This story was written in the early 1980’s, shortly after her second husband had moved his elderly parents from their hometown of Libertyville, Illinois to a nursing home outside of Houston city limits. A thirty mile round trip drive to visit, development was just beginning in the suburban area of Katy, Texas. Edith was in her mid-50’s at the time and often spoke of the various residents she befriended. She recognized the loneliness so many experienced and opened her heart with a welcoming smile and gentle touch.
Mr. Lopez entered the large, big noisy dining room. Alone, he arrived just as the hands of the big electric clock on the wall pointed to six. At that exact moment a bell rang announcing dinner at Rosewood Nursing Home. He made his way to his usual place, across the room by the window overlooking the small garden where a table and four chairs had been placed for patients who were able to rest there in the morning sun. Ambulatory patients at Rosewood dined half an hour later than those who needed assistance. For those who were well enough to enjoy their food, dinnertime was their social hour, their best time of the day, for it was a cheerful and pleasant end to a long day of routine, especially if there was a good dessert they could look forward to. For some, mealtime only prolonged a life that was nearing its end. Tired of life, these residents were simply waiting to die. A nurse’s aide would generally sit with them, coaxing them to eat. Rather like feeding a baby. Their friends had long ago preceded them in death, too old and frail to live alone and many didn’t want to burden their families either. Most homes today are not set up to care for the elderly. Few stay home anymore. Everyone worked and modern houses often did not have rooms downstairs. Who to watch Aunt Sally to make sure she doesn’t fall down the stairs or leave the burner on? Who will change Grandpa’s diaper? Who can stand the constant prattle of a brilliant mind gone bad? Sadly, the ultimate answer for the elderly is a nursing home and, in this case, Rosewood. Those patients who knew what was ‘out there’ accepted their fate, though often lonely, isolated, as helpless to improve a sometimes impossible-situation.
Still, some elderly chose to live out their lives happily and with a determination to enjoy the comfort and warmth of Rosewood. And some gave of themselves as well, to help those in need, offering love and understanding and encouragement to those who needed encouragement, a reason to live.
Though understaffed, Rosewood, as good as nursing homes go, the nurses and attendants were well trained, and they did their best to handle the difficult situation. The overworked small staff took a real interest in their patients, but there was never enough love to go around.
Delfino, a nurses’ aide of Mexican descent, watched Mr. Lopez walk towards his table. He walked carefully past all the square oilcloth covered tables where residents had begun to seat themselves. Some, in wheelchairs, had wheeled themselves into the dining area. These were the ones who refused to give up and eat alone in their rooms. The aides began serving dinner hurriedly. The already filled plate of rather bland looking food did not tempt Mrs. Miller. As Mr. Lopez passed the table someone said, “Good evening,” and smiled at him. He nodded and walked determinedly past, as though he wanted to avoid conversation. One of the nurses had told Mrs. Miller that she thought he was afraid he might be forced to speak English which to him, a former Mexican national, was still a foreign language, a language in which he was uncomfortable with, even after fifty-six years in the United States.
His former employer, Sam Wardlow, made arrangements to bring him to the home after the death of his wife. He said he was too frail to continue working on the ranch. He told the director of the home that Juan, as he called him, had left Mexico in his youth. According to him, Juan had told him that he had put all his belongings in a sack, tied it up with a string and strapped it to his back. He bid his family goodbye and left. He found a shallow place in the Rio Grande and waded across to find work, which he eventually did on Mr. Wardlow’s father’s ranch. He stayed there through the years, until he was brought to Rosewood to enjoy his few remaining years in relative comfort, thanks to his former employer, the only family he had now, except for a daughter who couldn’t afford to keep him, nor did he wish to leave this familiar part of the State to join her.
He began as a ‘wet back’ for many years and because of being a faithful valued employee when he married a young Chicano, Margherita, who worked on the ranch, he applied for and won his citizenship. Their only daughter married and lived in Arkansas. Now Margherita was dead. His beloved Margherita, gone forever. When it became evident to Mr. Wardlow that Juan was becoming so feeble and lonely and also wasn’t eating, along with signs of heart trouble, he told him the time had come for him to retire. Juan knew the inevitable had come and that he would have to leave the ranch.
He had looked down at his dusty boots with tears in his eyes. The decision had been difficult. After the difficult decision, once at the home, they shook hands, said a simple goodbye, thus ending a meaningful friendship. Emotions were strong, but little more was said at their parting.
“I wonder where Maria is?” Mrs. Miller said to her dining partner, Miss Jessie, one of the livelier residents, quite aware of all the goings on. Quick to notice change, no matter how small, she kept up with those who were feeling poorly. She made note of new patients as well as visitors. She took special note of personnel changes, for these also often upset the routine. Routine is what the elderly thrives on.
Mrs. Miller felt empathetic for the lonely and sick. She enjoyed the stimulation of good conversation, rarely found in Rosewood, so she was quick to seek out those who were capable of it. She did not find it in her table companion, Miss Jessie, who was recovering from a mild stroke and addressed all her attention to herself. Right now, she was more interested in eating her chicken pot pie and mashed potatoes than focusing on Mrs. Miller’s question. When Mrs. Miller asked about Maria again, Miss Jessie muttered, “Those Meskins!” freely showing her resentment at being forced to live and eat in the same nursing home ‘with them.’ “It’s all because of Medicare,” she said. “Anybody can get into Rosewood now. I wouldn’t have come here if there were any other place to go.” She scowled at Mr. Lopez.
She stuffed a big mouthful of chicken into her mouth. More than she could chew or swallow, she washed it down in loud gulps with a glass of milk. The milk immediately overflowed at the corners of her mouth, of which she had little control since her stroke. Mrs. Miller handed her a napkin.
Mrs. Miller then looked back towards Mr. Lopez. Delfino was setting his tray before him. She leaned over him, seemingly to ask a question. Then she reached into the pocket of her uniform and pulled out something. She walked over to the cold drink machine to buy him a cold drink. She dropped some change into the machine and brought back a bottle of orange soda pop.
“How nice of her,” thought Mrs. Miller. What a sweet girl to take him that drink. She watched as the young aide patted him on the shoulder, and she overheard her say something to him in Spanish. He smiled at her, and then began to eat his supper. The young woman joined an aide who was standing near her table. She heard her whisper, “He used to love orange soda, but look at him now, he’s hardly touched it. He’s just sitting, looking out the window into the garden, as though he’s dreaming. I’ll soon have to start feeding him, too.”
“Miss Bell shouldn’t have, you know…”
“Shouldn’t what?” the other asked.
The girls wandered off to another area of the dining room. Mrs. Miller wondered what Miss Bell, the supervisor, had done.
Her attention returned to Miss Jessie. “Now finish your soup, dear, before it gets all cold.” She encouraged her to hold her soup spoon in her unsteady hand. She had eaten her chicken pie first, instead of her soup.
“I don’t want it,” she said firmly. “It’s no good. It’s cold.” She spat it rudely back into the bowl. Mrs. Miller ignored her but pushed it out of her way. She gave her a piece of bread with a little margarine spread on it.
“Ugh, it’s margarine! You know I hate margarine. I won’t eat my bread if you don’t find some butter,” Mrs. Miller sighed.
They went through this at every meal. There was no butter. Miss Jessie would eventually forget and eat the bread. She always did.
“Here, let’s put a little of this blackberry jelly on it,” she said. “You’ll like it.”
She looked back toward Mr. Lopez and noticed he picked his food while the others who had joined him were now eating their dessert. He sat and continued to stare out into the garden. Miss Jessie dug her spoon into her peach cobbler. Mrs. Miller sighed while she stirred two spoonsful of sugar into her Sanka. Then she poured a few drops of cream on top and sipped the warm liquid thoughtfully, watching Juan Lopez all the while.
Pert young nurses’ aides began picking up the plates, some with the food left, others clean. When one found a full plate, she expressed concern to the patient and often scolded good naturedly that they should have eaten better. Whenever a patient was spoken to, he or she usually smiled in return. Mrs. Miller thought, “So little means so much to all of us here in this little prison of a home.” She sighed, determined to be cheerful. If she ever let go, she might be like these old men and women, and she didn’t want to do that. She had a lot to live for, yet, and was determined to stay on top of things.
She looked away from Miss Jessie who had finally finished her dessert and Miss Bell, the head supervisor, making rounds. She wondered why nursing supervisors were so often unsmiling while their aides or nurses seemed to always do their duties happily and cheerfully.
“Come dear,” she told Miss Jessie, “It’s time for Lawrence Welk.” Miss Jessie looked up.
“Come on, dear,” she urged. “I’ll bring your coffee. Don’t fret,” she said kindly, as Miss Jessie struggled to get up from the table, after the long period of sitting in the same position. They walked arm in arm to the television area.
Miss Bell walked stiffly past. Like a peacock Mrs. Miller thought to herself. Miss Bell nodded to the residents, rather coldly, Miss Jessie thought. Aides and nurses hurried along with their chores a bit faster than they usually did, she noted, as though being shooed on with their tasks like so many fluttering birds. The truth was, they dared not to stop and talk with anyone while she was around, for they had often been accused of wasting their time talking to patients and residents.
Mrs. Miller clamped her lips together, a habit she had when she was annoyed with someone. “Well,” she told herself, “even with her faults, she runs an efficient home. The food is good, the place is immaculate, patients are well cared for, but why can’t she be more human? It would make such a difference in so many lives.” Her train of thought continued, “After all, our mental health is as important as our physical needs. One could forget how to talk around here. When visitors come, they come only to see their loved ones. Few come to ‘visit’.”
Miss Jessie was wholly absorbed in Lawrence Welk now, and Mrs. Miller looked at the others. Mr. Jones had graduated from his wheelchair now to a walker. He was seated in a lounge chair with his walker beside him. Each resident was aware of the others in the section where they lived, the wellness section. Mr. Jones’ friends had cheered him on when he learned to walk again with the help of the physical therapist assigned to the home. When Miss Suzie Ross could walk unassisted to the dining room the first time since her stroke, her friends reached out to grasp her hand in delight.
Routine of the home kept the residents alert. It was something to look forward to whether it was bedtime, bath time, therapy time, lunch, tea, television, visiting hours, even the monthly auxiliary coffees and musicals. Of course, there were those who saw nothing, knew nothing, and hopefully felt nothing. No matter what happened, they sat and stared. Into what? Their pasts? They were alone, but they were also without care or worry. It was all done for them. She put them out of her mind. Seldom did Mrs. Miller allow herself to dwell on these poor unfortunate few.
“They will probably outlive me,” she thought ruefully. “It would be just my luck. I, with a good mind and body, old, but strong.” She prayed silently, “Dear God, take me before I get like that, if that is your plan. Thank you for sparing my eyes.”
She knew reading helped keep her alert and up with things. She was one of the few who read the daily newspaper or kept a book on her bedside table. She had not lost her desire to be of this world, “Thank you, God,” she prayed. She dismissed thoughts of her own ultimate and timely death. It couldn’t be too far off, she thought.
After Lawrence Welk everyone said goodnight and left for their rooms. All but Mrs. Miller and Mr. Lopez. He was still sitting alone, orange soda still nearly full, staring out the window, seeing nothing, for it was now dark. Mrs. Miller walked over to him.
“Didn’t you want to watch the program?” she asked.
He smiled and looked away. She didn’t know if he understood.
Then she said, “I am going to have a cup of hot chocolate. Would you care to join me?" She asked.
At the word ‘chocolate’ his eyes brightened.
“Si, Señora, por favor.” He quickly added, “Gracias.”
She felt his eyes following her as she crossed the room to the dispenser. She dropped two quarters in the slot and brought back the steaming Styrofoam cups.
She remembered that Mr. Lopez had come to the home only a few months earlier. Shortly after he arrived a Mexican woman also came. She was short, plump and bubbly, all smiles and fun. Mrs. Miller wondered why she was in a home for she seemed so young and alive compared to most other residents. She supposed no one wanted her, and she wasn’t able to live alone. “Who knows?” she thought. Maria soon discovered Mr. Lopez and though he was quiet and reserved, they became constant companions. Mrs. Miller was happy to see the two become good friends, for she had been worried about Mr. Lopez since his arrival at the home. He didn’t make friends easily and also had a language problem.
“It’s hard enough to talk to anyone around here even in English,” she told one of the aides. “They’re either deaf or senile!”
The two spoke Spanish, of course, and he brightened considerably over the weeks they began to know each other. To the exclusion of others, the rapidity of their conversation brought satisfaction to their otherwise drab existence. It was a joy to see them together, and their little romance brought a new interest to the place. Soon, the two of them were holding hands and walking in the little garden which had been planted by the auxiliary ladies for the patients to enjoy. They walked down the corridors on rainy days and watched television. They always ate together and conversed to the exclusion of others at the table. Before long they were left alone at mealtimes.
Mrs. Miller often thought of the day she first saw them strolling together on the path outside towards the garden bench. Mr. Lopez was carrying a bottle of orange soda pop which he had bought from the cold drink machine. She carried two paper cups; the kind placed by drinking fountains in a dispenser. As Mrs. Miller watched them, they sat down on the bench in the shade of a little live oak tree. She held the two cups while he filled them with soda. They seemed to smile over them and then slowly sipped their drinks. A small incident, but a treasured one for Mrs. Miller who liked to see happy people. The scene was to be often repeated. Except for their age, they might have been young lovers, sitting on a bench, staring into each other’s eyes. Mrs. Miller felt a bit envious as she watched them and wished that she, too, had just one person who truly cared for her.
“Love knows no age limit,” she had said to herself that day. “It can happen at any time, 16, 25 or 80. The heart is the same. Passions may change, but love is the same.”
However, she knew it was not to be for her, so she enjoyed watching from the sidelines.
But tonight Mr. Juan Lopez sat alone. Where was his new companion? Was she ill perhaps? “I must ask him,” Mrs. Miller said, half aloud to herself, for the other residents had gone to their rooms. She returned with the hot chocolate and they sat together sipping the hot liquid. Their conversation was somewhat limited but smiles and nods were adequate when words failed. He was obviously pleased to have her company. Choosing simple English words so he could understand, she asked, “Do you have any children?”
“Si, one,” he answered holding up one finger.
She asked about grandchildren. Yes, he had several, and grinned proudly. He pulled his billfold, well worn, but with new pictures. There was a photograph of his daughter and her husband and children. Mrs. Miller wondered why they never came to see him or took him home to visit. As though sensing her question, he said, “Very far away. Arkansas.” He looked sad and alone again. Pity overflowed from her heart for this sweet old lonely man.
“Mr. Lopez, where is your friend, Maria? I’ve missed seeing her. Is she ill?”
His eyes immediately dulled, and he looked away and shuffled his feet. He said nothing.
“My God,” she thought, “she must be dead! Why didn’t someone tell me!”’
“Oh, the poor dear,” she thought and put her hand on his searching for something to say, but words failed her.
He continued to look at the floor, apparently at a loss for words. Finally, he was able to say, “Se fue,” and was silent again. Soon it was clear that he was not going to say more. Mrs. Miller took his cup and said, “I’m sorry,” as gently as she could.
“Good night, senor Lopez,” she whispered softly. He nodded but did not look up at her. Not knowing what else to do, she took the empty cups back to the trash bin near the dispenser. The dining room was very quiet now. She could overhear the night nurses talking in the stock room just off the dining room where they were getting the night medications ready to dispense to patients.
“Isn’t it sad,” one said. “Maria’s son took her away to another home sixty miles away in Odessa.”
“But why?” the other nurse asked. “She was so happy here and we all adored her.”
Someone said, “Those two were a pair, weren’t they? You know, they were really sweet on each other. It was so cute the way they went for walks holding hands like teenagers, sharing their orange soda pop.”
Another voice said, “But you didn’t hear what happened? Well, they’re really keeping it quiet. No one knows about it. I mean, it’s strictly hush, hush. We are not supposed to know, the staff that is, and certainly not the residents for if it ever gets out.”
The voices lowered and Mrs. Miller had to strain to hear.
“Miss Bell caught them in bed together! Miss Bell, of all people! Isn’t that unreal! Miss Bell! I’ll bet she’s never even had a man! Whatta ya wanna bet?”
There were giggles.
“I think it’s a riot. Two Rosewood patients having an affair right under our very noses. Rosewood Nursing Home of all places. Imagine, at their ages. I didn’t know you could do it when you’re that old.” More giggles.
“Well, I don’t believe it,” one said.
“It’s true, whether you want to believe it or not. It’s God’s truth. And if you ever tell where you heard it…”
“It’s got to be the first time anything like that ever happened here. Wouldn’t you know that old biddy would catch them. I heard she was on the phone immediately to Maria’s family and to Mr. Wardlow. He pays for Mr. Lopez, you know. Within hours Maria’s belongings were packed, and she was out. You see, her son was furious. Mexican pride, you know, family name and all that. And it was Maria who went to Mr. Lopez’ room.”
“Dr. Evermore, the visiting doctor, was also called. He tried to reason with Miss Bell and Maria’s family about moving her, but it didn’t do a bit of good. I heard that Mr. Wardlow just laughed and said Lopez was not to be moved. Of course, he’s on the board of directors and what he says goes. Miss Bell wanted old man Lopez out they say but didn’t get her way.”
The talk continued, “I think it would have been better to call in the priest and let them get married, don’t you?”
“Well, honey, you weren’t asked.”
“Do you think they really, really did anything at their age?”
“Of course not, I think they just wanted to be close.”
“Well, not the way I heard it,” and there was soft laughter. “I’ll bet he won’t last long now,” one said. “Just look at him sitting out there all by himself, grieving. That’s what he’s doing, grieving. What’s he got to live for now with Maria gone?”
“Look at him. He doesn’t even know it’s time for bed. Delfino said he didn’t half-touch his food tonight either.”
Mrs. Miller felt ill. She was shocked at what she had heard, but she wasn’t amused. Mr. Lopez was sitting in the same spot without moving. His eyes were shut, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping. She looked beyond him to the window by his chair, into the darkness where the garden bench was under the little live oak. It was too dark now. She knew he, too, was remembering and seeing the two of them sitting on the bench, sharing their bottle of orange soda pop. Sick at heart and with eyes stinging now, she turned and hurriedly left the room.