Baker Centre may be the only place in Toronto that is not moving at a fast pace.
The people in downtown would not fit in here. This is no place for rushing suits and dresses in fancy heels and pointed dress shoes, sprinting to catch a bus.
Everything at the Baker Centre happens slower than normal, even getting out of bed in the morning. Some don’t appear to have gotten out of bed at all.
Diapers are piled up on a table, and teddy bears sit beside them. It could be a child’s room, a daycare maybe.
But my great grandmother-who we call Oma- lying on the bed is not a child, although she appears to be too tiny for the single bed. At 101-years-old she has survived both World Wars.
But now, she is supervised similarly to a child in a daycare. She doesn’t go to the bathroom by herself. She has an alarm put on her wheelchair so if she gets up and tries to escape, it will go off. She is never alone.
I feel a pang of sympathy for my Oma, it is like a nice prison with all these alarms and constantly being watched.
A nurse helps her get out of bed and we wheel her out to the common area to sit by the window. My grandmother forgets to put the safety on the wheelchair, and Oma tries to wheel away from us.
She is done with the conversation before it evens starts.
Throughout our visit she doesn’t show any sign of comprehension. She doesn’t know where she is. “Where am I?” she asks meekly. As the visit progresses she seems to get more and more frustrated. The meek little voice coming out of my sweet Oma turns angry. “WHERE. AM. I.” the words are fierce and shock my grandparents. I didn’t realize that there was so much energy inside that frail body.
My grandparents answer her nicely every time she asks, despite being asked the same question about twenty times. Oma is my grandmother’s mom. I can’t imagine sitting in a nursing home with my mom one day and seeing her so confused as to where she is. I love my mom, she takes care of me still even though I’ve moved away from home. Mom is always the one to message me on Facebook and ask how my day is going, and send me Valentine’s Day cards in the mail.
Mom would not fit in here. I do not want her to be here ever.
Oma breaks the silence and asks where she is again. We answer the question like she’s asking it for the first time. “You’re at the Baker Centre,” my grandfather tells her. Meanwhile my grandmother holds Oma’s hand, and they sit there, mother and daughter. It is heartbreaking to watch.
I know many years ago the situation was probably reversed, and my grandmother was the one sitting and asking Oma the same question twenty times. “Why do we have to eat leftovers for dinner Mom?” Or, “why do I have to go to school today?”
But, now my grandmother is the one taking care of Oma. I can’t imagine how hard this is for her.
I try to engage Oma in conversation, but I think she has a hard time understanding what I’m saying. I talk about food and the possibilities of what could be for dinner. Food is a happy topic, there is always something to look forward to with a plate of food.
She perks up once when a poodle struts through the door with his owner. She points over to it excitedly. Oma always loved animals.
We take pictures with her and I feel guilty as I snap the photos. Oma doesn’t smile and she doesn’t appear to know what is happening. As much as she liked animals, she always hated pictures. I know we are taking these pictures for our own selfish reasons, a memento maybe, something to remember her by?
The sadness of the situation doesn’t escape the lens. Right before I take a picture of Oma and my grandparents, she asks again, “where am I?” My grandfather tries to make light of the situation “we haven’t moved, you’re in the same spot you were before,” he says to her.
“Baker Centre,” she says. There is no question in her voice. Either she remembers where she is, or she remembers the name of the answer to the question she was asking.
When we leave to go home and the visit is over, we wheel her down the hallway and park her chair there to say goodbye.
This is one of the first signs of understanding I see in Oma the entire visit. She knows we are leaving. I don’t know how she knows, I don’t think she even knew who I was.
“I love you,” she says to my grandparents as they hug her goodbye. I bend down to give her a hug. “I love you Oma,” I say to her.
“I’ll miss you,” she says as she grabs my hand. She knows we are leaving, and it breaks my heart. I don’t want to leave her sitting in the hallway in her wheelchair. It is hard to walk away. It is not a happy place, with these ugly yellow walls and all these strange nurses with wheely carts piled high with medicine. I don’t want her to have to go back to her room.
The lady beside her lies in bed all day, looking up at the ceiling transfixed and pointing at something I can’t see. A lot of them look like they spend the majority of their time lying in bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling.
It is like they’re just waiting to die.
I can’t help thinking that Oma would be so much happier sitting on a porch somewhere, smelling the flowers and the fresh air.
I know she would act ten years younger sitting out there.
This place has aged her, I feel older here too.
I want to transport her to that warm summer day, sit her outside, and give her some nice purple flowers to smell. Maybe a nice dog to pet.
But poor Oma is stuck here in this unnaturally heated hallway, with its ugly yellow walls and trays of medicine. I hug her goodbye again, I don’t want her to watch us walk away. I hope she is not looking.
This is not Oma, sitting in her wheelchair not knowing where she is or maybe who she is.
Oma is in my memories, pleasantly plump, full of smiles and good food, her German accent strong when she talked. Oma had perfect writing, she always wrote in my birthday cards in a perfectly straight line. Oma took us out to the Mandarin every birthday, she was generous, more generous then Ellen DeGeneres.
I know now she is here at the Baker Centre, and I hope she is happy. I hope she smiles.
To me, she is frozen in memory, the day she turned 100-years-old, sitting on the porch with me smelling flowers and the August breeze. She was smiling then. I hope she still smiles now.
The people in downtown would not fit in here. This is no place for rushing suits and dresses in fancy heels and pointed dress shoes, sprinting to catch a bus.
Everything at the Baker Centre happens slower than normal, even getting out of bed in the morning. Some don’t appear to have gotten out of bed at all.
Diapers are piled up on a table, and teddy bears sit beside them. It could be a child’s room, a daycare maybe.
But my great grandmother-who we call Oma- lying on the bed is not a child, although she appears to be too tiny for the single bed. At 101-years-old she has survived both World Wars.
But now, she is supervised similarly to a child in a daycare. She doesn’t go to the bathroom by herself. She has an alarm put on her wheelchair so if she gets up and tries to escape, it will go off. She is never alone.
I feel a pang of sympathy for my Oma, it is like a nice prison with all these alarms and constantly being watched.
A nurse helps her get out of bed and we wheel her out to the common area to sit by the window. My grandmother forgets to put the safety on the wheelchair, and Oma tries to wheel away from us.
She is done with the conversation before it evens starts.
Throughout our visit she doesn’t show any sign of comprehension. She doesn’t know where she is. “Where am I?” she asks meekly. As the visit progresses she seems to get more and more frustrated. The meek little voice coming out of my sweet Oma turns angry. “WHERE. AM. I.” the words are fierce and shock my grandparents. I didn’t realize that there was so much energy inside that frail body.
My grandparents answer her nicely every time she asks, despite being asked the same question about twenty times. Oma is my grandmother’s mom. I can’t imagine sitting in a nursing home with my mom one day and seeing her so confused as to where she is. I love my mom, she takes care of me still even though I’ve moved away from home. Mom is always the one to message me on Facebook and ask how my day is going, and send me Valentine’s Day cards in the mail.
Mom would not fit in here. I do not want her to be here ever.
Oma breaks the silence and asks where she is again. We answer the question like she’s asking it for the first time. “You’re at the Baker Centre,” my grandfather tells her. Meanwhile my grandmother holds Oma’s hand, and they sit there, mother and daughter. It is heartbreaking to watch.
I know many years ago the situation was probably reversed, and my grandmother was the one sitting and asking Oma the same question twenty times. “Why do we have to eat leftovers for dinner Mom?” Or, “why do I have to go to school today?”
But, now my grandmother is the one taking care of Oma. I can’t imagine how hard this is for her.
I try to engage Oma in conversation, but I think she has a hard time understanding what I’m saying. I talk about food and the possibilities of what could be for dinner. Food is a happy topic, there is always something to look forward to with a plate of food.
She perks up once when a poodle struts through the door with his owner. She points over to it excitedly. Oma always loved animals.
We take pictures with her and I feel guilty as I snap the photos. Oma doesn’t smile and she doesn’t appear to know what is happening. As much as she liked animals, she always hated pictures. I know we are taking these pictures for our own selfish reasons, a memento maybe, something to remember her by?
The sadness of the situation doesn’t escape the lens. Right before I take a picture of Oma and my grandparents, she asks again, “where am I?” My grandfather tries to make light of the situation “we haven’t moved, you’re in the same spot you were before,” he says to her.
“Baker Centre,” she says. There is no question in her voice. Either she remembers where she is, or she remembers the name of the answer to the question she was asking.
When we leave to go home and the visit is over, we wheel her down the hallway and park her chair there to say goodbye.
This is one of the first signs of understanding I see in Oma the entire visit. She knows we are leaving. I don’t know how she knows, I don’t think she even knew who I was.
“I love you,” she says to my grandparents as they hug her goodbye. I bend down to give her a hug. “I love you Oma,” I say to her.
“I’ll miss you,” she says as she grabs my hand. She knows we are leaving, and it breaks my heart. I don’t want to leave her sitting in the hallway in her wheelchair. It is hard to walk away. It is not a happy place, with these ugly yellow walls and all these strange nurses with wheely carts piled high with medicine. I don’t want her to have to go back to her room.
The lady beside her lies in bed all day, looking up at the ceiling transfixed and pointing at something I can’t see. A lot of them look like they spend the majority of their time lying in bed, staring listlessly up at the ceiling.
It is like they’re just waiting to die.
I can’t help thinking that Oma would be so much happier sitting on a porch somewhere, smelling the flowers and the fresh air.
I know she would act ten years younger sitting out there.
This place has aged her, I feel older here too.
I want to transport her to that warm summer day, sit her outside, and give her some nice purple flowers to smell. Maybe a nice dog to pet.
But poor Oma is stuck here in this unnaturally heated hallway, with its ugly yellow walls and trays of medicine. I hug her goodbye again, I don’t want her to watch us walk away. I hope she is not looking.
This is not Oma, sitting in her wheelchair not knowing where she is or maybe who she is.
Oma is in my memories, pleasantly plump, full of smiles and good food, her German accent strong when she talked. Oma had perfect writing, she always wrote in my birthday cards in a perfectly straight line. Oma took us out to the Mandarin every birthday, she was generous, more generous then Ellen DeGeneres.
I know now she is here at the Baker Centre, and I hope she is happy. I hope she smiles.
To me, she is frozen in memory, the day she turned 100-years-old, sitting on the porch with me smelling flowers and the August breeze. She was smiling then. I hope she still smiles now.