A Prisoner's Revolt

My wife's father feels imprisoned.

Caught in a medical cycle as relentless as any other set of fixed ideas, he cannot leave the mechanically assisted corpse ward nursing home, until he "improves his strength." He cannot "improve his strength" trapped in a dim room, attended by overworked, low wage "health care" workers and bottom of the barrel physicians.

So, we've spent the last week with him, trying to get him to "improve his strength." Which amounts to wheeling himself around the old person prison, through the miasma of antiseptic spray, false smiles and stale urine. (Yes, you can tell the difference between fresh urine, and stale.) Down to the so-called library, with a half dozen books on tape (all potboilers), a book of common prayer, a handful of suspense novels, a bible, a big screen teevee, and the titles of the works of Shakespeare painted on the walls.

He could leave at any time. Against medical advice. You want a peek at that bill after insurance gets to walk away from it?

Currently imprisoned one floor up from his wife of nearly seven decades, he can barely bring himself to see her. She doesn't remember him. She doesn't remember any of us.

No one blames him for fleeing her open casket room as soon as he can, wiping at his tears, his Yankee shame fraying as he struggles to reconcile the unnameable regrets which play across his brow and eyes. My wife certainly understands. She does not visit her mother's medically assisted corpse. I do that, for her.

So, yesterday I took the long-short ride down the elevator, crossed the hall, and took a right towards the brain damage ward. Pressed the red button that lets guests in, passed through a doorway which keeps freedom out. Rehearsed the exit code that unlocks the gate, when a visitor wishes to escape. Guests leave, and the prisoners remain in their digital and wheelchair chains.

Our eldest came with me. A kind boy. Generous and sweet and willing to please others, without ever sacrificing his dignity or self respect. He has learned how to say, "No!" and mean it. He still knows how to give, to give freely that for which he expects no return. In my more honest moments, I know he deserves a better father than I. He always will.

We entered the dining room, crowded in on ourselves immediately by the stink of death, the too loud television, the whirring of pumps, of oxygen machines and dispensary carts.

My mother in law sits alone, staring into naught.

Two days ago, she had pudding on her face. Yesterday, dried potatoes.

Her attending ghoul smiled at us, as we approached. Hey, "P-" I said, picking up her spoon, trying to ignore the aide I have long come to hate.

"She isn't going to let you feed her," the douchebag ghoul muttered through her clenched teeth and pressed lips, approximating what I think she thought of as a smile. She wears eyeliner on her bottom lids only. Her eyes speak a litany of malice, and contempt. I have no doubt that she hits her patients. And steals their mementos.

As I turned to my wife's mother, reaching for the spoon, the ghoul returned to her task. Yelling, bullying the ancient woman into whose mouth she attempted to shove a piece of shit brown donut.

"No, I won't!" her ward yelled, in a surprisingly resonant voice, rich with defiance. "You're not my mother," she continued, pushing the cheap pastry from her captor's grasp. I put down the spoon. The boy and I watched, he nervously smiling.

"I am. You can call me mommy," the warden ghoul whispered, her shoulders hunching, mimicking the threat posture of other great apes. She loomed, her chest expanded. She gritted her teeth, showing them plainly.

Her prisoner did not appear to take notice.

"No, I won't!" she yelled again, her eyes almost twinkling, shedding their rheumy age. The other captives, women of varying degrees of dignity and decrepitude, had all turned their heads, or rolled them, to watch now. A second attendant arrived. The nurse stood up in her booth.

The donut went in, forcefully.

"You need to eat," argued the ghoul, her hand hooked in a claw. They held their prisoner's jaw, working it. The rest of the captives returned to their meals. One closed her eyes, her mouth turned down in naked sadness.

I probably have it wrong, but they seemed less alive, more defeated.

As if the remains of their independence depended in no small part on the outcome of their comrade's defiance. Conversation did not pick up again. Power had won. Again. An ancient truth, wearing the guise of nursing home modernity.

With a great portion of my own cowardice stuck in my throat, and avoiding my son's eyes, I turned back to my own task. My mother in law did eat, and readily. Ham puree and powdered potatoes. She let me feed her. 

Her own revolt? I don't know. The ghoul who ruled her every day could not get her to eat; the son in law she doesn't remember could.

I want to call that rebellion.

I really do.