Not Dead Yet? Let's Be Friends!

Until the end, it's our nature to connect.

Photo Credit: DepositPhotos.com

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Rita, Carmella and Grace could always be found huddled together somewhere in the nooks and crannies of Arnold Walter Nursing Home.

The first time I spotted them, they were in a secret buzz-session. With arms around each other’s waists, the women bowed, the tops of their white heads touching, and their voices humming in tune with the fluorescent lights.

All three suffered from dementia.

Despite the cruel grip of their diseases, the three ladies formed an inviolable friendship. They didn’t know each other before they landed here in a suburban Jersey Shore nursing home, and would never have had anything in common had their paths crossed when their minds still worked like they were supposed to.

Here they became an inseparable unit domiciled in a place that would become their final mailing address.

The day we transported my mother from a Pennsylvania dementia care home into her new room at Arnold Walter, Rita, Carmella, and Grace were the first to greet us. Or at least that’s what I thought they were doing. But really, they were mostly interested in the handsome man who accompanied my mother and me—my husband. Swooping in, they cast an invisible net around him like boy-crazed schoolgirls.

Ignoring my mother and me, they vied for his attention. Grace was the most flirtatious, brazenly making her moves. When the nurse caught wind, she reprimanded them, "Ladies, he's married!" That was enough for them to abandon their efforts and scamper away.

The tallest of the trio, Rita stood about six feet tall.

She was a former fashion model who had lived the cosmopolitan life in Manhattan. At the nursing home, whether in January or August, haute couture had morphed into a single season for Rita. Her signature look was now a ski sweater, turtleneck, and polyester pants. Velcro sneakers completed the ensemble.

Like the other two in her girl gang, Rita sought me out whenever I visited. I was happy to interact because, at this point in my mother’s disease, she could no longer speak. I wanted to spend time with my mom, but there was only so much to say to someone who had checked out long ago.

Rita spoke a lot, but her words made no sense. Her mouth made sounds that were complete gibberish. When she paused her jumbled diatribe, she searched my face, and I realized it was my turn in the conversation. I read her body language and tried to match her tone with something suitable. Satisfied, she’d nod and take leave. Maybe she was being polite, thinking my words were nonsense, too.

The second gal pal was Carmella, who accessorized with color-coordinated crocheted shawls.

Her fashion was on point for a lady of a certain age and head and shoulders above anyone else on the wing. As the quintessential Italian matriarch, her family took her weekly to have her hair coiffed and nails manicured.

Carmella acted regal, like the queen she was. She wore layered gold necklaces, expensive earrings, and a wristful of bracelets—none of which were costume jewelry. I was shocked to see so much glitz in a place where her peers had long ago abandoned their dentures and wore bibs at meals.

How does one keep track of that much 14K gold jewelry in a nursing home? Obviously, her kids had lost this battle.

Despite her limitations, Carmella took pride in her living quarters. Everything was in its perfect place. But boy, was she rough on new roommates. She ruled her dominion with an iron fist and worked to keep the double-occupancy room to herself. When a new patient was paired with her, Carmella would plant herself at her doorway, hollering and gesticulating at the nurses. Her anger overflowed onto anyone who walked by.

I was a bit scared when she was like this and made a wide arc when I went past. Her tirades worked for a time, but eventually, there were no more beds to spare, and she was forced to share her space. Then, out of the blue, Carmella gave up the fight and accepted her new roomie, marking the end of her hallway tyranny.

The last of the friends was sweet and mild Grace.

Also a fan of year-round turtlenecks, Grace was dreadfully thin. She seemed to subsist on air. According to her daughter, her diet before the nursing home was beer and cigarettes.

At every visit, Grace greeted me as if I were the prodigal daughter. After hugging me, she’d hold my hands, and stare at me with her deep-welled eyes. She’d start off telling me how beautiful I was, and finish off with an “I love you.”

This tiny bird-like creature, a woman who fit under my arm, said the words I’d longed to hear from my own mother’s lips but never did.

Some days, I found Grace caressing a doll. She stood more erect and proud with her baby in tow. Once, she confided that she and her (long-dead) husband were planning to have another baby soon. This did not deter her from ogling the 20-something aid, Brian, and telling him what she’d like to do with him in bed.

Brian was one of my favorite people who worked at Arnold Walter, because he was not only a positive person but always a good sport. Grace was not the only randy female resident who recognized a handsome guy when she saw one, and Brian dealt with all of the old lady advances with grace (pun intended!)

Fashion model, Rita, Italian matriarch, Carmella, and the amiable tag-along Grace, enjoyed a camaraderie as if they'd been together for decades. Linking arms, their favorite pasttime was walking the endless hallway that looped around into a giant oval. When stopping to huddle, they exchanged conspiratorial looks over their shared secrets.

It was serendipity that these three ladies found each other here.

But all good things come to an end, especially when life is punctuated by a terminal disease.

Rita passed first, followed by Grace a couple of years later. Carmella hadn’t made any new friends by the time my mom died in May 2020.

"I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than walk alone in the light." Helen Keller

During the seven years my mom lived in dementia-care facilities, I never saw another friendship like their’s. Damage done to the brain usually isolates a patient from meaningful relationships, like it did for my mom. In their case, dementia brought them together.

Their relationship was a joy to witness. Seeing them reveling in their friendship gave me hope that there’s always a new friend to find. And that, it seems, is enough to keep going.

Thanks for reading! In case you missed last week’s post, I’m heading overseas soon to visit Greece and Portugal. If you’d like me to mail you a postcard, please send your address to my inbox at [email protected] OR simply reply to this message. Don’t worry, your address is safe with me. I won’t sell it or write it on any bathroom walls.