We may not agree on much, but I think I can postulate -- and you'll agree -- that as a culture,…read moreAmericans treat the elderly as second class citizens. Third class, if that's possible. As opposed to societies the world over who incorporate and often revere their elders, America simply doesn't have much use for the decrepit; essentially, once ya use it up, ya lose it. You're no longer considered productive, and you're banished to some hole somewhere, left to stare at a television, left to lonesome. This truth is emphatically clear when The End is crouching in the corner of the room, or hovering above the bedside, anxious to steal away a final breath of life.
Recently, a dear relative of mine was balancing on the precipice of this inevitability, declared hospice-bound by his doctors. Never before had I encountered such a wave of emotional turmoil or utter desperation. He couldn't stay at a hospital and he was doomed to die, the only question was how long it would take. And then there was the bigger question: where could he live? He could live with me, but I couldn't care for him. I was a productive member of society, meaning I worked, incessantly. But could I entrust him to a nursing home? God no, I thought. Not one of those. Time was of the essence, I scrambled, and at the last minute, Hospice of New Mexico suggested this place called Night N Gail. Go check it out, they said. It's a home. Not a nursing home.
And what I discovered was indeed a home. An eight-bedroom house, staffed by trained nurses in an everyday residential neighborhood near Uptown. I met the director, Monica, at the door and honestly, a few minutes into my tour I was absolutely, resolutely positive it was the right place for my relative. I mean, it was a house, filled with sweet old people and soft worn furniture and realms of quiet and terribly kind, genuinely caring professionals. And there was something in the air in there, not the musty stench of despair but light, simplistic hope. While they couldn't offer the services of, say, a modern medical facility, they could provide the intangible: honest care. Twenty-four hours of it, everyday.
We're approaching a two month stay. He's getting three square, home-cooked meals a day. I visit regularly; invariably, he says he loves the people, the food, everything. And dare I say he's getting stronger, better, more alive with each passing moment. And he may die tomorrow, who knows. He's aware of this. But I cannot be more satisfied. It's a little pricier than a nursing home, but not much, and I'll say this: Monica and her staff work like dogs, and they're not making a mint for their efforts. Outright, they simply give this care from the bottom of their hearts. Some of the residents have been there going on a decade, and even the worst of 'em, the howling, lost and confounded among them, are treated with decency, humanity and dare I name it, love.
