On Friday night, Steve and I went out to Benjamin Button starring Brad Pitt and Skeletor. It wasn't our first choice, but it was the only movie that started at the right time.
Benjamin Button was better than we thought it would be. It was filmed beautifully, but the special effects are distracting. You keep wondering how they morphed Pitt's face onto old dudes and forget to listen to the words. Pitt's acting wasn't bad. He repressed his habit of falling back into his 12 Monkey's role. Cate Blanchett wears a fantastic red dress in one scene, and her hollowed face has that haunted look, which is just perfect for this movie. This film bears too close of a resemblance to Forest Gump to make it a truly great film. (More from Michael Bérubé on this.) Still, worth a viewing.
The first hour of Benjamin Button takes place in a nursing home and, coincidentally, I had to make a trip to a nursing home on Saturday. The real thing ain't so pretty.
I was at my friend Brita's house last week for a bon voyage beer before she left for Germany. She mentioned that she had been in to visit an elderly neighbor earlier that day. I said that was a good thing to do. And she said that she goes to check on the woman nearly every day and that she had helped her color her hair last week.
My mom tends to three old women who have no family to care for them. For one, she just does minor things, like drive her to the hair dressers. The other two have been more work. She helped Mrs. Schmidt, a neighbor from long ago, find an appropriate nursing home. My mom makes the long drive to visit her every two weeks. My Aunt Theresa is the biggest job.
Aunt Theresa isn't my real aunt. She and my mom became friends while they lived in the Bronx years ago. Aunt Theresa was the only daughter of Italian immigrants. She never married and has no extended family in this country.
She was, what they used to call, a handsome woman. Strong features and an athletic build. A highly intelligent woman who did not suffer fools gladly. She taught Spanish and French for years in Catholic schools in the Bronx. She traveled on her own through Spain, Italy, and Argentina and made friends where ever she went. Back then, strong women scared guys away and she was never able to have a family of her own. Today, she still might not have married, but she would be partner in a law firm and fabulously wealthy. Since she didn't have kids of her own, she often came to our family gatherings and pinched our cheeks mercilessly.
She's alone now and in pain. She's got Parkinson's and a bone cancer than keeps snapping her bones. That independent streak that kept her going all those years is working against her now that she's helpless in a wheel chair. She orders people around and insists on managing her own affairs. My mom goes to see her in the nursing home every week to help her pay her bills, but often comes home cross, because Aunt Theresa can be quite a pill these days.
I arranged to take my mom to Westchester on Saturday, because I am trying to do more of my share. There are countless old, lonely people out there, and we all have the responsibility to help out with at least one. Brita says that she colored her neighbor's hair, because she hopes that someone will do it for her when she gets old.
Aunt Theresa's nursing home wasn't nearly as quaint as the one in the movie. I think as nursing homes go, this was a good one. Aunt Theresa pays $10,000 per month to stay there. But when we got off the elevator, there were about a dozen old people parked in wheel chairs in the lobby just sitting there waiting to see who would arrive next. I saw one woman nearly drown in her own phlegm. Mostly the people there were very lonely and afraid.
I've always thought that nursing homes and daycares should be housed in the same buildings. The halls needed some noise and some laughter. Groups of people shouldn't be isolated and forgotten like that.
I would like to help my mom out again next week, but the semester is gearing up again and deadlines are looming. It takes time to do the right thing, and I fear that I won't even be able to think about Aunt Theresa again until May when the semester is over. I need to rearrange things and make the time.
Apt. 11d 
My children attended day care in a facility that was a combination of child day care and adult day services. The adults who attended were not quite ready for a nursing home, but needed care during the day. Often it was adults whose children or spouses still worked, or who had mild levels of dementia. It was a really great idea. It was good for the kids to see older adults, adults with wheelchairs and walkers, etc., and I’m certain the kids were good for the adults. They did a number of shared activities during the day, and everyone benefitted.
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But you also have to be prepared for the “Where’s Mrs. Henderson?” conversations when one of the nursing home residents dies.
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Are you aware that China does house ‘nursing homes” and orphanages together? Apparently it does work there so it might be a good model here.
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But Amy, Mrs. Henderson’s death is a natural part of life. It wouldn’t be that hard to explain to a child.
My children who were 13,11,8 and 3 were a very active part of my grandmother’s life, visiting her in her senior citizen’s apartment, later nursing home and were there for the several days it took Gram to die.
I think children can grasp old age and death better when it’s not an abstract concept.
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Lisa V,
I said “you also have to be prepared,” not that it was a bad idea. It’s just part of the deal.
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Whoa, another Wendy again. I should go back to WendyW. First Wendy is not me. I always keep the URL for my little-used blog.
I hated BB with hot heaping hunks of hatred, much as I hated Forrest Gump. We saw In Bruges the other night–interesting little film with Ralph Fiennes in an underpraised supporting performance.
My kids’ preschool used to organize regular trips to a local nursing home. My daughter really didn’t like it, which just made me wish they’d go more often. My FIL is in assisted living and it’s a pretty nice place, but he hates it when we visit him.
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My daughter – now 8 – attended a preschool located on the grounds of a long-term care/rehabilitation hospital in Toronto. Each week some of the kids would go to the hospital’s common room for shared music, stories, crafts, etc., often based on the residents’ talents, background or interests (one played Chinese musical instruments, another taught them how to play checkers, etc). Sometimes, they just spent time together.
My daughter was very laid-back about it, to the point of not always even mentioning when she’d gone over. Once she said matter-of-factly, “Everyone’s different, Mommy, that’s what you need to remember.”
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Anyone read “Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont”? A wonderful little novel about an English retirement hotel. It’s from the 70s but captured the essence of aging alone quite well.
As an aside, what do people think of the germ factor with pre-schoolers in nursing homes? My kids are constantly sick and have been since the moment they began preschool. School is a total germ factory. They recover quickly but not so sure an elderly person would fare as well.
I’ve also heard of nursing homes that take in orphaned pets. This is evidently pretty successful. Although there might be a germ factor there as well.
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