, here is your call light," Benny moves the call light closer to me, "and you let me know if there’s anything you need, okay? Alrighty, you take it easy now, champ!” 

I figure after a few moments of silence he’d leave, but he stays staring at me for a second, as if he’s expecting a sort of thanks or praise of some kind. I stay quiet though, never leaving his eyes. 

“Well, uh,” He clears his throat. “I’ll go ahead and see myself out, but like I said, let me know anything.” He hurries out the door once his items are gathered. I let out a deep sigh. 

Two more hours. Two more hours of silence until the next round. 

I slowly rise up from my recliner as I steadily make my way to close the door, but I don’t make it. I lose my footing and flail my arms out, hoping to be caught or hoping to catch myself from falling. Instead, I am met with the cold, tile floor. Pain shoots from all sides of my body, but it’s overrun quickly by embarrassment. I feel myself begging to be put down like a dog. 

I begin to weep. 

I am a 76 year-old man that has not cried in a very long time, but for today, I am once again a 12 year-old boy, silently sobbing, wishing to be held by his mother. Except my Mother is not here anymore and I am no longer a boy, but a grown man, who is much too old to be breaking rules. 

After a couple minutes of putting aside my pride, I began to yell for help. Finally, a CNA peeps into my room, gasps, and loudly exclaims to others what is going on as if I didn’t already need the whole damn floor to know. I feel my face hot with anger and deep regret. Sometimes it feels like I only exist at times like these. Where I’m helpless to myself, and useless to everyone else. It wasn’t always like this. I used to be strong. 

______________

“We can’t be there 24/7 to help you, Dad! We just can’t. I know this is difficult and I know you’re scared, but those people will take good care of you; better care than what we can give you and what you can give yourself.” My eldest son, Nicholas, tells me in a firm voice. I think he’s trying his best to not show his sadness by masking it with anger and I am trying my best to not show the betrayal on my face by masking it with anger, too. 

“I have done everything for you kids- everything,” I say waving my hand around, directing it at my three children.

"You know this isn’t fair and I know a part of you knows that I can take care of myself and I don’t need anyone else to wipe me down and I don’t need you kids to look after me all the time. I’ll do better, alright?” I say all this, trying to be stern with them. Except my last sentence makes my voice almost trail off. 

Just the thought of trying to do better and not cause too much annoyance when I’m in need of help pains me. I want to plead with them to not put me into a nursing home. I want to ask them to be patient with me and to let me stay in the comfort of my own home a little longer. I wish for my daughter, Mariana, to look at me once as Nicholas puts down his foot on me. She doesn’t though and I know that it would be selfish of me to keep asking her for more help when she’s already going through a difficult marriage. Still, I can’t help but wish she would stand up for me and tell me I can live with her instead or with any of my children. 

River steps forward and gently guides me to one of the kitchen chairs, telling me to sit down and so I do in a huff. I do it not because I’m tired, even though I am, but because I want to show them that I can listen even at times like these. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? 

It’s quiet for a bit, as if all gears are turning, trying to figure something out. Finally, Mariana steps towards me. She kneels down on the floor, taking my hands in hers and I meet her gaze. She gently whispers to me, “You are going to be safe, Dad. No one is going to forget you and we will still love you just the same. You didn’t do anything wrong, we’re simply afraid of something happening to you and none of us are able to be there to help you.” 

I can see her eyes fill up with tears just like she can see mine doing the same. She keeps talking, but all I can think about is her telling me that no one will forget about me. To be honest, I haven’t even thought of that. I kind of assumed that they wouldn’t at all, but her saying that makes me stop at my tracks. My mind goes everywhere and I finally realize the emotion that I am feeling: fear. 

“So, what do you say, Dad? Want to at least give it a while? I know you’re upset because everything you have is here in your home, but soon that place will become like a second home to you. It will be scary at first, but it’s not the worst thing. You will be okay, we promise.” Mariana reassures me by giving my hands a squeeze or two. River stands next to me, patting my shoulder, and Nicholas stays standing in the same place with his arms crossed. 

Please, please don’t send me away. Let me live here and let me die here. I’ll do whatever, just please don’t send me where they don’t know me-

“Dad? You okay?” 

I take a long inhale and exhale. I make myself believe that none of this is real.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I had to take a second,” there’s a knot in my throat, “I know I’ve given you all a lot of trouble these past couple of weeks. With me falling here and there, being all over the place, and sometimes making a spectacle of myself- I know you guys are tired.” 

It’s funny. It's almost like you can see them holding their breath. Breathe, damn it. Just breathe. 

“I’ll go, okay? I’ll go and get the help I deserve.” 

______________

It’s late now. I got bruises and a bump on my head, but surprisingly no broken bones. My family was notified of my silly accident (of which I asked them not to do), but a part of me was sort of glad they did. It’s been a while since I’ve seen any of my kids or grandkids. I think possibly a month or so, maybe even two. I know I can’t be mad, though. I’ve lived my life and now they must live theirs and I also know that this is what is best for me and that this is supposed to be my “second home”, so I need to act like it is. It’s already been close to a year though since I’ve been here and all I can think about is my bed and my roof and my own solitude back at my home.

I can never go back home. 

I stay wallowing in my depression and decide to wash away the thoughts by watching television, but before I can turn it on, the phone rings. 

It’s Nicholas on the line and his hello and question of me being okay makes me happy. We talked about the accident. About his move and his wife and kids. What I had for supper and the business he’s running now. We talk for a long time and then we say I love you to each other and goodnight. 

I take a moment of silence for myself after mine and my son’s conversation. After a bit, I finally go back to my decision of watching television. I switch through channels until a comedian comes on and flavorless jokes rise up to which the audience laughs. I laugh, too.