Sorry I Missed You
During the last few months of Bob’s life, in a nursing home, I would occasionally meet a person at the door or the elevator with a cart and a pile of personal effects, the belongings of some resident, that this person, presumably the loved one of said resident, was taking away to some other place. I never inquired, but I generally thought maybe that resident was moving to another facility. Fact is, the resident had probably moved on to a better place. They had probably died. And now their loved one has to exchange pleasantries with a stranger who still had a living resident to visit.
Bob had changed facilities once. People do. And at the rehab facility Bob was in prior to the nursing home, leavings were in general a joyous event. A time of optimism. The saddest part of Bob leaving rehab is that I would no longer see the family of caretakers who had been so good to us.
Entering a nursing home is not joyous. There is little optimism. And leaving is often a matter of having died. It is so obvious to me now. Why didn’t I see it then? The leaving part, I mean.
What reminded me of this today is that I was recalling how detached the staff was to acknowledgement of Bob’s actual death. I assume its important in that line of work to focus on the tasks at hand and not consider the experience of those residing here waiting to die. Die they will and die they do. Day in, day out. There’s an unspoken ritual to it. Nobody told me about it, but thinking back I recall seeing it commencing when other residents, um, passed on.
When a resident dies, obviously there are things that need to happen. Arrangements must be made, loved ones contacted, even the pickup of the body itself takes time. So during that time, the staff closes the door of the deceased’s room. There are other times these doors are closed, so the hope is that other residents may not be aware of what has happened. No need to upset others.
So what happens for the loved one is that while making phone calls and packing up belongings, They are in the room with the deceased, door closed. At least that was my experience. Just me and the corpse who earlier that day was my partner of nearly 27 years, who I often bragged had loved me all these years in good times and real fucking bad. My task was to gather his belongings, sign some papers, arrange for his pickup, and slip out without upsetting those awaiting the same fate.
Confession time. All those times I had smiled or nodded, perhaps held the door, for those leaving with carts of belongings, I never inquired whether the resident was relocating. I see this as the most gentle way to allow the loved one to say the thing, actually utter the words, that their loved one had died. Get some practice at saying that to a person who just might care. The staff can’t really afford to care. Plus one can’t quite know in the way I would know, what this really means.
I missed out on my moment of genuine kinship with those I passed in the halls every day. But for them, for us, to be exiting with the remnants of the end of someone’s journey on this inexplicable rock hurtling through the cosmos, and to at that moment go unnoticed, unacknowledged: that is unforgivable. Shame on me. I’m strong enough to handle pretty much any reaction one might have had- tears, melancholy, platitudes, whatever. I regret that I did not avail myself during this moment of solitary loss to provide any comfort I could.
I’ve always been a no-nonsense guy. Bob and I always faced the reality of things head on. So I admit now, now that its too late, that I blew it. I could have been there for others, and regret that I missed the chance. My only defense is that before it happened to me, I didn’t know how utterly alone I would be leaving the nursing home that one last time, with Bob’s belongings, but no more Bob.
No need to come back tomorrow.
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