Your Granny's Nurse: There's a Reason It's Called a Home

It was 1991. Christmastime. I was working in the nursing home that I had called my second home for the past nine years. Everyone was in great spirits, as our annual Christmas party was that night, and everyone was talking about the finery they had to rush home to don before the big night. 

We were all one big happy family, staff, residents and  Administration (Catholic Nuns), alike. The only strange note was that Susie was absent. Not just absent, but a dreaded "No call-No Show". It wasn't like her. She had been a valued, and much loved housekeeper there for years. All the residents and staff loved her bubbly optimistic personality, not to mention her long, flaming red locks, "Something must have happened" "It's not like her" and similar comments were heard throughout the morning's routine.

I happened past Patsy, the ward clerk's office to find her with the telephone receiver plastered to her head, tears streaming down her face. Now, Patsy is one tough cookie. An old southern  broad, as they say.  She didn't weep easily. I knew at that moment that something horrible had happened to our Susie.

When she lay down the receiver, she got up and through her tears, silently embraced me for what seemed like an hour, though only moments.  "What happened?" I pleaded. "Susie's son was hit by a Domino's Pizza driver last night, they are removing life support and taking his organs for donation".

I felt gut kicked. Her son, Scott, was the a year older than my own son, also Scott. He was a budding football star in his second year of high school, and the absolute light of Susie's life. He had been jogging through their neighborhood, also mine, on the previous evening, and was hit by a pizza delivery driver, an eighteen year old kid himself. The driver's excuse was "If its not there in thirty minutes or less, I have to pay for it". 

The grief as the word spread was palpable. Swollen eyes, red, runny noses were on every face, staff and residents alike.  Pockets bulged with  tissue to hand the next person you made eye contact with, as eye contact was the thing that ushered in another bout of bawling. Many had never met Scott, but the horror and despondency flowing throughout the home was tangible. 

"We should cancel the party." "No one feels like a celebration anyway" was heard throughout the hallways. No, the administration had spoken. The party would go on as planned. "Susie wouldn't want us to stop living because of her" was their reasoning. "and we expect you to be there". was their unspoken demand. and they did sign the paychecks. truthfully, we were all thinking about how uncaring they seemed. They were NUNS, after all. The supposed epitome of compassion and caring. It did not seem so on that day.

The party began at its appointed time. The finery and evening makeup of the women artfully concealed the red, swollen eyes. People were unnaturally jovial. No one was speaking of the day's tragedy. It was surreal.

I suspect that most had imbibed of some type of pain killer, some even legal, prior to arriving. I know myself, and a few other supervisors became quite adept at snatching bottles of wine off the carts on their way to the dining room. Luckily, I lived within walking distance, as I quickly became inebriated. It's odd, in retrospect, that no one became a sloppy drunk, crying and blubbering as we had done all day long. 

That night, someone commented on why another coworker, Donna, was not present. She was in labor. A reason to celebrate, although it seemed disrespectful to do so. Another coworker, Angel, went into labor at the party, and was unceremoniously sprawled on the sofa in the lounge for much of the festivities. Strangely, no one commented on the fact that as life is taken, life begins. It was too much, at the time, to fathom.  

In the months that followed, Susie eventually returned to work, although for years when she clocked out at night, her car turned right, toward the cemetery, versus left, toward home. Her family won a monumental lawsuit against Domino's, successfully ending their "thirty minutes or free" promotion. 

The boy who killed Scott never went to trial. Apparently, he was advised by the Domino's attorneys to enter the military, where the courts couldn't touch him.

It is odd what one carries with them from old jobs, old friends and coworkers. What I remember most from this tragedy was the feeling of comaraderie, of family, of love and compassion.

Sometimes I feel like that place, which no longer exists, was blessed, charmed, or otherwise enchanted. In my career of more than twenty years as a nurse, I have never, before or since ,encountered that level of fellowship among a group of coworkers, although I feel it is something every nursing home should strive for.

In today's corporate world, the hominess is gone, as most nursing homes, old folks homes, and rest homes have given way to Rehabilitation Centres. While there is a definative  need for homes which provide extensive, short term care, I miss the feeling of brotherhood within the old fashioned nursing home. 

I miss those people every day.




** Four of you may recognize the gist of this piece, as it was, in its first draft, the first thing I posted to Gather (I had a grand total of 4 comments).