I have been to visit an elderly woman at a rehab/ nursing home twice this month. It was the first time I had been to such a different environment as an adult. I guess I expected it to be structured like an office building, the suffering and loneliness hidden away behind closed doors.
The stench of urine seeps into my pores and I do everything in my power to avoid scrunching my nose as my eyes begin to burn. I beg my stomach to resist the vomiting urge. I round a corner and cannot help but hold one hand to my nose as I pass a hallway overflowing with The Odor, it is too overwhelming. Perhaps that was the room filled with soiled linens?
I feel like I am the only movement for miles, all eyes are on me. I pass several corridors lined with open doors; exposing rooms of stillness. I feel tense and wish I had a gift for every weary face I pass. Many are sitting in wheelchairs, as if they are lost, in the middle of the hallway with blank, longing stares. I pass a cafeteria where some align their wheelchairs around circular tables adorned with bright, plastic flowers; but no one is speaking. It's like life is on pause for everyone except me.
The more solitude I am confronted with down another hallway, the more uncomfortable I become with each bounce in my stride. Guilt of abundant health flowing through my veins makes me blush as I finally approach her room. The urine odor is not there, I am selfishly breathing relief.
She is a lucky one, she has her own home to return to once she is back on her feet. She is humorous and determined, a strong woman with mighty courage. She is also eager to have me visit her there one day, in her own home where she will tend her garden and show me around. I want to go, I want to celebrate with this woman I have never met before. I want to share a giant piece of pie with her once she is back to whatever her normal self will be. I just know she gets to leave one day and that will be so brilliant for her.
When I return to my car I am abashedly aware of the firmness of my skin. The sun kissed color appearing on my arms from days I followed Zane around at the park. The enormous gratitude for having a body that allows me to care not only for myself, but my son, in addition to growing another baby, all of it without assistance. To make a meal with my own hands so my husband can eat after a long day at work. To be able-bodied, even if it will not be forever, right now in my life is a tremendous gift.
I want to keep this feeling of gratitude; I want it to give me strength when I grow heavier and more tired. When I deliver. When I want to complain of fatigue once the new one is here. When I cry for weeks in a row again, I hope it will be for the joy that I am able to care for my expanded family with my own hands.
