I started volunteering at nursing homes and assisted living homes after a melodramatic break up when I got tired of wallowing in my own self-pity. My intentions weren’t 100% altruistic — I mostly just needed a distraction and a place to be other than at home, sulking. Somehow, I figured the best way to approach my depression was to visit a place that would be ten times more depressing: an old folks’ home.
A few of the places I visited exemplified the bleak nursing homes people are afraid of: stern, overworked nurses, zombie-like residents vegetating in front of a TV, the constant stench of urine, etc. But then there were other places that seemed like glorified summer camps, with dance classes, open mic nights, and nurses that know the rap interlude in TLC’s “Waterfalls” by heart. These were not the kind of nursing homes where seniors sat around, “waiting to die.” They were probably too busy waiting for their next Zumba class.
It was at one of these geriatric wonderlands that I met 92-year old Nina who has travelled to every country except Antarctica, has a PhD from NYU, and is so beloved at one particular Red Lobster in New Jersey that they dedicated a booth to her. We met during “Walking Club,” a program where volunteers and seniors take long walks around the Central Park Reservoir. We hit it off immediately when she declared her eternal crush on JFK. I visit her regularly in her stuffy little room, where she sometimes plays Mozart on her electric keyboard and we watch hours of the Tennis Channel.
Obviously, the conversations we have differ greatly from the ones I have with friends my own age. The fact that we have conversations at all–about traveling, our families, politics, how to make a good piña colada–is an anomaly. When we spend time together, the event is centered on conversation, rather than trying out a new restaurant or seeing a band or downing Jagerbombs. This is somewhat novel to me, as the majority of my time is spent with people who are glued to their phones or punctuate all their sentences with “haha lol.” (Ed. note — Destroy all of your friends immediately.)
I’ve always gotten along well with senior citizens, something I chalk up to my incredibly close relationship to my grandmother as a child. On the subway or in elevators, I find myself talking to the elderly and finding their jokes hilarious (“I was at an antique auction and got three bids.”). But when I tell people my age this, I’m often met with: “Old people creep me out” or “Crotchety old bastards, aren’t they?” I’ve seen my fair share of adult diapers and liver spots to know that getting old isn’t pretty. But if hanging around old people only reminds you of the inevitable presence of death, then you’re missing out on some of the most hilarious, honest, and entertaining human beings.
Even at the bleakest nursing homes, this was evident. At a dimly-lit nursing home in the Bronx, I did “Pet Therapy,” in which we brought rabbits, chinchillas, and one very friendly parakeet around to the residents. An old man named Arturo, who only spoke Spanish, turned out to be the bunny whisperer, when he managed to tame Frankenstein, the surly long-haired rabbit, into a cuddly ball of fluff. At another home, during a run-of-the-mill game of bingo, schoolgirl giggling suddenly erupted when the number “69” was called out.
It was at one of the most depressing-looking nursing homes that I met Philomena, a 90-something former waitress who told me the story of how she saved every penny to go on regular trips to Italy. When she was there, she’d visit the Galleria Borghese in Florence just to see Titian’s Sacred and Profane Love, which never failed to bring her to tears. From then on, each time I’d see her, I’d bring art monographs to flip through. Sometimes she’d get so excited about a painting, she’d literally hug the book to her heart.
If life were a Hallmark movie, each senior citizen would have a Nicholas Sparks-ian inspirational story to tell–and some do!–but more often than not, the people I’ve encountered lived ordinary lives. But ordinary to them doesn’t always compute. My 97-year old friend, Sam, often spoke about working in a carpet factory before casually mentioning that he had once carpeted Frank Sinatra’s home in Hoboken. Or there’s Shirley, who used to hold literary salons in her Park Avenue apartment, where she’d dance ballet for her guests. Or, my personal favorite, rickety old Carol who once went on a year-long trip around Europe “to get laid and see the sights.”
I’ve never considered myself an old soul or born in the wrong era (I get heart palpitations any time my phone battery dips below 50%), but there I am, shouting out “Bingo!” with the best of them, though it’s not surprising to see why. These are people who’ve lived long, romantic, fucked up, endlessly fascinating lives, and the best part? It’s still going on.
