If Walls Could Talk

If walls could talk they could tell many stories. They would reveal the secrets, tragedies, and even the joys of all the interactions of life they have witnessed. They would tell of unknown histories and stories long gone and teach us the past we’re too ashamed to confront. Peel back the layers of paint, panel and paper and I couldn’t even tell you that my early days were of happiness and glamour. Yes, I was freshly painted drywall, strong and sturdy. I was and still am part of something bigger, but in those days I was new and still a wall of hope. I am the north facing wall of room 23 of Applewood Manor, a nursing home, and I have seen many lives come and go.

In those days I was a pale yellow as was the rest of my wall mates. A color meant to brighten an otherwise bleak environment, over the years came to resemble the color of bodily wastes and throughout the decades my makeovers and modernizations found my color changed to a classic white adorned with beautiful works of art that often depict the local life of the Michigan thumb. The color has been painted different shades over the years and the faces of the residents may change, but the stories are the same sad stories told over and over again.

I was excited to receive my first resident. I proudly shined behind the metal bed frame that held a neatly made bed of white linens. Pushed right up against my left side a closet, empty with hangers for future use. To my right, a nightstand with a welcome packet. If you open the drawers there are all the personal hygiene necessities to begin their stay with me. The bed is pushed up against me as well and I relish these interactions. The feeling of the wardrobe and nightstand against me are like friends holding my hands and making me feel surrounded by their love imprisoned in silence with me. The closeness of the bed affords me the occasional touch of a human hand or knee when they have rolled too close to the side of the bed that is parallel to me or if they are able to hang photos or personal items on me. I hear and see so much but touch is the rarest of the sensations ever fulfilled. Not just for me, but for my friend in the bed before me. So many times the occupant of the bed lives out the rest of their days in lonely isolation, forgotten by family and left behind by friends that have passed before them.

I have had many roommates and I have cried with and for all of them at one time or another but no one would ever know. I am not seen or noticed. I cry for them because so often they too cry unnoticed and unseen. So many stories, so many lives, and so many tears I could tell you of, but one story sticks with me and it always will. Daisy was the kindest soul. Her stay was short but so was her time on earth. An image of her face is forever burned in the memories with me. She wasn’t like most of the faces I saw. Her face was not wrinkled with age, instead it was plump and vibrant reflecting her youth. Her stay was like a whirlwind of sad smiles that shined of hope until they began to slowly dim. No one seemed to see it except for me and a few of the nurses and aides that tended to her daily.

What I remember most about her was her laugh and how excited she would get when she was truly happy. Her laugh was infectious and I often wondered if she knew how much she was going to touch these girls that took care of her, how much she would touch me. She could be difficult at times, refusing recommended treatments, choosing to follow advice she looked up online, but never in a way that was disrespectful. She would use her call light more often than necessary, not because she actually needed anything, but because she was lonely, young, and craved company that would never come and visit despite being married and having a large full family. Actually Daisy never appeared to be angry and frustrated no matter how many times her cries of pain and for help were ignored because the facility had to follow a protocol and the on-shift nurse could not send someone to a hospital without a doctor, who was not present, or a Director of Nursing, who was unaware of the progression of her decline approved it. She never got angry. She forgave so easily. She smiled often. Her laugh was like a bell.

The night Daisy died I knew it was coming and so did she. She expressed it to her nurses and aides, demanding additional care in preparation for seeing her father. “I’m dying!” She cried out. Although the aide was frustrated she gave Daisy the additional care and attention she needed. “You’re not going to die Daisy, I won’t let you die” the aide confidently said to her, attempting to give her reassurance. When the aide had finished Daisy then said “Thank you, I’m going to sleep now.” The aide smiled at her one last time and said goodnight and shut the door. Daisy quickly slipped away soon after. Only minutes. The aide opened the door less than a half hour later to check on her and immediately knew she was gone.

Suddenly the lights were on, the room was full, and Daisy was having compressions done on her, breaking her ribs, her mouth agape, her eyes rolled in the back of her head as they fought to save her life,causing the contents of her stomach to spill forth and regardless of their fervent effort, it was all in vain. It was too late. She was gone, and even when EMS was in the room and they momentarily seemed to get a faint heartbeat it was clear that even if Daisy lived, she wouldn’t be Daisy.

The aide that cleaned her up before her family finally gave her the visit she waited for everyday shed more tears in front of me than her family seemed to express. Maybe they were private people choosing to save their emotional response for their private walls to witness, but the aide was visibly distraught. She remained in a state of depression, forever changed, and I quickly saw it as the facility soon filled Daisy’s bed and shocked the aide when she walked in to see a living person in the bed where her friend, her patient had just died a few days before. I could hear it in her expressions of hopelessness. She stopped working there not long after. I imagine Daisy’s death took a toll on her she did not expect. The aide got to leave. Daisy got to leave, but here I am. I must remain. I must continue to stand and provide refuge and protection. to the infirm and vulnerable. I must continue to witness the cycle of death and sadness. I must continue to be the echo of the memories. I must endure.

If walls could talk, yes they could tell many stories, but would they? Over the decades of absorbing, witnessing and suffering in silence would they offer their stories? Walls are pressed into silence, painted over and covered up to hide the truth, but so are people. If you want to know my stories, they are not uniquely my own. I share the same stories with the nurses and aides that I serve and protect with. Ask a nurse and they can tell you my story. Ask an aide and they can share with you my memories and tears. Nurses and aides often get called angels, but they are walking walls. Strong and sturdy, standing tall, holding up the sick and injured members of our society, being their strength until they’re strong enough to be on their own, housing them, protecting them. Holding up crying family members as the weight of their loss hits them. Carrying the world through a pandemic, fulfilling their duties no matter the cost is to them. Ask a nurse and you will know my story.