A night at The Community Nursing Home for the Glorious Elderly

A night at …

The Community Nursing Home for the Glorious Elderly

She didn’t yet know the news. How could she? It had not occurred in her time zone, and when Rose awoke, she still had a few hours before her night shift at The Community Nursing Home for the Glorious Elderly.

She felt hot - Rose usually awoke hot. She pulled back the cotton sheet and slowly swung her heavy body to a sitting position. Fat, she thought, but you have beautiful feet, Fille Mae, and she wriggled the small red tipped toes that once made a young man swoon, far away in her youth. 

Rose boiled a speckled egg and buttered a slice of brown bread. She missed her madre’s cooking most when the nights closed in. Her mamà had never learnt English, could never dedicate herself to the time or practise. 

She sat on a little wooden stool, which like it’s owner, had a slightly shorter leg. She smacked and peeled the egg, delighting in the delicate sound of a cracking shell, and poured some black coffee. For a brief while, she felt content.

Later, at the Community Nursing Home of the Glorious Elderly, the residents were due to be served their dinner, and for this reason or that, Rose found herself again thinking of her madre’s food. They had tried, a few Christmases ago, to offer the residents Goat Curry, after the Chef had suggested a more inclusive menu. It hadn’t been a success – the residents weren’t especially prejudice – well no more then you might expect a senile person to be. It was more that they were, well, old. They ate soft, mushy food and in small portions. The Goat Curry wasn’t on the menu the following year.

Mongrol! Someone shouted, Why don’t you go boil your head! Rose didn’t feel like smiling right now, not even inside. 

Good evening Mrs Belle-fonte. For a big woman, Rose never suffered with aching knees. And so she made a point of always bending or sitting next to the residents, even the ones that were spitters. Like Mrs Belle-fonte. How are you feeling today, are you ready for dinner?

The elderly lady hawked as an answer, and Rose stood up. There was plenty of time to catch the missile in her tissue. Why don’t you tell me if you have seen your nephew today? Rose knew from the signin book that Adam had been in today to see his auntie. The only one that the elderly lady seemed to like.

Mrs Belle-fonte squinted her eyes. Rose sighed, this wasn’t going to work, not tonight. He doesn’t come to see me, no one does. I haven’t seen him in –

But Rose had moved along. Robin, who repeated everything you said, Doreen, who wore make up that could rivel Cleopatra’s, Mr Aziel, who walked back and forth, chewing seeds and nuts and occasionally unzipping his trousers to bare his nether-regions to residents and their families. 

What an end, Rose often thought. Why was she here? A nurse? Rose wasn’t even her birth name. It was one of those things her mamà had chosen for her, the baby Guadalupe, an immigrant from Mexico. Change your name, integrate. Juan her brother had likewise become John, and her mamà and papà had pushed them through schooling – and whilst john had become a lawyer, Rose had found herself entering the nursing profession. 

The call came at 8.24pm. Rose. It had been John. Rose, papà has died.

The residents were being prepared for bed, dinner over. Rose had spoon fed only a few - it seemed that everyone had been hungry for the final meal. Afterwards, small bowls like those set out at a doll’s dinner party done the rounds, filled with a strawberry trifle or digestive biscuits. Mrs Belle-fonte had hooked her fingers and eaten the contents of the strawberry trifle on her nail, which was okay as that made her happy. 

Rose, papà is dead. It was a blessing, she thought, because he didn’t suffer, not like here, in this parody where the old behaved like a pack of howling wolves. 

Rose walked the halls, checking in on the Glorious Elderly, shouting or cooing as they were handled into bed. Sometimes not so gently… it couldn’t be helped. Bodies were heavy, young or old, dead or alive, when they were infirm. 

One bed was empty though.  Rose entered Mrs Belle-fonte’s room and saw that the cantankerous lady was sitting on the toilet. 

‘Would you like some help? 

Of course I want some help you lug. 

Rose shuffled over, her eyes on her small feet. Papà had loved her feet. Had said they were so delicious he didn’t understand why mami hadn’t cooked them.

What are you doing? Mrs Belle-fonte, and Rose realised that she was standing before the old woman, staring at the wall, her eyes 6000 miles away and her heart 40 years buried.

She offered the help and walked her to bed. Mrs Belle-fonte had partial use of her limbs, although she was senile, a hawker and most times, a demon. 

Why did mamà ring John? Rose asked suddenly, aloud. She looked to the old woman. Why not ring me and tell me Papà had died?’

She sat down on the bed, now, and stared at the old mother across from her. Mrs Belle-fonte blinked her small eyes and wrapped her hands, like a squirrel’s little claws, tight in her quilt.

Perhaps we could say a prayer? She says, not unkindly, for your father? He doesn’t listen, God, but we could still say the words. 

Rose had felt the St Christopher at her neck, and Mrs Belle-Fonte had asked if she could have it. No, but I would like us to pray.

A little time slipped away. One of the staff walked by, looks in. Rose sat with the resident Mrs Belle-fonte, their hands together, one overlapping the other.  Heads bowed together in prayer. She pauses a while, moved by the scene. 

Tonight would be peaceful, perhaps. 

The End