Please-Don't Forget Me!
eat that egg . . . he needs that egg. He's so
thin.
"One time I sat with a woman who can't
speak. I kept asking, 'Do you want to eat
this?' and finally she nodded. So I fed her, and
she smiled so much. That smile on her face
was worth everything to me. Somebody else
saw me and said, 'What do you care if she eats
or not?' I care."
But it's not really food or even medicine
that sustains the residents, Freeman and
Weinsaft agree.
"People don't die here because of sickness,"
Weinsaft says. "They die because of
loneliness."
"They say, 'See you later,' but later never
comes," Freeman adds.
Just then an ambulance arrives. A woman,
a Holocaust survivor, has been yelling for
hours. She screams, "They want to get rid of
me!"
Now, she is being taken away on a stretcher
to psychiatric facilities. Weinsaft explains:
"She's unbalanced from her memories in
Nazi Europe."
"This is a cemetery with lights," he says.
"One woman here is always saying, 'My
daughter will be here in an hour.' Then she
sees a car out the window and she starts call-
ing, 'That's her! That's her!' And when it's not
her daughter, she says,
`Oh well, maybe
tomorrow.'
"And where do you
think her kids live? Not
in Florida. In West
Bloomfield. But they
don't like to see their
old parents."
5:20 p.m. Residents
slowly wheel them-
selves down the hall to
the dining room. Those
who can walk often lean
against the wall for sup-
port. And everywhere is
the smell: alcohol and
urine on the walls, even
in the dining room. The
cleaning crew is con-
stantly at work, but
they cannot remove that
smell. You never get
used to it.
The residents settle
down to a dinner of
chicken salad, bread,
bean salad, fruit cock-
tail and apple juice. Two
to four are seated at each table. One woman
reads a large-print book. Another plays with
her dentures, pushing them in and out
of her mouth. A third yells, "I want a
sandwich!"
As mealtime comes to a close, residents
begin the long journey out of the dining room
and back to the first-floor lobby. Some return
to their rooms, while others line up in their
wheelchairs on either side of the wall. It's like
some dark and haunting procession;
wheelchair follows wheelchair, stopping at a
place that has no meaning but familiarity.
Most residents have a certain seat they like;
the comfortable chairs on the left are coveted.
Matilda Kraus, small and spunky; breaks
away from the crowd and makes her way to
the smoking lounge. She is a woman with a
26
FRIDAY, MARCH 9, 1990
sharp sense of humor. Born in Hungary, she
came to the United States when she was 14.
She and her husband worked as tailors; they
had a daughter and a son. Now, Kraus has
six grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren
(two are redheads) who often visit her. She
lights a cigarette.
"I wish I could die today!" someone cries
down the hall.
Kraus has lived here for three months. She
has no complaints about Borman Hall or life,
only about her body. She grabs hold of her
wheelchair. "Not being able to get around.
It's terrible."
The residents' rooms are filled with pieces
of the past. For most, a picture of a spouse
who died, photos of children and of
themselves decades ago are all they have left.
Many are two to a room. They regularly leave
these little chambers of solitude at 6:45 p.m.
Monday: time for Bingo.
Arthur Lipsitt pushes his friend, Libby
Laurens, in a wheelchair. Another woman
holds a Machzor. "Is today Shabbos?" she
asks before sitting at one of the long, narrow
tables. About 20 residents have come to the
room with a large-screen TV at the center. A
broadcast shows Nelson Mandela's release
from a South African prison, but the biggest
news here is getting Bingo. The game begins.
7:15 p.m. Second
floor. This is where
residents with de-
mentia and Alzheimer's
Disease live.
"I'm not in the same
house," a dark-haired
woman mumbles. "I
have different food. I
have to change the
dishes. Put one in, over
there. I told them. My
daughter lives here. I've
got a mother that lives
with me. I've got two
brothers. They do a lot
of business here."
Third floor. This is
the home of men and
women who need cons-
tant supervision. A
woman wearing a blue
sweater sits by the
nurse's station. She will
not leave. Tears fall
down her pale cheeks.
She weeps, "I haven't
got anybody!"
A television in the
recreation room shows "Who's the Boss." Star
Tony Danza laughs wildly, but no one will
hear what's so funny. The room is empty.
First floor. Rose, a tiny and graceful
woman, stands in the middle of the lobby. It's
easy to see she must have been a beauty once.
Now she is frail and rarely in touch with
reality. She grabs the hand of a woman she
does not know. And even amid her own
anguish, she whispers a kindness.
"I love you," she says to the stranger, kiss-
ing her cheek. "Everything will be all right."
8:15 Cookies and juice are passed out as
residents prepare for bed. Conversations in
Yiddish fill the room. As the men and women
finish their snacks, they begin the slow
journey back to their rooms. For many, this
will be difficult. They cannot remember
Resident Ira Boykansky
joins Minchah services.