a palm tree christmas

It’s my mom’s final turn. We’re sitting outside on the patio playing Scrabble, a game that I happen to be devastatingly good at. She thinks carefully, finally lays down a word. TOT for 4 points. As in tater tot. I laugh. I use all my remaining tiles to play OXEN for 33 points. It’s over. I won. She lost. She sighs and jokingly tells me that she hates me. It’s not a very kind thing to say during the holidays. But then again, it doesn’t exactly feel that Christmasy here in Tampa, Florida. Admittedly, there are icicle lights hanging from the veranda, as well as some tacky sparkly-silver snowflake cut-outs. The patio is framed with palm trees lit up in blinking Christmas lights, a Floridian tradition I will never understand. I appreciate the efforts, but in the end the decorations do little to make the blistering 84 degree heat feel like a winter wonderland.

My mom’s currently in a rehabilitative facility called Green Manor, which is for people who are recovering from orthopedic surgeries. She had an infected hip replacement implant removed in the fall, and will stay here until the spring when a new prosthetic can be implanted. Everyone here is in a similar situation, but since you don’t typically find too many youngsters getting knee replacements, the clientele is predominantly elderly. As such, there is a bit of a nursing home flair to the facility, as observed mostly in the slightly neurotic and senile natures of nearly all of the patients. There’s Bob, who wears gigantic Cosby sweaters and turns off his hearing aids and then shouts at the nurses, and claims to be a wealthy orange grove baron. Maybe he is. There is Hannah down the hall, who has lived here about 2 years and has decorated her entire room with the most ridiculous Florida themed kitsch you’ve ever seen, and keeps trying to give me her world famous tuna casserole recipe. There is an elderly lady, whom the staff simply refer to as “The Mover”, because she spends the entire day cruising the hallways with her wheelchair, moving equipment and hiding it from the nurses. Finally, there is Linda across the hall, who meows all night long. Loudly. Less like an adorable kitten, and more like a screaming cat. She sounds shockingly realistic.

The staff here is also an interesting crowd. My first night here, I met Marta, a Puerto Rican RN who charmingly refers to my 63-yr old mother as “her baby”. Then there is Bonita, a sassy young LPN who sings gospel songs to distract my mother when she’s getting her shots. My mother has spent the majority of my trip here trying to set me up with one of her occupational therapists, Kevin, who has full-sleeve tattoos on both arms (with more on his neck), a long braided ponytail, and a sweet disposition. People like Kevin make me wonder how people wind up in their lives… at what point did this wannabe rocker decide he wanted to teach people how to put their socks on unassisted?

Green Manor’s most striking similarity to a nursing home is it’s “activities”. It’s a reasonably small place, maybe only 100 or so patients, but there is an active schedule of things to do each day. Today, there was a session entitled “Pretty Nails”. My mom said she went once, thinking she’d get a manicure, but when she showed up she realized it was just a ploy to get the residents to let the nurses trim their toenails and care for their bunions. Each day at noontime, one of the orderlies plays the piano and one of Green Manor’s residents, Carl, sings. Carl has been living here for ages, and his lunchtime cabaret has become something of a mainstay. He has a deep, booming, southern drawl, and sings fabulous renditions of Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard songs. Since it’s the holidays, he mixes in Christmas favorites- today we heard Silver Bells and It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. His voice is so calming and infections, that all of us - visitors, patients, nurses and orderlies alike- take pause to listen and sing along. Today, Carl finishes with a country version of O Tannenbaum. It’s like a weird Southern Christmas, every day at noon.

We skip all the activities, except for the noontime singalongs, and we really only go to that for the train wreck morose humor of the whole thing. For the most part, my mom spends her free time outside on the veranda, reading. Obviously, she doesn’t like it here. She thinks of herself as 63 going on 28, and interacting with her elderly neighbors is a buzzkill. Although many of them aren’t much older than her, she doesn’t relate to them, and wants to return to her own home, her own life. No one wants to lose their independence; it’s sobering for both of us to see how age has robbed these patients of their ability to care for themselves.

However, for the most part, Green Manor’s weird eclecticness provides much more humor than sadness. Each evening, one of the nurses dances for the patients. I am reasonably confident this woman has never had any sort of formal dance training. It’s kind of like rhythmic movement, she just sways and twirls around, much like a child. All this while wearing pink-patterned scrubs with kittens on them. The old people love it. It’s insane. My most sidesplitting moment came yesterday, when a physical therapist had to have a miniature walker brought over from a pediatric facility for my 5’0” mother. At over 5’8”, I’ve always teased her about her height. I will have joke ammo for ages now, now that my mom is cruising around with a walker made for 8-yr olds.

Here at Green Manor, my mom has a small private room. It’s sparse but clean; there are two chairs, a bed, a dresser with an aged television that displays everything in various tones of sepia. We’ve brought in a small Christmas tree, which we’ve decorated, and placed presents beneath. The other patients here coo over the tree; such a homey touch is rare here. It’s strange to me that there are so many people here alone… where are their families, especially during the holidays? Perhaps they don’t want to spend Christmas in a place like this; perhaps it feels more like Christmas if you’re sitting in a rustic home, sipping hot chocolate by a roaring fire while perfectly behaved children unwrap lovingly-wrapped presents. I guess I see the essence of Christmas as spending time with those you love. And this year, spending time with the ones I love means hanging out at Green Manor, drinking iced tea and enjoying the palm trees done up with lights, singing country Christmas carols with Carl, continuously reminding my mom that guys who have ponytails and live in Florida are simply not my type, laughing and telling my mom she can be Santa’s newest Christmas elf with her new miniature walker. This is Christmas. I’m glad to be home. ;)