When I was 17, I worked as a nursing student in a geriatric residence. It was delightful, for the most part. There were many people who were very happy to have me speak with them, many who enjoyed the company of somebody, anybody. One day, a resident grabbed my hand as I passed, so I crept back a few steps and crouched down to speak to her.
“Where is my sister?” she said, gingerly.
The burly old woman beside her piped up, “She’s dead, Ethel.”
The woman who grabbed my hand looked down into her lap. “Oh,” she said quietly, then looked up at me as if I could tell her any different.
I took a breath in, about to tell her I was sorry when she smiled at me and said…
“Again?”
The point of this story? Don’t leave your Granny in a home to forget you. It’s like Death’s Waiting Room and it smalls like Old Spice and tapioca. She’ll be turned into a planter.
Call your grandmother, today.
This concludes your guilt trip for this week. You may unpack your bags now.
Thanks Suebob!
November 20th, 2008 at 11:10 am
Oh, poor Granny. Her neck has become a second vagina.
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November 20th, 2008 at 1:53 pm
HAHA, I thought her neck flaps were an impressive mustache/beard combo.
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