Lonely Pianos
The Memory Care unit is located in the west wing of the facility. A receptionist enters the code and the doors automatically swing open. It’s mid-July and so humid I wonder if the air conditioning is working. An odor of Lysol and feces hit my nostrils. I feel a wave of nausea.
An old, upright piano sits off to the side. Most days, a resident hammers out melodies. His fingers would bang on the untuned keys; it would sound like a saloon in a western. Today, no one is there and the piano seems a bit lonely—left in a corner and forgotten.
I walk down to the dining hall. There is a fury of activity. Healthcare aides scoop food into crumpled lips, and offer drinks of chalky protein shakes—sipped through straws.
Patients often stare into the distance. Some can’t speak at all. Others have disconnected words, which float in the air, unattached to each other.
I’m reminded that we are all meant for connection. It’s part of being human. With Alzheimer’s, the ability to communicate slowly diminishes over time.
Outside the facility, a pair of robins call to each other in a rhythmic refrain,
“Tut-tut-tut!”
But today in the Memory care unit, a piano sits alone in a corner.