Florence, Nursing Home Resident

 

 

 

This morning my model at Winkler Court Nursing Home is Florence. She was very patient and quiet. Over the past year, I went to Winkler Court from time to time to paint its residents, more exactly, mainly the residents in their Alzheimer Unit. So far I have quite a collection of these elderly people. I consider it a kind of social service. Each time, I will have a quality photocopy made and mail it to the unit manager. At the same time, I also take a pciture with my camera of the painting and E-mail to the manager as an attachment. She would, in turn, forward the picture to the resident's loved ones, especially those who are out of town or do not live nearby. Sometimes, the manager would tell me that so-and-so's children are excited to have received their mother's picure.

 

I am glad I could use my art to enrich their lives. Like today, Charlie, my first model at the nursing home, was so excited to see me and came over to give me a hug, His painting was  still on the wall. The  manager joked by calling me their " resident artist". It is true that not everyone can remember things as well as Charlie. However, during my conversation with them (I usually like to talk to my model so that he/she won't feel so easily fatigued because of boredom), I could still see sparks in their eyes when they talked about their vibrant lives before they became a resident there. a carpenter from  Texas once kept talking about his wife, but the nurse whispered to me, "His wife is long gone."

 

I am willing to do something for them maybe because this disease has caused me to think a lot about life. Sometimes, I feel more sorry for their loved ones because they know the person they loved and knew so well is gone or drifting away even though her physique still exists as a form of    life. Scientists have found ways to extend our life, but not our memory.

 

Some time ago when one of my friends heard about that I have been volunteering to paint nursing home residents, she sent me the following story with the poem:

 

 

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri.

The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.

 

 

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . . .. . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . When you’re looking at me?
A crabby old man . . . . . Not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . . . With faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food . . . . . And makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice . . . . . The things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not . . . . . Lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? . . . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . You’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am. . . . . . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, . . . . . As I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . . . . . With a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . . Who love one another.

A young boy of Sixteen . . . . With wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . A lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . My heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . That I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . . . . With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons . . . . . Have grown and are gone,
But my woman’s beside me . . . . . To see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play ’round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future . . . . . Shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . . Young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . . . And the love that I’ve known.

I’m now an old man . . . . . And nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age. . . .. . Look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles. . . . . Grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone. .. . . Where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . . . . . A young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . My battered heart swells.
I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living . . . . . Life over again.

I think of the years, all too few . . . . . Gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . That nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . . Open and see.
Not a crabby old man . . . Look closer . . . See ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. will all, one day, be there, too!

 

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It is a very inspirational story in spite of the confusion now floating online. I did a little research. There are different versions of the poem and story.   As a matter of fact, the story is finctional and the poem was written by English writer Phyllis McCormack. Read the following:
 

 The poem was not found in the belongings of a nursing home resident in rural Australia as claimed. Nor was it found among the possessions of an old man who died in a hospital in Florida, USA or any other US location. In fact, there have been numerous - equally fictional - US based versions of the poem's supposed origin.

The poem itself has a long and somewhat convoluted history. The original version of the poem (included below) featured an old woman rather than an old man and was set in the UK. The poem has been known by several names, including "Crabbit Old Woman", "Kate", "Look Closer Nurse" and "What Do You See". For decades, the poem has been included in various publications in the United Kingdom often accompanied by the claim that the poem was found by nursing staff in the belongings of an old woman named Kate who died in a hospital's geriatric ward. Many versions claim that the hospital was located in Scotland. Others claim the hospital was in England or Wales.

In fact, the provenance of the piece remains somewhat hazy. However, credible reports suggest that the poem may actually have been written by Phyllis McCormack in 1966, who at the time was working as a nurse in a Scottish hospital. In a 2005 report about the poem for 'Perspectives on Dementia Care', 5th Annual Conference on Mental Health and Older, Joanna Bornat notes:

Amongst the responses to a small survey which I carried out in 1998 while
researching attitudes to the poem 3 (Bornat, 2004) was a cutting from the Daily Mail
newspaper in which the son of Phyllis McCormack, whose name is often linked with
the poem as its discoverer, explained:

My mother, Phyllis McCormack, wrote this poem in the early Sixties when
she was a nurse at Sunnyside Hospital in Montrose.
Originally entitled Look Closer Nurse, the poem was written for a small
magazine for Sunnyside only Phyllis was very shy and submitted her work
anonymously.
A copy of the magazine was lent to a patient at Ashludie Hospital, Dundee,
who copied it in her own handwriting and kept it in her bedside locker. When
she died, the copy was found and submitted to the Sunday Post newspaper,
attributed to the Ashludie patient.
Since my mother’s death in 1994 her work has travelled all over the world...
(Daily Mail, 12 March 1998).