Left with an Empty Easter Basket

By Sharon Poppen

The home, where my terminally ill mother resides these days, is on a hill overlooking the Mojave Desert and the Colorado River.  The yard is big, but there's no grass, just the ubiquitous kitty-litter, crushed-rock spread over the grounds.  There are a couple of sturdy Palo Verde trees and several

Saguaro cacti.

As I opened the gate to the home, I noticed the yard was full of stuffed animals in a variety of sizes.  There was Road Runner, Goofy, and Barney among others.  The stuffed animals were secured to the trees and cacti with gaily-colored pastel ribbons.  The macabre scene made me shudder.  It seemed a metaphor calling to mind the oxygen hoses, casts, and restraints securing the residents of the home to their beds.

I hate to go there.  I hate to see my mother struggling for each breath. Here's a woman, who enjoyed her food with a real gusto, now eating the pap most generously called food that is served to her in bed three times a day. She claims it satisfies her.  Here's a woman, who fearlessly traveled to Europe, South America and Australia, now claiming it is too much effort to get into the wheelchair preferring to just lie in bed.

I sit in her room, day after day, trying to make small talk, trying to ignore the other residents who are more ambulatory and wander into her room on occasion.  There's the lady with the drool extending from her mouth to her lap who wants 'car fare' so she can take the bus and go home. Then there is the silver-haired, little thing who rolls her walker into the room and knocks on the wall in various places calling "Arthur, Arthur, Oh Arthur. I need to pee.  Please help me."

I try to make sense of the fact that those with good minds have failed bodies, while those with failed minds have good  bodies.  There is a God! Right?  Right?  Right?

Well, my mother thinks so.  I hope, for her sake, she is right.  Besides, since the day my mother scolded him for not coming to see her once in awhile, her priest is now a regular visitor.  How nice, how big of him!

But, back to the stuffed animals.  The staff at the home had arranged the animals to brighten up the yard for their annual Easter egg hunt.  Children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of the residents and staff were invited.  All ambulatory patients were assembled and placed where they could get a good view.  I tried to join in the spirit of things; I really did! But, it looked to me like a morbidly bad 'Twilight Zone' episode.  An episode with no meaning, no point, no hope.

The children laughed gaily in their pursuit of the hidden eggs.  They raced from place to place searching the yard and squealing with delight as each egg of either boiled or chocolate variety was added to their little baskets.  Depending on the level of their mental capabilities, the residents either stared vacantly, wept or squealed and clapped wildly like the children.

After the hunt, the children took their filled baskets and headed for home. The residents, most of them denied any of the eggs and candies due to menu restrictions, were walked or wheeled back to their rooms, their cells.  The nurses and aides assisting these ancients draped in tethers of oxygen, casts and restraints cooingly assured them of what a good time they had.

Later that afternoon, I kissed my mother's chemo-inflicted, bald head, hugged her frail shoulders and avoided her eyes as I, too, cooed and assured her that it had been fun.  I told her to rest; I'd see her tomorrow.  She smiled and waved feebly as I left.

I managed to make it to the gate before the tears began to fall.  What kind of God would allow a place like this to be needed?  Not one I need to know!

I hate this place!

The End

Sharon Poppen, Lake Havasu City, AZ - author of 'After the War, Before the Peace' a novel of historical fiction and 'Hannah' a western on-line serial (www.virtualtales.com). Awards - Arizona Authors Association, National League of American Pen Women.  Contact Sharon.