We were supposed to meet Mary Beth and Jane at the Community Living center at seven o’clock. I arrived a little early but it was dark, the campus was large, and there was not a soul to be seen. I walked toward the nearest building — Building 7 — and was convinced I would never make it to the appointment. The Community Living Center was building 135.
It’s a Veteran’s Administration Hospital, spread out a dozen acres of a hillside in the middle of this sleepy upscale community, and after sunset not a soul is abroad. I came to the main road, finally, and saw a car pull up to the intersection; I went over to ask the driver for directions. It was Vinnie, who was supposed to meet us at Building 135 and was as disoriented as me.
We got directions from a security guard, eventually, and the directions were almost accurate, so we did arrive at our appointment, not too late. Mary Beth is the administrator of the volunteer program, and she led the tour. Building 135, the Community Living Center, is a nursing home, and it includes a rehabilitation unit, a dementia ward, and a floor which houses the terminally ill. The facility is very clean and spacious and cheery, and our tour emphasized the cleanliness, the spaciousness, the mandatory good cheer. There was a shiny piano in the lobby, and many seasonal decorations, suitably neutral and ecumenical; and there was a juice bar and a recreation room and therapy units and lounges with TVs on too loud and nobody watching them. We went upstairs in the elevator, to the Palliative Care ward.
The wards are not wards, by the way; they are “neighborhoods” with themes and the halls are named as though they were streets in a planned community. This neighborhood was a make-believe seaside resort, and the halls had large signs declaring them “Seashell Cove” or “Surfside Boulevard”. Nevertheless I smelled no brine and heard no crashing waves. In fact I smelled nothing at all, and heard only the mechanical swish of the buffing machine as it was guided past us.
We walked three abreast and I brought up the rear; the hall was wide but not that wide. Mary Beth talked non-stop; she was clearly enthusiastic about the services the hospital provided, which seem exceptional; and she was anxious for her enthusiasm to spread to her potential volunteers. She had a lot of information at her fingertips and a well-rehearsed pitch. We didn’t see any patients on the ward; the rooms were illuminated mainly by the light from the hallway and their occupants remained hidden in the gloom. No sounds issued, none of pain and none of joy. These were, I guess, the little seaside cottages of these sick men; a cottage shared with a stranger, and invaded from time to time by a nurse or a technician. The tide is going out for all of these men, and despite all the cheer and positive spin, that’s what this tour was all about; the tide is going out and they are going with it, and we will remain behind.
