Summer school in a care home
CBC
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They told me I would lead bingo for the summer. Naturally, I expected a life lesson.
I wanted to be taught the wisdom of age on manicured lawns, by a hundred variations of Homer Simpson's father and ladies with neat white bobs who'd smirk at me for a week before we'd speak.
"Alright, kid. You pass. We deem you worthy of our knowledge. Screw our grandkids," I imagined they'd say.
But on the cloudy summer morning of my first day, I found no Simpsons, no smirks and no kernels of wisdom. Instead, I heard distant screams.
Those wails sounded a lot like the inside of my head after I realized this is where I'd be searching for my life lessons. I would learn in hallways with flickering lights (which smell like excrement, but is actually just another gassy senior) study through open doors leading, occasionally, to empty rooms and, more often, to motionless bodies.
Sleeping bodies, I told myself. Normal, non-metaphorical.
"Does everyone get their own room?" I asked my guide.
"Not usually. Half of them died last winter so a lot of them are missing roomies."
We passed by a white-eyed man in a wheelchair, his head thrown back to gaze at the ceiling. He was screaming. She patted his head.
"Looking good, monsieur," she said, before leading me through another pair of steel doors.
"So, you've been studying physio for how long?"
"I don't study physio."
My guide, a physiotherapist, stilled. "But you're the student?"