This post takes us back about a few weeks when I called Robert’s former nursing home to make an appointment to pick up his personal effects. It was months since he left but no one had the energy or courage to pursue the task. I was told by the receptionist who is one of the only  people I respect there, that I would have to notify her of the day I wished to come in, and, in about a day I would get a call to make the pick-up as the effects of those who pass are destined to wait in a shed in the parking lot across the street. But, no one ever called me so I began my usual pestering routine and then the receptionist, who was somewhat surprised and alarmed told me that I’d have to call the social worker. So, I did, and as usual I got voicemail I didn’t get a call-back for many days…I also sent and email.

It took days for me to recall what possessions were at the nursing home, each day I remembered something else. I told the social worker in emails and in CAPITAL LETTERS, twice, because it was obvious that he didn’t read the first email. I said that Robert had my black TravelPro carry-on suitcase: it went with him on his journey of more than three years. It accompanied him during 2020 after the first fall, to the hospital: he was in the insane-asylum of the ER for three days because there were no beds, because of, (remember those days?) COVID. It was November 2020.

He was sent to the nursing home because there was a bed. It was considered rehab. He was pretty much cogent and far better than at the hospital. The carry-on bag was planted in the slit in the wall of a closet. Robert was in the room with a roommate. Visiting was restricted. It was December, 2020.

Around New Year’s Eve I received calls, or maybe even two on New Year’s Eve day. I was out shopping with my son at a kind of Woolworth 5 & dime store for clothes like sweatpants that would be appropriate for living in a bed. I listened to the message in the car.

“Robert fell out of bed and was found on the floor. He said he was looking for his pillow.”

And then, “Robert fell out of bed again and this time hit and cut his head and was found unconscious. We are sending him to the hospital.” I assume my carry-on went with him for that hospital stay, back to the ER. He was supposed to return to the nursing home; there was no brain injury, but he never made it: now he had Covid (from the nursing home) and was in the Covid ward: It was then that he stopped using his little flip phone, eating unattended, and initiating conversation.

He was never the same.

He remained in the hospital for a few weeks and then was sent to The Hebrew Home, another nursing home in Riverdale, The Bronx, where they were triaging Covid patients for weeks until they tested negative.

I believe it was February, maybe even March of 2021 when he returned to the nursing home, half his size, his brain withered, and unrecognizable to those who had been attending to him previously.

He was moved from room to room with my carry-on. He was in several rooms with a bed by the door where the nurse’s station could keep an eye on him. The voices and clatter and light from the hallway never ended. The final resting place, room 317, which housed a total of four sad, old,  souls was where Robert and my suitcase ended up. I never looked in the slit of a closet in that room for his belongings; there was a chair and a bed next to it and by then, he didn’t need his own clothes. But occasionally when I visited he was wearing a familiar tee shirt, but sometimes he was wearing someone else’s.

And then I got a call from the social worker: “Good news! We found Robert’s things!” They are in a carton in the lobby. My son went to retrieve them. It took hours for the box to be found. It was large enough to hold my suitcase but my bag was not in it.

The following will explain. After opening the carton, I decided to send an email and this time I cc’d  corporate:

 

Two minutes after I sent my email, I received a call for the head admin. Oh, yes, we had a long conversation and he said he was going to personally look for the belongings, which I now list at: My TravelPro carry-on, several nice button down shirts, a couple of hard covered books, a photo of us in a frame…then I remembered his shoes. I have been donating bags and bags of belongings to a worthwhile organization so it wasn’t as if I had to have these things back, but a little ball-breaking was in order and I want my carry-on replaced. As usual, I have not received a call-back about the great shed-search for what obviously was stolen, but I am waiting. And the sad thing is that this situation is not uncommon in nursing homes and this was considered one of the better ones.

One thing that was in the box, interestingly enough, which made me smile, was a small white angora toy cat which was given to him probably a couple of years ago by a high school volunteer.  It had sat next to Robert’s bed on a nightstand, however said nightstand was always so far behind the bed, he never realized it was there.

That cat brought me back to my childhood, to when I was about two years of age; my mother started to buy me that same sort of toy white cat, though larger, (or else it seemed larger to a toddler.) I carried it under my arm wherever I went until the bottom was worn off and a vinyl quilted surface was revealed. Then she replaced it.

I almost donated this little guy or girl to a needy child, but then I realized the needy child was me. It sits in a small basket in the living room and reminds me of my babyhood. In those days, people were just getting televisions and becoming acquainted with Milton Berle and Howdy Doody. Sometimes you just need a toy white cat that spent a few years keeping someone else company, even if it wasn’t noticed. It patiently waited for someone to love it.

It patiently waited, as did Robert, day after day, for his memories to return, and for his brain to untangle, to function as it once did.

 

I am not sure where my suitcase is now, but knowing Robert, he took it with him, and it is full of books.

 

 

The Cerebral Jukebox is playing:
I Just Don’t Wanna Be Lonely by
The Main Ingredient

“Hey, say, wait a minute
Where you going with that suitcase?
Wait a minute, listen …”

Lyrics

 

 

📌The series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey
(becomes the husband journey)

The previous post is here

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