A visit to the nursing home is like a trip into another world. Yesterday I went to see my grandma and happened to be there while they were having lunch. She ate out in the dayroom with forty or so other 'elderly people'. The nurses delivered pink trays with different variations of the same food. By this, I mean everyone received meatloaf, potatoes and vegetables, but some got ground up dogfood looking meat and mashed up vegetables in potatoes resembling pea soupish baby food.
On the scale of food-chewing ability, I assumed my grandma to be of mediocre standing. This appraisal was based on her mashed up dogfood meat but yet solid cheesy potatoe chunks and full bodied carrots. She ate her fill of soup and cheesy potatoes. Obviously offended at the suggestion that she was unable to chew, she rejected the ground up meatloaf. She then took the extra packets of sugar meant for coffee and slipped them into a box of tissues. Viva La Rebellion! Who would have thought? Grandma was hoarding goods in a secret stash.
Anyway, upon witnessing her dissatisfaction with lunch (and understandably so), I offered to bring her lunch the next day. I would go out of my way to make this a meal to remember.
I began my quest for the ultimate lunch at 7 Eleven. The man tending the counter informed me, "we have not, and never have, made fresh sandwiches." Unfathomable! I frowned at this, only to be pointed in the direction of a measly selection of shrink-wrapped sandwiches. This would not do. Continuing on, I stopped at the local sub shop. "I'll have the number 2. Ham, cappacola, and cheese... everything on it." I even picked up a large tub of potatoe salad at the register. My quest didn't end there. I pulled into a Burger King drive-thru. I leaned out my window and stared that menu square in the speaker. Purposefully enunciating each word, I boomed, "One large vanilla milkshake. Please." I looked at the dashboard clock and panicked, realizing I only had fifteen minutes before the nursing home served their inferior version of lunch. It was time to pick up the pace. I had the lunch, napkins, straws, and all other miscellaneous munching paraphernalia; it was time to deliver.
Pulling into the nursing home lot, I had a nightmarish vision. White-haired ladies, shirt-stained men, all shuffling toward me in wheelchairs. They were drooling, arms outreached, trying to get a piece of my magnificent lunch. "No! Get away!" I could see my grandma in the corner looking longingly for her ham and cheese, but my path was obstructed by wrinkled zombies.
I had to snap out of it, I was wasting time. With my arms full, signing in at the desk was a struggle. I rushed up the stairs and whirled around the corner. There's grandma. No one even notices I'm here. Man that was an irrational fear, they are all staring off into space.
Placing each token of the meal in front of my grandma, I did not receive the fanfare I envisioned. But even I admit, I may have had exaggerated expectations. Regardless, she was delighted and thoroughly enjoyed the best lunch this side of the Raritan River.
This tale does continue on to make another point. A reader of this may be begging for my story to be taken outside the walls of the nursing home, but I digress. I noticed a woman sitting at my grandma's table who spoke in mostly grunts, though I did identify one or two words she mouthed during the course of lunch. Her motor skills were not up to par and had a difficult time navigating her pink tray. Finally a nurse came and made a sandwich out of her chicken and two slices of white bread. Thinking this was sufficient help, the nurse walked away. The woman, let's call her Beatrice, managed to pop off the lid of a cup of coffee. Beatrice picked up a packet of sugar substitute and reached to pour it in the coffee. She missed, and instead poured the sugar generously atop her chicken sandwich. This was the catalyst that set off a chain of events for which I was the sole witness.
The nurse came back and reprimanded Beatrice for not eating. I knew she wasn't eating because her chicken sandwich was covered in sugar, but decided to keep that to myself, for the time being. The nurse picked up the sandwich and put it to Beatrice's mouth, to which Beatrice suddenly overcame her motor-skill deficiencies, grabbed the sandwich and threw it across the table. It slammed in front of another woman and made a moderately sized mess. The nurse's eyes widened.
"First, you don't eat. Now, you throw food," she shouted in a thick Jamaican accent, "that is rude. That is not acceptable behavior!"
I find myself in these situations often. As an outsider, I witness a miscommunication of sorts, and am the only person who fully understands why each person has misunderstood one other.
"She got sugar on her sandwich."
This did not help to clear things up.
"Sugar on your chicken sandwich? Why you messing up your food? You need to eat your lunch and stop wasting it."
It was a futile argument. But I understood, Beatrice. I know you didn't mean to pour sugar on your sandwich.
