It’s not like I ever wanted to go the nursing home; on the contrary, those insane people who call themselves my relatives forced me to. “It’s for the best,” they assured, “They will take good care of you here.” Bologna! Not only are they utterly rude, but they expect me -no, they force me- to have ‘fun’ in this very childish environment. All they ever do here is watch inane movies and play bingo -grand prize, a Snickers bar. And when someone’s birthday rolls around, they force us to wear party hats and ask in overly cheerful voices, “Aren’t we having fun, Sweetie?” If I had any strength to do it, I’d take that hat and shove it where the sun don’t shine, … “Sweetie.” Anyway, I just wanted to make it completely clear to you all: This was NOT my decision.
It was the third day in this hell hole: I had just eaten my lunch, a sad looking pile of barely palatable mush, when the old lady across the hallway sheepishly wandered in to say a nimble hello. I guess you could call her my friend. She said she was looking for her husband, but he died months ago. Still, I didn’t mind her company; she was entertaining in a way, and I’d plenty of free time.
But then a sour middle aged woman barged into my room and immediately injected into my skin some mysterious liquid, blood squirting everywhere, onto the floor, splattering on her apron. The woman slowly looked up, revealing an exhausted and starkly pale face. She opened her mouth and said in a low voice, in an accent which I could not discern: “You…ruined…my apron.”I was completely in shock: “You’re crazy! I demand to see your medical degree.”Our eyes met, mine old and hers tired, and she said calmly: “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I think it’s time for you to take a nap now…what I just gave you will make you very sleepy. Goodbye, Mrs. Petterson.”