The Final Waiting Room

I look about me at the many aged faces, some in eager anticipation for the afternoon’s events as the fellow residents slowly come in from their living quarters, some in another world, oblivious to what is happening, others bemoaning the upheaval from their daily routine and the bringing together of people they do not warm to.

One lady lovingly takes my hand and kisses it, another kisses me as she always does and my mother tells me she wants to go home, barely acknowledging my visit. The room sits quietly waiting for the fun to start as things are unexpectedly delayed for more than half an hour.

I sit with my anxious and hyper-critical mother and notice the myriad wrinkled faces about me: some more ready to engage with me than others. But then as the camp-looking singer, herself somewhat mature and reminiscent of a man in drag, starts the afternoon’s entertainment with a selection of “golden oldies”, she croons croakily and draws out the life in those who are still capable of participation.

My mother’s immense sense of fun is now lost in a heady whirl of unreal concerns while others ignore the limitations of their frailty and talent and give it their all, singing along and dancing, no doubt recalling better days when the desire for joyful interaction was matched by an ability to live life and express their love with energetic abandon.

I am moved by the many reactions to the situation and, above all, by the simple things, by the many people present who reach out hungrily for physical touch and reassurance, to experience still the lifeblood of love, friendship and approval but also have so much love to give at this last staging post in life, the final waiting room.