Our old friend, John, doesn't have much life left in his mind or body. We visited him in the dementia wing where he lay reclined on an awkward angle on his bed until a male care-giver secured him around the waist with a harness so he could sit up in a chair and try to chat like people generally do.
His voice however was too soft and his words too slow and confused for us to understand him.
No strength. No joy. No reaction even when the cutest puppy ever was led into the room by a woman who volunteers her time to cheer people up. While we cuddled this wagging-tail golden retriever, John sat there with vacant eyes and dribbling mouth.
The lady left to try bringing a smile to someone else. Maybe in the next room but probably not.
In the corridor a woman paced up and down crying. Pitiful to see. A nurse said, "Tragic huh? She is always like that. Cries day and night and we don't know why."
I looked at the gallery of photos on the wall which shows a younger version of these dementia residents and it said that the crying woman used to love mountain-biking.
John was a maths teacher and flax-weaver. Another man in the gallery was a pastor and to his right an accountant. Minds now going, going, gone.
Before we left, I glanced around John's room and noticed a very dead pot-plant. It was a gerbera once upon a time with bright red flowers, The plastic label told us that. It was now just shrivelled up leaves. The staff would have watered it for a while but forgot to toss it out once it died because they are too busy to do everything.
Dead pot-plant under my arm, we asked the Argentinian care-giver, Enrique, to please let us out of the locked door which separates this fuddle-headed world from so-called "normal".
I asked Enrique if his job ever depressed him.
"No, it doesn't", he replied in his soft, kind accent. "This job help me every day to prepare myself to go home and look after my daughter".
"Oh? In what way does it help?"
"Our daughter have cerebal palsy and need much care. I learn patience here and take it home each day to look after her".
Coss and I looked at each other with eyes close to tears.
"Have a good Christmas!", Enrique said before continuing to care for people who, for the most part, are unable to thank him and, of course, his pay-packet will never reflect his true worth.
Then, back out in the so-called "normal" world where people supposedly know who and where they are but not always why, I braved K-Mart for a few items I thought I needed.
It looked like Santa's over-loaded sleigh had tipped over in every aisle. Racks bulging so tight with clothes it was hard to pull out the shirt you wanted. On the floor were tee-shirt tangles, blingy bangles, single sandals with spangles and several bright red snowman dressing gowns abandoned after a hasty fit and still inside out.
Shiny wrapped Santa chocolates spilling from boxes and coat-hangers trying their best to secure gaudy plastic shoes and pink tutus so cheap that impatient grabbing hands have ripped them through like a tornado of consumerism.
Oh God. Get me out of here.
