jmgoyder

The week before last there was a Melbourne cup luncheon at the nursing home (the Melbourne cup is Australia’s annual horse race – ‘the race that stops the nation’). I have mixed feelings about this race but that is beside the point of this post.

Anyway, when Anthony still lived at home, he organized sweeps with family, friends and farm workers and he loved doing this and was very good at it. Horses were picked, money was collected and lists were made; it was great fun. Obviously he can’t do this now so I did a small sweep with just Ming, Ants and me, but it felt kind of false and feeble compared to the efforts Anthony made over the years. Oh well.

On the phone that morning, he said he had reserved me a seat at the nursing home luncheon so I hurried in to be there in time for the televised race at noon. On entering the very crowded ‘events’ room, one of the staff pointed to where Anthony was sitting. There was no chair for me beside him and I noticed there were no other family members which surprised me a bit, so I squeezed in next to him and sat on his walker. Around sixty residents were sitting around three long tables but there were only a few from Anthony’s ‘high care’ section. Each resident had either a glass of wine or beer and plates of nibbles were placed here and there so people could help themselves. I filled Anthony’s plate and helped another man too and then the race began on the television. Staff lined the walls just as excited as residents and once the race was over, the woman in charge of handing out the winnings did so with humour and I broke it to Anthony that we hadn’t won anything which he took in his stride.

At that moment, Anthony said, “Here, Jules, have some of this – I can’t eat it all.” So I spotted a spare spoon and scooped up a bit of potato salad which was delicious. “Have some more,” he said, delighted, but as I went to do so, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up and saw that it was the nursing home manager.

“Julie, can I have a word with you?” she said, beckoning me to follow her into an adjacent room.
“Am I in trouble?” I said, jokingly, following her.
She turned around and frowned. “I cannot have you eating the food. I have already turned away two families because we can’t cater for family members on this kind of occasion.”
I felt shocked and humiliated and apologized profusely, so she said, “You can stay but don’t eat the food.”
“Anthony said I was invited,” I said.
“No,” she said.

I wanted to cry, I wanted to rant, I wanted to know who she’d turned away but I knew, as soon as I re-entered the events room because I immediately noticed the misery on Natalie’s face (Natalie is a resident in high care and is usually robust and full of laughter; her daughter and son visit every day so we have become friends. Their absence and Nat’s uncharacteristically long face told me what must have happened. I patted her on the shoulder but she hardly responded).

I then resumed my seat on Anthony’s walker, my face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and rage. Once again, Anthony offered me some food from his plate but I whispered, “I’m not allowed to – have just been reprimanded.” He shook his head, disgusted, as I nervously helped him manage to feed himself. Suddenly plates of dessert came out and one of the staff serving said, “Hey, Jules, do you want some cheesecake?” I shook my head and said, “I’m not allowed.”

Later that week I bumped into Nat’s daughter who was looking glum. Like her mother, she is usually full of smiles. When I asked her what was wrong she told me she had been kicked out of the Melbourne cup luncheon and her mother had been miserable ever since. We had a brief, whispered conversation in which we both decided that it wouldn’t be tactical to complain.

I understand – of course I do – that having to cater for every resident’s family members for a big lunch would pose logistical problems but the fact is that in the nearly two years since Anthony has been a resident at this nursing home, I have only ever met a handful of family members who visit their loved ones, so it’s not like there would have been a crowd.

After the lunch was over that day, I went to the nursing manager’s office to once again apologize and tell her that I hadn’t known the rules. I guess she could see I was nearly in tears so she suddenly turned her usually unsmiling face into a half-smile and said, “It’s okay, Julie, you didn’t know.”

For the first time in ages, I cried all the way home.

Note: I have stopped calling it a nursing lodge and am calling it what it is – a nursing home.

The photos are of times gone by.