Glenn Miller music drifted amongst the smell of milky tea and wilting flowers. The big band sound competed with the television that no one was watching. There were people sat around it but their grey heads dropped in sleep. This was the ‘Day Room’. Supposedly a hub of conversation and activity. In reality, that only happened at set times.
Breakfast time, nurses wheeled the patients in to their foreordained chairs: “There you go Elsie. A nice seat in front of the TV,” Elsie drooled in reply “and here’s your tea.” The nurse took Elsie’s hand and thrust into it a plastic mug, capped with a spout like a toddler’s cup: “I’ll see you later Elsie.” and the nurse left to wheel in her next charge.
Medication time, the trolley arrived and nurses called out names like schoolteachers. They distributed drugs to these husks of people. Drugs to dry them out; drugs to keep them flowing; drugs to calm the heart; drugs to start it up; drugs to let them have a few more weeks asleep in front of the TV.
Visiting time brought clergymen and family with the occasional grandchild. That child would lift every head, glazed eyes would sparkle, loose faces tighten into smiles and hands grope in handbags for a shilling that’s not been there in decades; a coin for the child. This prancing, noisy youngster reminds them of life before it got so tiring.
Dinnertime, the nurses persuade their patients to eat: “Lovely stew Mr Parks” he nods his head as the liquidised pulp is washed down with milk: “Was that your son here today?” he nods again “He’s a fine young man eh? Takes after you eh?” still nodding. The nurse knows he’ll keep on nodding long after she’s gone.
Soon after dinner it’s bedtime. The TV continues to glow in the corner but the room is in darkness, its patients have gone to sleep elsewhere. In the night a porter comes to take away a chair. It won’t be needed in the morning.
More tomorrow...
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