I went to see my dad yesterday, and we watched the “Saturday Matinee” together. They get a Netflix movie in every Saturday, and the old folks at the assisted living facility he lives in watch it in the Common Room.
So we’re all in watching “Night at the Museum”, with Ben Stiller (and a small part with his mom, Ann Meara playing a job counselor), and half the old folks are having a hard time following the plot. My dad is a bit confused by it too – I think when there’s a lot going on, they just can’t keep up. Then again, it may be that, like my dad they none of them really use their hearing aids correctly, so can’t actually hear it that well.
But one little old lady was really struggling: “Does anyone know what’s going on?” “Oh! That scared me, too!” "What just happened?"
She started to get more and more agitated.
The aides were both off doing other stuff – not all the residents go in to watch the movie, but those that do, they pretty much don’t have to worry about for a couple of hours. It's the ones who don't, who are scattered around the facility, that they need to check on individually, who are a bit more worrisome.
Most of the old folks watching the movie are sitting in these really comfy upholstered swivel/rocking chairs. Once they sit in them, they all pretty much are stuck until someone helps them out of them. Having had to drag my dad out of one a couple of weeks ago, I’d put him into a comfy chair that didn’t move around, and sat in another next to him.
I looked over at the old gal a few times – she seemed to be getting upset, and kept wiping her nose, almost as if she was crying, though she didn’t appear to be. She would exclaim about something, everyone would look over at her sympathetically, but she otherwise was fine so we all would turn back to the movie.
Suddenly, she decided she wanted to stand up. There were a couple of old guys sitting behind her. “Hold the back of my chair, I want to stand up!” she demanded. They held it, but she got really petulant – “Hold the back of my chair!” “We ARE!” they said. "Well, hold it STILL!" she demanded.
She stood up, slightly hunched over, almost teetering forward. Slowly, she started pulling on her skirt, bunching it up in her hands. Pulling, bunching… those of us who could see her, sat there, curious, watching. I initially thought perhaps it had gotten wrinkled and uncomfortable underneath her, and she was trying to pull it straight, slowly strugging with arthritic fingers to make it right.
But no: with each scrunching of her skirt it came up higher, up over her knees, up to her thighs. We all watched, transfixed, as she grabbed the hem and lifted it up, pulling it over her head.
She was wearing pantyhose (thank goodness). I don’t think she had any underpants on. Now that she had the skirt up over her head, she wiped her nose on it, then started arthritically picking at the band of the pantyhose.
There was a floor to ceiling support in between her and my dad – he couldn’t see anything. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Nothing dad – watch the movie.” I sat there, torn between keeping him company or going over to her and trying to settle this poor thing down, and help restore her dignity.
My own discomfort kept me anchored to my seat. I feel shame for that - I wish I could have acted compassionately and ended the spectacle sooner.
At that point, the daughter of one of the old guys behind her walked in to the room, saw what was going on, and went to find one of the aides. Nini, the aide, came in and persuaded the old gal to go back to her room.
I am sure that this sweet old lady would have been mortified had she realized what she was doing. I suppose there's some solace in the fact that she didn't know what she was doing, and certainly won't remember doing it.
But that doesn't make it any less sad.
