They were wonderful years at the Manor and they flew by quickly. I met hundreds of residents and families over time. Some stood out in my memory more than others. All made their mark in my mind and in my heart.
There was Liz, who lived in the nursing home for thirty years. The wife of a late army officer, she was affectionately known as "The Mayor of the Manor' because she had been there so long. She had a Southern drawl and a raspy voice. Everyone knew Liz. She was a fixture.
One of her daily duties was delivering the mail to her fellow residents. It kept her busy , allowed her to visit everyone., and most importantly to Liz, she knew who was getting what in the mail. So-and-so got a postcard today from Europe..Mr. Whatshisname had a birthday package delivered..or the lady with the blue hair on second got a notice that she won the sweepstakes.
Liz also did the daily morning announcements . What activites were linedup for today..what was on the menu for lunch..important stuff to those who resided at the Manor everyday. It didn't matter that many couldn't understand her drawl. The morning announcements with Liz were an institution.
Liz had the same room near the window for years. She was at every activity or party. She often made the local newspaper when they ran a story about the nursing home. And when she died it effected everyone very deeply because she was the Manor.
I remember Jim, a really sweet guy who had cancer.. He was at the Manor several years. He never complained and always had a smile on his face. He loved the Phillies. We talked baseball on my visits and he told me about old players he had seen such as Jimmie Foxx and Babe Ruth. He vividly recalled the games, the stadiums and the atmosphere, and it was fascinating to hear.
The modern day player he most admired was an outfielder on the Phils named Jim Eisenreich. He was a good hitter and a hustler, a gritty, determined player who never gave up, despite battling Tourrettes Syndrome. Jim took a liking to him on TV and noted he was also named Jim. Eisenreich was an "old school player" like Foxx and Ruth and those greats he grew up watching in person.
Sports was so cool to talk about with the residents. It was a common link between the past and present. Endless stories and endless debates about the greatest players. Like listening to a game on a transistor radio on a summer evening, it was always a part of our life, from generation to generation. I found sports to be a great equalizer when it came to forming a bond with my residents.
On a whim, I decided to write to Jim Eisenreich , with a brief note about our Jim, his situation and it would be a nice surprise if Eisnreich could send him an autographed photo to hang in his room. The memories of how happy I was when baseball teams started sending me autographed items out of the blue one summer when I was a kid cheered me up so much. Maybe I could return the favor.
To my delight, the outfielder did send Jim a personalized color photo. Jim would stare at it with pride, I sent it to his daughter after Jim died. I never told her how Jim got the photo, only that it was special to him and he treasured it.
Little things like that, which only took a little effort, made a world of difference. It was going that extra mile for the residents that meant so much.
Then there was Mary, a blind lady I visited often. She was in her late 60s and her overall health was failing, so she resided with us. She had a wicked sense of humor and would've been great doing stand-up for a living. We swapped jokes daily ( a few naughty ones too) and she constantly asked me what her fellow residents and staff looked like. She was a big music and movie buff, and we chatted about the old and new stars. I teased her when she informed me that she was in love with Billy Dee Williams.
"I happen to look exactly like Billy Dee Williams," I said. I looked nothing like him at all except for the fact we were both males.
"Aw, Greg!" she would laugh, her face lighting up. "You're too much. Looking so good and working here?"
Speaking of infatuation, Mary tried to fix me up one time. I had numerous crushes on different cute nurses and aides over the years. There happened to be a really pretty aide named Rochelle working there at the time, and she happened to work on second shift. I would see her before I left for the day. She would be assigned to Mary at night, especially to help her to bed. Mary knew I liked Rochelle by the way I always asked about her. "Rochelle said to tell you hi," she would say, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
I was surprised when Rochelle told Mary she thought I was "cute" and we exchanged phone numbers. We dated a few times until I found out she not only was married but had kids. I'm glad Mrs. Alfgren never found out and Mary was a good sport to keep it quiet.
It was stupid to risk my job like that, as it was forbidden for employees to date, especialy with a resident playing matchmaker, but I was young and dumb back then, still getting over Jill.
I could go and on about the residents I met over the years and the impact they had on my life. I would be remiss not to mention one special resident who effected me and still remains in my memory.
His name was Teddy. He was in his 80's. He constantly smiled. His face was impish-like, a wide grin with only a few teeth left, pointy ears and small blue eyes. He refused to have his hair cut for reasons only known to him. That was his right so he wore his gray hair in a short ponytail.
Teddy had been diagnosed with "mental retardation" back then ( an outdated term now), but after spending time with him and learning about his past I seriously questioned that diagnosis and thought that maybe he had been misdiagnosed all his life.
He spent the first thirty-five years of his life in a local mental institution. Back in the early twentieth century when Teddy was growing up he was shut away as an infant , not uncommon for someone deemed "different" to be put away and never heard from again. Because of a physical disability ( Cerebral Palsy and a seizure disorder), which caused his limbs to be twisted and distorted , his body shaking violently at times, he looked and acted different. Through no fault of his own Teddy was "different' so his parents sent him away.
Teddy could only learn from what he saw and heard. He was a product of his environment. He never received any formal education, more or less a slave in the institution, one of the "brighter boys" who helped take care of the needier patients.
He did menial jobs in the facility, such as a janitor and cook. To me he was just "slow" because what he lacked in social skills and education he made up for in amazing abilities he developed in time.
He played the harmonica flawlessly, able to take requests and beautifully play almost any tune. He loved Bingo and even before coming to the nursing home he would attend Bingo almost every night. My Mom knew Teddy from Bingo. His memory was so sharp he never used Bingo chips to cover his numbers. He instantly memorized the many different cards he played.
During the late 60's and into the 1970's, Pennsylvania began to assimilate more mental health patients into the community. So Teddy finally left the hospital that was his childhood home and lived in a group home with several other gentlemen from the area. He worked in the Laundry Department at the hospital for years, earning a paycheck instead of collecting disability. He walked to work every day, a good hike of a mile, through rain and snow, often working twelve-hour shifts.
He didn't have an easy life. Bingo was his enjoyment. He never won much, just enough to keep him going. Otherwise he watched the Phillies.
A few years before I became the Andrea's assistant, Teddy came to the Manor. A car hit him while he was attempting to cross the street on his way to another Bingo game in town. The result was a broken hip, which, compounded with his other physical challenges, left him in a wheelchair for good.
It was his dream to walk again and move to Florida with his "pen-pal" Gail, a lady he met as a youth at the institution. She was a nurse and stayed friends with Ted over the years. She was happily married and retired to Florida. She wrote letters and sent goodies in the mail, like cookies and toiletry items, which thrilled him to no end.. Whether she ever actually promised to take him to Florida someday to live was debatable. It was a hope that kept him going, a dream of something to look forward to.
Realistic or not, that was Teddy's goal- to walk well enough someday to relocate to Florida and live close to his friend and her husband.
"You can pick an orange right from your backyard," he told me with a smile and a wishful gleam in his eye.
During the summer Gail and her hubby would travel north for a few weeks. One annual item on their agenda was taking Teddy out for the day, usually to the mall and to his favorite restaurant for his favorite meal: fried chicken and a chocolate milk shake. Always the same thing every year.He counted the days on his calendar, literally, until he went out.
Indeed, Gail did tell Ted if he could learn to walk well enough she would consider taking him to Florida, where visiting nurses could handle his needs at home. So he insisted the physical and occupational therapists work with him, even though their assessments were that additional therapy would not be beneficial and insurance would not pay for it. Still he insisted and the therapists would buy him time for exercises, and often he would be seen huffing and puffing up and down the second floor hall or in the therapy room, using a special walker.
Teddy was not giving up.
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