My winter break

It happened in a flash. One minute I was creeping along the upstairs hall in the dark, groping for the light switch, and the next minute I was sprawled face-down at the bottom of the stairs. The surgeon cobbled my arm back together, and then the hospital shipped me off to convalescent care. Convalescent care turns out to be a short-term bed in a nursing home. It's a bridging program, giving you basic care and a chance to heal until you can manage on your own again. It was a godsend for me, but it ended up being much more than that. It was an eye-opening, provocative, up-close-and-personal, intensive two-month course in what it's like to spend your old age in a nursing home.

We all hope that we'll just die peacefully at home, in our sleep. We don't like to think about what will become of us if that doesn't happen, if instead of dying we're handicapped by a stroke or dementia, and need care around the clock. Chances are we'll have to move into long term care. I'm sure that few of the permanent residents on my floor would have chosen to live out their old age that way. But in fact they were the lucky ones: people who had gotten to the top of the waiting list for a not-for-profit city-run long term care facility. They were ably and adequately diapered, bathed, fed, dressed, and moved about. The staff were for the most part well trained, efficient, competent, and caring. They tried to brighten things up with sing-alongs, bingo, movies, and ice cream socials. But the days were very long. I could feel my will shriveling, my attention scattering, my world shrinking. The only times I ever made decisions that resulted in action were in the dining room, when I was asked whether I wanted chicken or fish.

I'm a crabby, impatient old cuss, not an easy fit for a nursing home, so in case I end up in one, I'd better start training for it now. The permanent residents I met all struggled to come to terms with their situation. How do you make peace with such a life?

The first lesson I need to learn is patience. The staff are busy, and the demands are great. You have to wait your turn for everything: diapering, dressing, showering, feeding, getting your meds. Sometimes the floor is short-staffed and you may miss your turn. If you really need something, how do you ask for it without antagonizing overworked staff?

The second lesson is humility. In your previous life, you may have had a position of responsibility or high social status or people reporting to you, but a nursing home is utterly democratic. Everyone gets equal treatment. There's no point jockeying for status. To the staff, one dirty diaper is like every other dirty diaper.

It's hard to pick a single word for the third lesson. The closest I can come up with is equanimity. Somehow you have to build a strong enough core to accept whatever the day brings calmly, without descending into bitterness, pettiness, resentment, or regret. You need to embrace whatever has happened without wishing it could be otherwise. And when good things come along, squeeze out every drop of joy.