The cold, noisy hallways of the nursing home were unfamiliar and scary to me. I can only imagine what it felt like to be aged ninety three in those hallways. Words which made no sense came from people scattered about in wheelchairs. Screams echoed throughout the building, "Help me! Help me!" This was NOT where I wanted my Nana to be. I KNOW it's not where she wanted to be.

Married for nearly sixty three wonderful years to my grandfather, or "Pop" as we lovingly called him, my Nana spent the four years after his death living with my parents. Upon his death bed, my Pop asked my father to "take care of your mother." And he did. My parents took her into their home, adjusting their lives around her; because they loved her and my Pop.

As time went on, she became more forgetful, but not to the extent where you couldn't have a conversation with her; although they were often about the same things. She got around on her own quite well; puttering here and there, adjusting her teacup or making her bed. A piano player since her youth, she still "tickled those ivories" playing the same songs over and over again. I can still remember both she and I laughing as she "One, two, threed" out of the chair. But, she always did it—on her own.

She was never happy after my Pop died, not in the true sense of the word. Half of her was missing. She resented the world, she resented God, and took it out on my parents. She didn't mean to be "mean." She was lonely, frustrated, and away from the man and the home that were her life. She vented her bitterness—maybe that was good for her. It was tough on me.

Copyright © 2002 Ellen M. DuBois. All rights reserved.