I saw something horrible just now. Shortly after five I went down to the lobby to collect my mail. The lobby was full of people either leaving the dining room to go back upstairs to their rooms, or waiting to get into the dining room for supper. Crazy busy.
Out of the corner of my eye, through the big front window, I noticed a silver vehicle pull into the drive-through entrance. Moments later, a tall gentleman wearing a black suit and pushing a stainless-steel stretcher, came in through the door right past the COVID screening table. Oh God, I sure hope he’s not here for me.
The receptionist at the front desk said, “This is a terrible time. We’re really busy right now.”
The guy shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, sorry, but that’s how it goes sometimes. He pressed the elevator button and waited.
As fate would have it, I happened to be waiting for the other elevator right beside him. I was acutely uncomfortable. Didn’t know where to look. I felt awful for the 15 or so residents milling in the lobby, to be confronted by this grim visitor. I could see that his elevator was going to arrive before mine, so I stayed where I was. It got really awkward when the door opened and one of the residents tried to go in with him. Because of her cognitive decline she didn’t realize what was happening. One of the other residents gently redirected her.
Still feeling shocked later, I asked a few questions of the powers that be. Surely there had to be a more discreet way to handle things like that. Nope. Apparently, there are so many regulations governing the process that it has to be that way. No one likes it.
We lost Frank (not his real name) this afternoon. He was a character. We were never really sure if he was as hard of hearing as he acted. I noticed that whenever I said something funny to him, he seemed to have no trouble hearing and laughing. He was hilarious in the dining room. I sat close enough to overhear him. A former high school principal, he loved to tease and mess around with the teenage servers.
Server: Would you rather have pork and pepper kebabs, or chicken lasagna?
Frank: Pork and peckers? That doesn’t sound very good.
Server: No, pep-pers (she enunciates carefully). You know, the vegetables? They’re red and green and orange …
Frank: I don’t care what colour they are I’m not eating peckers for supper! I’ll have the chicken.
Well into his 90s, he’d outlived his two children. He and his wife moved to this residence together originally. As her dementia worsened, she was moved to the secure unit on the third floor, while Frank remained on the fourth. He visited her every day until she passed away. He’d been alone here for several years.
I think he would have gotten a kick out of the kerfuffle caused by the undertaker. Rest in peace, my friend. We’ll miss you.
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