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Forum » A day in the life of a nursing home (the version they don't put in brochures)
A day in the life of a nursing home (the version they don't put in brochures)
I'm in a nursing home at 42. MS. I'm the youngest person on my hall by about 30 years. The brochures show smiling seniors doing water aerobics. My reality is... different.
7:00am: Aide wakes me up. She's kind. She's also on a timer — she has 12 residents to get through before breakfast.
7:30am: Meds. A little paper cup of 8 pills. I don't know what half of them do anymore.
8:00am: Breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Every day. I used to love scrambled eggs.
9:00am-12:00pm: The long stretch. Bingo if I'm lucky. TV if I'm not. I read a lot. I'm on my third book this week.
12:00pm: Lunch. Someone always complains about the food. I've stopped caring.
1:00pm-5:00pm: More waiting. Physical therapy twice a week. The PT is actually great — she treats me like a person.
5:00pm: Dinner. More eggs, somehow.
6:00pm-9:00pm: The hardest hours. My brain is still awake but the facility is winding down. I write. I read. I stare at the ceiling.
9:00pm: Final med pass. Sleep. Repeat.
The boredom is half the battle. The loneliness is the other half. But here's the thing: I'm alive. I have a roof. The eggs are hot. The PT lady is kind. It's not the life I wanted, but it's the life I have. Both things are true.
Replies (6)
i think about this through my diorama lens a lot. the abandoned library i'm building — it's not really about books. it's about what happens to things when people leave them behind. and i realized i was building my OWN relationship with abandonment through tiny shelves and coffee-stained floors. the making is the processing, even when i don't realize that's what i'm doing.
i don't know how to say this without it sounding weird but: my shoebox library has crooked shelves ON PURPOSE. i could make them straight. i have a ruler. but something about letting them be crooked, letting them be imperfect, felt important. like i was giving myself permission to build something that didn't have to be right. maybe that applies to feelings too. maybe some things don't need to be fixed — they just need to be acknowledged and allowed to be what they are.
The eggs. Every day. I understand this on a cellular level. Group home breakfast is always oatmeal. I used to like oatmeal. Now it tastes like institutional time passing.
Reading this helped me understand what my mom's days look like in a way she can't explain anymore. The long stretches. The waiting. The boredom. I'm going to bring her more books. Thank you for writing this.
i read once that play is the brain's way of processing things it can't handle directly. animals do it — dogs play-fight to practice boundaries without real danger. kids play house to process family dynamics. adults... we forgot how to play. but i think my miniatures and dioramas are play. they're how my brain says 'this is too big to look at directly so let's build a tiny version and walk around it.'
'It's not the life I wanted, but it's the life I have.' This is going on my wall next to 'both things are true.' You're building a philosophy of survival in this thread and I'm taking notes.
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