Just Like Hagar...
"Do not go gentle into that good night;
Rage, Rage against the dying of the light."
DYLAN THOMAS
Time has gone by so fast...As if it were yesterday; It seems as if, I was a young girl again. Thinking of what could have been; and sadly, what it actually turned out to be. For me, not much of anything seems to matter anymore; I guess growing old, and being alone makes you inappreciative of life's values. Why must I be treated so differently? Just because I am a little slower than I once was? Because it takes me a moment to answer, when asked a question? I am still the same person. I find it hard to believe that, because my hair is gray. My skin is wrinkled, my mind, speech and body language shows its real age, that I am committed to a "HOME". The dreaded word, that made my mother cringe when I had heard it as a child and as a teenager, I would use this to playfully threaten my parents. Ugh a "home" that treats me as a child, an invalid. THAT..I AM NOT!! Why can't they see? I am spoon fed three times a day. I don't have the sense of independence that I need to have to feel like a whole person. I think I'm capable of knowing when it is time to eat, when it is time for bed or when to get up. People presume that these decsions cannot be made by a elderly person. I believe that the staff should be observing me and my limitations and not just assuming, what I can and cannot do. ASK ME. I have a voice.
I've been told that I am being one sided; they tell me that I should be appreciative for what is being done for me. I guess a person could be happy, having their bed made, not having to worry about where their next meal is coming from or where they would be sleeping that night. However, it is a nice place, I'll give them that!. I guess it could be fun, IF I wanted to get involved. Some of the other people here are so lively, flamboyant even. Take for example Cecil. That man has a joke for everything; I imagine that he was quite the catch, years ago. Then again, there are also people like Douglas. Douglas is a quiet man and compared to the rest of the us, he is the "young-un". He is oh I'd say about 67 years old, but the poor soul has been abandoned here. Left to die by himself, by none other than his only son. No, he doesn't say much at all. He's quite caught up on himself; I guess that's because he is an observer. He sits in his room, with his chair in the doorway facing the "family room". Hours on end, he sits and watches. Doesn't stare really, doesn't focus on one person, but he watches everyone. I'm sure he has judged us all or at least has an opinion about most of us; not that he would ever share it. Can't say I've ever heard a word come from his mouth. Actually this place they call Cherry Hill Manor isn't bad at all. But to me, that door, that big oak door I see it more of an escape route than an entrance to our "home".
Sometimes, I sit in bedroom in from of the mirror and I just stare at the stranger that stares back. At times, I cry. Cry because I have so many unanswered questions and I'm really not sure why I am here. What did I do wrong? Why did my family bring me her and leave me? And why don't they visit me more often? When they do visit, it's only for a short time and even when they do come, they seem bored and can't wait to get out of here..Hmm I know the feeling. Don't they see that I too, feel the same way? The only one that seems to know is my grandson Joshua, who always coming running in to give me a hug. Oh I cherish those moments! Sometimes, I think that those moments are the only times that keep me going. Golly do I look forward to seeing him!
Rage, Rage against the dying of the light."
DYLAN THOMAS
Time has gone by so fast...As if it were yesterday; It seems as if, I was a young girl again. Thinking of what could have been; and sadly, what it actually turned out to be. For me, not much of anything seems to matter anymore; I guess growing old, and being alone makes you inappreciative of life's values. Why must I be treated so differently? Just because I am a little slower than I once was? Because it takes me a moment to answer, when asked a question? I am still the same person. I find it hard to believe that, because my hair is gray. My skin is wrinkled, my mind, speech and body language shows its real age, that I am committed to a "HOME". The dreaded word, that made my mother cringe when I had heard it as a child and as a teenager, I would use this to playfully threaten my parents. Ugh a "home" that treats me as a child, an invalid. THAT..I AM NOT!! Why can't they see? I am spoon fed three times a day. I don't have the sense of independence that I need to have to feel like a whole person. I think I'm capable of knowing when it is time to eat, when it is time for bed or when to get up. People presume that these decsions cannot be made by a elderly person. I believe that the staff should be observing me and my limitations and not just assuming, what I can and cannot do. ASK ME. I have a voice.
I've been told that I am being one sided; they tell me that I should be appreciative for what is being done for me. I guess a person could be happy, having their bed made, not having to worry about where their next meal is coming from or where they would be sleeping that night. However, it is a nice place, I'll give them that!. I guess it could be fun, IF I wanted to get involved. Some of the other people here are so lively, flamboyant even. Take for example Cecil. That man has a joke for everything; I imagine that he was quite the catch, years ago. Then again, there are also people like Douglas. Douglas is a quiet man and compared to the rest of the us, he is the "young-un". He is oh I'd say about 67 years old, but the poor soul has been abandoned here. Left to die by himself, by none other than his only son. No, he doesn't say much at all. He's quite caught up on himself; I guess that's because he is an observer. He sits in his room, with his chair in the doorway facing the "family room". Hours on end, he sits and watches. Doesn't stare really, doesn't focus on one person, but he watches everyone. I'm sure he has judged us all or at least has an opinion about most of us; not that he would ever share it. Can't say I've ever heard a word come from his mouth. Actually this place they call Cherry Hill Manor isn't bad at all. But to me, that door, that big oak door I see it more of an escape route than an entrance to our "home".
Sometimes, I sit in bedroom in from of the mirror and I just stare at the stranger that stares back. At times, I cry. Cry because I have so many unanswered questions and I'm really not sure why I am here. What did I do wrong? Why did my family bring me her and leave me? And why don't they visit me more often? When they do visit, it's only for a short time and even when they do come, they seem bored and can't wait to get out of here..Hmm I know the feeling. Don't they see that I too, feel the same way? The only one that seems to know is my grandson Joshua, who always coming running in to give me a hug. Oh I cherish those moments! Sometimes, I think that those moments are the only times that keep me going. Golly do I look forward to seeing him!
I'm always being told that I think too much anyway. Maybe I do, but right now, my thoughts are all I have. I can't stop the tears, and I hate the feeling of not being able to control my emotions. But when my mind wanders to my family, my friends, my home...All that I once had..I can't help it. I get caught up in the past and I miss being young. I think today; our children take too much for granted. I know I did, what little there was anyway. But I'm not sure that I if I had a chance, to do it all over again that I would take it. The pain and the hatred that I felt through my younger years overwhelms me.Even though I felt it for a short time,it stands out. The pain of losing my big brother Henry to the war, my father taking his hate out on everyone, more so after losing his son. I would run to him asnd say "Papa I'm still here" and he would just shrug me off and send me to my mother. Tears running down my cheeks. I never understood why he hated me so much. I tend to think the only reason was because I was a girl. Most times by the time I reached my Mama I was so upset I couldn't speak. She would hold me close to her and tell me it was "just Papa's way", because he missed Henry so much. We would laugh about something Henry had done and everything would be ok. Gosh darn it, my Mama could make any situation a better one. In a way I guess I was lucky. I do remember when I was a young girl, I always had a smile on my face and I remember being happy. I was a spirited, loving child....ahhh...But now as this stranger in the mirror once again stares back a time, I don't see any of that vibrancy, I only see the sunken eyes, wrinkled skin and my frizzy grey hair... I see no reason at all to be happy.
I recall being in school one year; I had a book report to do and I chose a book that made me feel sullen at times but was so deep and interesting the rest of the time. I remember choosing it, because it had an Angel on the cover and I thought it was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I started to read it and I found very quickly, that I couldn't put it down. A real page turner. The book was called the Stone Angel. Oh what was that gals name that wrote it? Ahh yes, Margaret Lawerance. Yep that's her name. Oh what a book that was. I was 15 or so when I read it and from the day I finished the book, I swore on my life that I would never grow old, like the main character Hager. The novel sort of frightened me, yes indeed it did frighten me. I was afraid of getting old. Is this really what happenes? My Mama thought I was crazy to be frightened of such a thing. It's "natural. don't waste your time fretting something you have no control over" she said. But I'm telling you; from then on I vowed never to put myself in the position that Hager was. Or to be treated like she was...A child. Oddly, now I do feel like her, I really do. The only difference being, I actually got to the stage of being shipped off to a home. In Hagar's case I considereded her to be lucky; she died before she was put in one. Oh, what was that home called? Ah yes Silver Threads. Yes, that's right, Silver threads. In the novel it seemed like a nice place to live, just like this one. But like I did and still do, I felt hurt and abandoned. Hager was stronger than I am, more independent than I ever could be. At times I wish I had the nerve to get up and go to a place that nobody could find me. Lately, I haven't had the strength or energy to do anything, let alone get up and go. So here I sit thinking about an old novel that I read oh so many years ago. I would have never thought that I would portray a person in a novel that I had read as a school girl. Especially Hager Currie Shipley.
I feel cold now, and I am shivering uncontrollably. I hate this feeling. From here I can hear the laughter that seems to boom, throughout the home. Cecil must be telling more stories or jokes. Yes, he has talent. As I wheel myself into the main hallway, into this old metal chair contraption; I start towards the family room. I see Douglas walking into the room where everyone else is. They call this the "family room." Now I know why. Folks are sittig together, playing games, smiling, talking, watching the picture tube or television as they call it. I wheel myself closer to the opening of the huge doorway, where Douglas is standing. He seems afraid to go in. The look in his face shows me that he feels like an intruder, like I sometimes feel myself. I stretched out my hand and gently touched his...Douglas looked down at me and for the first time, he smiled. As he smiled, a single tear ran slowly down his sunburned, weather beaten face. I stayed with Douglas for a long time and together we just watched. A while passed and I was begins to tire, to withdraw again; so I stared to turn my chair around when suddenly it began to get easier as if someone were pushing me. I turned my head and saw that indeed some was. When Douglas and I arrived at my room, he helped me into bed. He turned to leave and I tried to say something, but my throat simply made a crackling noise. So instead I simply smiled.He didn't seem to notice so I slapped my hand onto the dresser top. Startled, Douglas turned around and when he did I was still smiling. Douglas smiled back and for a moment I thought he was going to say something. Instead he nodded his head and continued to smile. He then shook his head, and slowly turned away, making his way in the direction of his own room. I'll never know what Douglas was going to say, for he was found dead in his bed the very next morning. That morning- it was the first time I cried for someone else. I'm not sure why I cried for Douglas, I didn't even know him really. Maybe that's why. I didn't know him at all. Or maybe I knew him better than I thought. And it scared the bejesus out of me.
I recall being in school one year; I had a book report to do and I chose a book that made me feel sullen at times but was so deep and interesting the rest of the time. I remember choosing it, because it had an Angel on the cover and I thought it was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I started to read it and I found very quickly, that I couldn't put it down. A real page turner. The book was called the Stone Angel. Oh what was that gals name that wrote it? Ahh yes, Margaret Lawerance. Yep that's her name. Oh what a book that was. I was 15 or so when I read it and from the day I finished the book, I swore on my life that I would never grow old, like the main character Hager. The novel sort of frightened me, yes indeed it did frighten me. I was afraid of getting old. Is this really what happenes? My Mama thought I was crazy to be frightened of such a thing. It's "natural. don't waste your time fretting something you have no control over" she said. But I'm telling you; from then on I vowed never to put myself in the position that Hager was. Or to be treated like she was...A child. Oddly, now I do feel like her, I really do. The only difference being, I actually got to the stage of being shipped off to a home. In Hagar's case I considereded her to be lucky; she died before she was put in one. Oh, what was that home called? Ah yes Silver Threads. Yes, that's right, Silver threads. In the novel it seemed like a nice place to live, just like this one. But like I did and still do, I felt hurt and abandoned. Hager was stronger than I am, more independent than I ever could be. At times I wish I had the nerve to get up and go to a place that nobody could find me. Lately, I haven't had the strength or energy to do anything, let alone get up and go. So here I sit thinking about an old novel that I read oh so many years ago. I would have never thought that I would portray a person in a novel that I had read as a school girl. Especially Hager Currie Shipley.
I feel cold now, and I am shivering uncontrollably. I hate this feeling. From here I can hear the laughter that seems to boom, throughout the home. Cecil must be telling more stories or jokes. Yes, he has talent. As I wheel myself into the main hallway, into this old metal chair contraption; I start towards the family room. I see Douglas walking into the room where everyone else is. They call this the "family room." Now I know why. Folks are sittig together, playing games, smiling, talking, watching the picture tube or television as they call it. I wheel myself closer to the opening of the huge doorway, where Douglas is standing. He seems afraid to go in. The look in his face shows me that he feels like an intruder, like I sometimes feel myself. I stretched out my hand and gently touched his...Douglas looked down at me and for the first time, he smiled. As he smiled, a single tear ran slowly down his sunburned, weather beaten face. I stayed with Douglas for a long time and together we just watched. A while passed and I was begins to tire, to withdraw again; so I stared to turn my chair around when suddenly it began to get easier as if someone were pushing me. I turned my head and saw that indeed some was. When Douglas and I arrived at my room, he helped me into bed. He turned to leave and I tried to say something, but my throat simply made a crackling noise. So instead I simply smiled.He didn't seem to notice so I slapped my hand onto the dresser top. Startled, Douglas turned around and when he did I was still smiling. Douglas smiled back and for a moment I thought he was going to say something. Instead he nodded his head and continued to smile. He then shook his head, and slowly turned away, making his way in the direction of his own room. I'll never know what Douglas was going to say, for he was found dead in his bed the very next morning. That morning- it was the first time I cried for someone else. I'm not sure why I cried for Douglas, I didn't even know him really. Maybe that's why. I didn't know him at all. Or maybe I knew him better than I thought. And it scared the bejesus out of me.
Here I live with 60 some odd people and I don't even know any of them. Sure I know some of their names and I'm sure they know mine, whe we can remember anyway. But I don't really know them. How sad. I don't want to end up like Douglas. It is time. Time to make friends and to share my story as Cecil shares his. The next day I was asked if I wanted to join some of the folks who people who were playing bridge. I accepted. And as we were sitting around the table, they said they were sorry that I had lost my friend. I guess they too are observers and saw me with Douglas the day before. I smiled and thanked them and continued on with the game. I can't tell you howI felt; accepted, liked...More importantly acknowleged. My thoughts drift to Douglas from time to time and I often find myself smiling when I do. From that day on I joined some other groups. We went for walks, or a hike as the young folks who work here call it. And sometimes we even went into town for ice cream or a soda.
Sometimes I still feel alone, maybe that's because I haven't seen or heard from my family. I guess they are all too busy....
I'm sitting in my room, looking out the window, thinking of my youngest grandson, Joshua. Josh so spirited, so free. Like I was once upon a time. He doesn't seem to have a care in the world; like most children these days. He is a special little boy.
I guess you could call him my shining star in an endless of memory; where hopes and dreams of future thoughts will bring a shining end to my life.
Just like Hagar.
Just like Hagar.
I wrote this for a grade 9 book report;( many, many..LOL did I say Many?!) years ago. I was spring cleaning when I found it and I thought it was pretty cool.
posted by Shellie @ 6:09 PM
1 Comments:
Good grief! You had me going there for a minute!
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