Life in a Virginia Nursing Home

I never know what to expect on my weekly visits to the nursing home. The lobby has an occasional patient wheeling herself or pushed by a family member for a stroll around the property. There is a small park in the back with winding paths cracked here and there by the growing roots. Majestic trees surround the grounds.

The elevators and doors operate with codes – they don’t want Alzheimer patients to take off for unknown locales and the highway is too close to the parking lot. I am greeted every time by the same patients and a thin black woman in a wheelchair who always smiles. I wonder why she is there; she is cogent, always happy and friendly.

On the second floor, as soon as I step off the elevator, I see the opened door to the lady in the corner who never speaks and seldom has visitors; only a young woman twice in two years. She waves and smiles weakly.

Geo, the longest resident, is wheeling himself slowly in the middle of the corridor, stopping from time to time, lost in deep thought. He told us how much he misses his mom; she used to make him the best pancakes. He knows his parents’ names and his brother’s. I wonder if they are still alive. I’ve never seen anybody visit poor Geo in the two years since I’ve started going every week. I feel sadness for him that nobody comes to visit. We take extra care to engage him if he is willing to talk.

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