Dave Wood

(A serio-comic account of two weeks’ time spent in a western Wisconsin hursing home.)

I’ll admit it! I am the Kook, and I am the fool who ignored my Beautiful Wife’s admonition to never walk without my walker. So, on a recent evening I blithely walked into our family room carrying a dish of ice cream, headed for my favorite chair, fell face-down on the polished wood floor, and self-propelled until my head bashed into the bottom step of the staircase.

After hospital treatment for two broken vertebrae, I found myself ensconced in a rehab home, where I took my meals three times a day with several other oldsters whose disabilities rendered each of us incapable of eating like normal adults. The nursing home’s spacious dining room looked out on an almost bucolic countryside, something like the set the wonderful movie, “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” starring Jack Nicholson.

On the morning I arrived, Jack was not on the scene, so I played his part over scrambled eggs, coffee, spiced apples, white milk, chocolate milk, and apple juice with three other diners. I was introduced first to Gloria (names have been changed to protect the innocent), who was more concerned about the apple juice, and asked “What’s this??” “It’s apple juice” the supervisor replied. “It looks like pee to me,” said this very pretty nonagenarian whose straight silver hair draped over her tiny shoulders. “And this is Jack,” said the supervisor pointing at me.” “My god,” replied the sharp little coquette, “is that guy ever ugly!” With that welcome, I hastened to wolf down my pancakes and get back to my room, where Ruth had arrived to greet me. “Well, this isn’t going so well,” I told her. “My tablemate complained to all that I was too ugly to be sat with.”

“Well,” Ruth replied. “Have you looked in a mirror recently?” Bracing myself, I found a mirror and saw that my skull, my eye sockets, my chin, and my cheeks were all purple-black, and I looked, well, really ugly.

On the following morning, I appeared for breakfast with some trepidation. Almost immediately Gloria (having been scolded by the nurse in attendance for yesterday’s critical remark) came over, clasped my hand, and said “You know, you’re really a rather handsome fellow.” I soon realized that my table had a good thing going, with caregivers who suffered our every whim and helped us laugh off our infirmities. We were, without doubt, a remarkable medley of characters, such as the wispy, white-haired Robert Frost look-alike and the happy-go-lucky Harry, who daily asked Gloria if she wouldn’t like to go on a date with him, to whom she unfailingly replied: “No, you’re too old.” “I bet you’d go out with the new guy,” Harry retorted. “You bet. He’s just right.”

The head cook often joined in on the repartee, asking “How were the pancakes today?”

“EXCEPTIONAL!” we all shouted. “Even him,” Gloria chimed in, pointing at fussy me. The popular cook had succeeded, despite budget and government regulations, in turning out delicious desserts and crowd favorites like sloppy joes, among other wonders.

I will not soon forget the caretaking nurses and nurse aides who toiled night and day, knew every patient by name, indulged each one’s myriad idiosyncrasies. The staff included male members, like Kyle, whose courtly attention got me to thinking of him as my man servant.

Long story short, to quote Tony Soprano, I grew to love the group, including wry Gloria, who taught me how to sing Doo-wop love songs in one session, and the gaggle of compatriots who trailed behind her.

Was there a monstrous Nurse Ratched in the group? Nary a one.

I’ll soon have to give up my infatuation with Gloria, and I know I will never try walking again without my walker, no matter how charming a place a nursing home can be!