A Visit to the Nursing Home

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Elliot Silver was sitting in a cramped, overheated office at the Park View Nursing Home, facing the social worker, Naomi Morgenthau. His forehead was dripping and sweat was running down his back. He wanted to loosen his tie and take off his blue sports jacket but did not want it to seem like a reproach.

Ms. Morgenthau placed Elliot’s one-page application on the desk in front of her, clasped her hands together, and turned to him. “So, Mr. Silver. You want to do volunteer work here?”

“Yes.” Elliot shifted in his plastic-covered seat, making an embarrassing fart noise. She didn’t respond. “I’ve been retired since July and I want to do something to help the less fortunate.” Elliot cringed at how pretentious and demeaning that sounded. “I’ve spent over thirty years in a high school and now...” His voice trailed off with the thought: I feel lost.

“A lot of people come here with high hopes and the best of intentions and, after a week or two, we don’t see them again.” Her voice sounded weary; her demeanor, shopworn.

“Well, I can’t promise you anything. I’ve never done this before.” Elliot had always avoided visiting his brother when he was in the mental hospital, or his mother in the physical rehabilitation center after she broke her hip, or his father in the hospice care unit before finally succumbing to lung cancer.

Elliot watched Naomi Morgenthau twirl the ends of a dark brown curl as she once again scanned his application. Her tongue peeked out between her lips. Elliot was strangely moved by these childlike affectations which made her seem vulnerable. He felt a pang of warmth replace his original opinion that she was hard-nosed and all business.

She turned to him, once again the administrator. “It really disappoints us when a volunteer just stops coming. Our residents get so upset when they expect someone to visit and he doesn’t show up. Most of the time, they don’t even give enough of a damn to call.”

“I get your point,” Elliot said. “But maybe you’ve got to see it from their points of view.” Then he softened his tone. “But whatever I decide, I promise I’ll let you know.”

Naomi smiled at him. She wore little makeup. Elliot noticed the crow’s feet around her hazel eyes and the wrinkles on her forehead, but which detracted little from her overall attractiveness. ”Okay,” she said. “We’ll give it a whirl. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Then let me take you upstairs to meet Jacob Ziegler. He’s been here a long time and I think he needs someone like you to talk to.”

“You mean, right now?”

“Nothing like the present.” Naomi stood up, and Elliot rose out of the confining chair.

They walked down the corridor side by side. While they waited for the elevator, Naomi turned to him. “So tell me. Why Park View?”

“If you really want to know, a close friend encouraged me to get out of the house and do something for others.” Actually, it was Elliot’s therapist who had made the suggestion.

“Are you married? Have any children?”

“My wife died last year.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I still can’t believe it. We’d been thinking about buying a condo in Florida, though I didn’t know if I could stand the heat and the sameness of it all. But a lot of our friends now live down south year ’round.”

“It must’ve been hard for you.” Her voice had softened.

“It came as a shock. She wasn’t even sick. It was an aneurism. One minute she’s talking on the phone – I used to call it ‘yapping’ – and the next, she’s flat on her back. They said that nothing could’ve been done.”

Naomi shook her head sadly. “And now?”

The elevator door creaked open and they stepped in.

Elliot had gone over it ad infinitum with his therapist and his closest friend and he often felt talked out and emptied. At times it was still too painful to confront and relive – especially that splat of her body hitting the tile floor in the kitchen. And all that followed. Part of him wanted to open up to her, but he decided to change the subject. “What about Mr. Ziegler?”

“There’s not a lot I can tell you. Confidentiality rules, and all that, you understand.”

“Yeah, but what’s he like?”

“Well, he’s in his early eighties. He’s alone and he’s been through a lot. He’s also a bit cantankerous, but you’ll soon find that out.” She chuckled.

“How long should I spend with him?”

“Play it by ear. Not too long. Get to know him first.”

“How will I know when enough is enough?”

“When you were in a school didn’t you work with people? You’ll probably have a good idea when.”

The elevator door creaked open. There was a luminescent green “4” tacked up on the wall opposite that might have once been painted a cheery yellow. A steel railing ran along both sides of the hall. Elliot was hit by the unmistakable, unforgettable odor of disinfectant and disintegration – that particular pungency of the breakdown of the human body. He suddenly wanted to turn around and hit the down button, but he had already gotten this far. And she was in his way.

As they walked to the nurse’s station, located at the juncture of the three corridors, they had to wind their way through a maze of residents in wheelchairs who had partially blocked the hallway.

In one wheelchair, a woman smiled up at Elliot, searching for recognition, and tried to lift up her hand to reach out to him. In the next, Elliot looked down into vacant eyes magnified by crooked eyeglasses. In a wheelchair on the far edge, a woman sat with her head bent down to her chest, moaning and sobbing. Another was repeating a plaintive “mamele” over and over again. Like many of them, she was tied into her chair with a white bed sheet. The ones that seemed aware looked so needy, were looking up at Elliot so expectantly. The others were so pitiful that he had to look away.

After they had passed through the crowd and turned left into the next corridor, Naomi looked over at him. She asked, “Are you all right?”

“It’s all maybe a bit too much.” Elliot flashed back to his mother’s stay at the rehabilitation center and then to his one-day visit to Tijuana, where malnourished children begged for coins and women whose babies were in cardboard cartons held bony brown hands out to him for spare change. Those same imploring eyes. That same neediness. He hated it then, and now was not much different.

Elliot shuddered. “And then there’s that smell.”

“I could lie to you and tell you that you’ll get used to it.”

“The truth?”

“It’s more like you learn to ignore it.”

“Yeah, that’s reassuring.”

“And, anyway, if you want, we can arrange for you to visit with Mr. Ziegler in the day room on the first floor. It’s much more pleasant there.”

On the wall outside room 441, only one of the two slots was filled with an index card. “Jacob Ziegler’s roommate just passed away,” she said in a hushed voice. “So your visit comes at a very good time.”

She knocked on the partially-open door and pushed it open. “Hello, Mr. Ziegler. How are we today?”

Jacob Ziegler was sitting in a wheel chair, facing the window. He was wearing a faded red and gray flannel shirt; a threadbare gray blanket covered his legs. He slowly swivelled around to face them. His face, mottled with liver spots, was gaunt, and his thinning hair looked like it had been hurriedly combed for the occasion. But his eyes sparkled.

“So, how should we be?” His gravelly voice was twinged with a thick Yiddish accent.

Naomi replied, “It’s a beautiful day. The rain stopped and it’s gotten warmer.”

“That’s good for you. But in here it’s always too cold.” Elliot shook his head, but only imperceptibly. It was just like something his mother would have said.

Naomi sighed. “Anyway, we have a visitor for you.”

“This guy?” He turned to Elliot and added. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m a volunteer. I’ve come to...”

“Oy vey.” Jacob slapped his hand on his cheek – an exaggerated motion – shook his head, and said, “They send me another do-gooder.”

“C’mon, Mr. Ziegler. Be nice.”

“Okay, Mizz Morgenstern. For you, I’ll try to behave myself.”

Naomi was miffed about his emphasis of “Ms.” She also wanted to scream, “For the umpteenth goddam time, it’s Morgenthau!” although she chose to remain silent. But she couldn’t stop herself from glaring at him.

He ignored her. “So, Mr. Do-gooder. Who are you?”

“My name is Elliot Silver and I uh ...”

“I don’t care if your name is Yonah Schimmel and you sell knishes. I want to know who you are.”

Elliot thought Yeah, this is good. This is going to work out well. “Okay. I was a high school English teacher and then an assistant principal. I was married and we had two children. And I retired last July.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. And what else?”

Elliot heard himself saying: “My wife died last September. It was all of a sudden. We had plans.” A tear came to Elliot’s eye.

“They say ‘Mann tracht und Gott lacht.’ Do you know what that means?”

Elliot shook his head.

“It means ‘Man plans and God laughs.’ But now here your are. So, nu?”

“Now, I’m here. And I need to, uh ... I don’t know.” He glanced at Naomi, as if to urge her to break in anytime, as if to plead, come on … help me with this.”

She nodded to him – a reassuring “You’re doing fine” look.

Jacob did not miss their silent interchange. “Ms. Morgenheimer? Don’t you have something else to do? People to lie to? Dying patients to steal from?”

This time Naomi could not suppress a giggle. She had always hated to be teased, especially when she was growing up, and sometimes it got to be too much. And there were some issues about trust that she was still sensitive about. Even after so many years in her field, she had to constantly remind herself, as they used to say, “to go with the flow,” and now to just “chill out.”

Naomi looked questioningly at Elliot, who nodded to her. “Okay, Mr. Ziegler. I’ll leave Mr. Silver with you for a while.” Then to Elliot, “Please see me before you leave.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Jacob said. “Especially in this fershtunkeneh wheel chair. Anyway, where do I’ve got to go?”

This time, Elliot laughed and said, “I think she was talking to me.” Then to Naomi, “Yeah, I’ll check in with you later on the way out.”

After Naomi had pulled the door behind her, Jacob gestured towards a pinkish gray vinyl-covered chair in the corner. “So sit already. Make yourself at home … God forbid.”

Elliot sat down and looked around the room. It was sparse, except for a framed print hung on the dingy brown wall and a small television attached to a bracket bolted to the wall. There were no mementos, no pictures of children or grandchildren, nothing to personalize the place, nothing to make it more than just another numbered room on another numbered floor. An uncovered mattress was on the bed next to Jacob’s. Elliot wondered why they couldn’t have at least made the damn bed. He thought that its forlornness must be a constant reminder for Jacob Ziegler of what was ultimately in store for him. And, of course, for everyone.

As if reading his mind, Jacob said, “That was old man Klein’s. Eighty five and counting until yesterday. Died during ‘The Price is Right.’”

Elliot had to suppress a laugh. That had also been one of his mother’s favorite shows.

“Klein sure hit the jackpot.” Jacob swept his hand through the air. “Nice place, huh? You know, Silver,” as if reading his mind, “I’m also going to die here in this room.”

Elliot did not immediately know how to respond. His first reaction was to make a joke. He remembered his feeble attempt at humor at the funeral parlor before the service for his father. Elliot knew he was not good at sounding reassuring, especially under stress. It had always been difficult for him to find the right things to say to his brother, to his mother, to his father – even to his wife and children – when they were sick and hurting and they ached to hear some comforting words. Yeah, some people were good at it, he always knew, and he was jealous of them. But others, like him – they just weren’t.

Elliot chose to play it safe. “When I go, I want it to be like Nelson Rockefeller. You know, naked and dictating to my secretary in bed.”

“If only I could get it up. At my age it would be a miracle – a mitzvah even,” Ziegler replied. “You know, that Mizz Morgan-whatever. Now that’s somebody I’d like to...” Ziegler smiled conspiratorially at Elliot and winked, “you know.”

Elliot was peeved, yet strangely stirred by Ziegler’s reference to the social worker. An amorphous erotic image tickled his consciousness. He decided to change the subject. “Uh ... so, Mr. Ziegler. Who are you?”

“You really want to know? Why? You writing a book?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“What kind of book?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a novel. Maybe a memoir. I always wanted to write but I never had the time.”

“You said you taught English and you never did any writing?”

Elliot realized that Ziegler was still pretty sharp.

“An English teacher who doesn’t write? That’s like a social worker who’s not married and doesn’t have any friends.”

“It’s not exactly the same thing,” Elliot replied. But then he asked, “Why a ‘social worker,’ exactly?”

“Why not? You spend all day teaching about words and then you don’t use them yourself?”

Why won’t he drop this? “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Ziegler. I don’t want to make any excuses. But then, what about you?”

“It’s Jacob. You can call me Jacob. The doctors call me Jacob. The nurses call me Jacob. Even the goddam orderlies call me Jacob.”

“Okay then, Jacob. What about you?”

“You can even call me Jake. Jakie, Jocko. My mother used to call me ‘Jakilla,’ she should rest in peace. It makes no difference.”

This is going well. “So, Jacob … Jake. What do you want to talk about?”

“You play any games, Mr. Do-gooder? Cards? Checkers? Chess?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Elliot had played chess for his high school team, and spent many afternoons playing Scrabble with his mother. It kept her mind off her pain but also kept them from having to speak much.

Go ask for a chess set at the nurse’s station. Tell them it’s for Doctor Ferkockteh Ziegler.”

Elliot stood up and went to get the plastic chess set. The nurse barely looked up when she gave him the box of chess pieces.

“Uh, we’re going to need a board, too.”

She rummaged under her desk and then handed him a yellow and tan Masonite checkerboard.

“For Mr. Ziegler, right?”

“Yep. I’ll bring it back later.”

Elliot returned to the room. Jacob’s had turned his wheelchair to face the window. His head was bent down against his chest. Fearing the worst, Elliot rushed over to him. But when he heard the gentle snores coming from the old man, his immediate alarm turned to a flood of relief.

Elliot tiptoed out of the room and left the chess set and board at the nurse’s station. He took the elevator down to the first floor and went directly to Naomi Morgenthau’s office.

Her door was open; she was on the phone. She looked up when she saw him, gave him a “wait just a minute” sign, and gestured him to a chair.

Into the phone she was saying. “...okay, okay. I’ll look into it.” Then, “I’m sure that there is something that we can do.” She said goodby and shook her head, then wrote a note on a Post-it and stuck it on her computer screen.

Naomi turned to Elliot, flipping back a loose strand of hair. “That didn’t take long. So how’d it go?”

“Not bad. You know, you’re right. He is quite a character.”

“How did you feel when you were with him?”

Oh, Jeez. Not one of those “how did you feel” questions. “Well, he joked a bit, but when I asked him who he was, he kept on changing the subject. We were going to play chess, but he fell asleep when I went to get the chess set.”

“So it wasn’t too bad?”

“No, not really. After all, he reminds me, a bit, of my mother and father wrapped into one.”

“But now the real question. Will you be coming back here again?”

“Sure. We have a chess game to play.”

Naomi’s lips turned upward. She looked pleased. Suddenly Elliot had the urge to please her.

“And I have a question for you.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Elliot paused, hesitant. He hadn’t done this in as long as he could remember.

“Uh, listen. It’s almost one o’clock. How about having a cup of coffee with me and maybe a bite to eat?”

To Naomi, this sounded better than the leftover tuna fish sandwich she had stuck in the nurse’s refrigerator. But having lunch with a volunteer was an entirely different matter. She had always prided herself in maintaining clearly-defined, self-imposed professional boundaries. But this time she felt herself wavering.

“C’mon. What do you say?”

Naomi bit her lip, sighed, looked back at Elliot, and then thought to herself, Oh, what the hell? Then she said, “Sure. Why not. I’m starving. But I have only a half an hour. Why don’t we go over to the cafeteria?”

Elliot escorted Naomi out of her office and down the corridor to the staff cafeteria. At that very moment, three floors above, in room 441, Jacob Ziegler somehow knew, for he had willed it too happen. If a passerby had looked in, he would have seen Jacob Ziegler’s face light up with a smile.

Rev 11 / October 12, 2013

Up to the beginning of the story

-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 29, November 2013

October 2013…Copyright © 2013, Lloyd B. Abrams