The near-stale air greeted me as the door of the lift slid open. Before me was a wall, with framed pictures of flowers bought, probably, from an average shop. I walked out. Perpendicular to the wall, closing me in, were automatic glass doors. I tried to open the door but to no avail. I rang the bell, and waited.
And once more… This time, a caretaker approached and let me in. This nursing home is where my grandmother is sojourning. I tried recalling where she last was.
“Ah! I. That should be the section she’s in.” I thought to myself. With anticipation, I looked around for it and found, however, empty beds and cold lights. I wondered if I made a mistake. I did.
Entering section J, a dim light came in from the windows and shone on the empty beds. And of the few ceiling fans, only 1 of it was on. An old lady – seemingly pleasant – called out to me and pointed to the bed opposite hers. That bed was surrounded by a curtain. She seemed to know who I was looking for. I gave her a puzzled look and then nodded briefly with a smile. It was only a few seconds before the curtains were open, revealing an old lady and a female caretaker. She was laying there.
With a smile across my face, I went and stood by her bed. The sight of her laying there, small framed and fragile, tugged at my heartstrings. She was the one who took care of me in my childhood, along with my parents of course. I remembered how she prepared lunch for me one time and the fried rice was burnt. I complained to myself. But how much would I give to enjoy her cooking again, no matter how burnt. I lowered myself and took a closer look at her, observing her every detail – the lines which cover her face, her teary eyes, flat nose and wrinkled lips covering half her nostrils. She had a head full of short, grey hair neatly combed to the back. Her small frame was exaggerated by her oversized, light-green uniform.
I smiled at her as I rest my chin on the railings of the bed. She smiled back. I soaked it all in.
She had pronounced breathing patterns, her throat rose and fell irregularly and heavily. I wondered if she had difficulty breathing. We had our exchange of words – the typical how-are-you? and the typical I’m-good-thank-you and of course, the how-about-you?. Her voice was weak and her hearing bad as well. Everything was just… Worn out. Weary.
“Do you remember that time when you were staying over at our home?” I asked. She made a sound to indicate “yes”. I continued: “Do you remember that time I brought a friend, a pastor?”. This time, she had no response. Instead, she looked away and at the ceiling instead. An eye half closed and the other slightly. I didn’t know what to do or say. Was it the question? Was it that she didn’t hear me? Was she tired? I tried again. “Can you hear me?” She made a sound, like before. “Do you remember?”
No response. I was at a loss.
I laid my head down on my clasped hands resting in-between my head and railings. I started to pray – out of desperation. I questioned and wondered. If even I do not try, who else would? How would anyone else be able to share with her? If not me, then who? I tried, but to no avail so now what? I prayed silently. And ended it silently, mouthing the words “In Jesus’ Name I pray. Amen”.
With a heavy and troubled heart, I stood up. Bid her farewell and promised to visit again when the time allows. And left.
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