For many of us, the thought of a nursing home brings to mind the squeak of wheelchairs and the smell of disinfectant.
We might think of bedpans and old photos, mementos of lives played out.
But another story continues each day at nursing homes in many cities around the country. It’s a story of love and affection, of family and friends committed to those they love. They visit every day, sometimes two or three times a day.
They offer encouragement to the bedbound and cheerful greetings to those who navigate the halls in wheelchairs. To their loved ones, they bring affection, news from family and the reassurance that they are not alone.
They never leave without the promise of returning the next day, and the daily fulfillment of that promise gives meaning to the word “devotion.”
In Hurst, Texas, it’s 9:45 a.m., and Harry “Ned” Gilliand, 66, wheels his mother, Dorothy, into the south dining room of All Saints Bishop Davies Center.
Dorothy Gilliand, 98, with a knit afghan on her lap, holds a game of Scrabble in her hands. Her white hair has been brushed back, and she is smiling.
As he nears their favorite table, Ned Gilliand lets go of the wheelchair, which keeps moving forward for a moment.
Dorothy Gilliand lets out a “Whoops,” then laughs as her son catches the chair.
And so begins the morning hour that mother and son spend each day together.
Dorothy Gilliand is one of the more than 140 residents at the All Saints Bishop Davies Center. She also is one of the residents who has a daily visit twice a day from family members, mostly her son.
Ned Gilliand, a retired test pilot for Bell Helicopter-Textron, is determined that his mother remain as mentally active as possible.
Dorothy Gilliand can’t walk anymore and can’t swallow. She gets her nutrition through a gastrotomy tube. She spends most of her day in her room doing word puzzles, practicing her Scrabble and Upwords games in anticipation of her son’s visits.
“Do I like it?” she asks. “I love it. I just love it every time I see him coming in the door.”
“We usually play two games of Scrabble and two games of Yahtzee,” says Ned Gilliand as they prepare for their daily word duel. “She is a walking dictionary,” he says of his mother, “and usually wins three out of four games.”
Ned Gilliand, his hands beginning to show age spots, sets up the Scrabble board, and the two draw their letters.
Dorothy Gilliand concentrates, her lips alternately pursed and parted. “These crazy letters,” she says of a bad draw.
He peeks at her letters and says, “Maybe I can whup you this morning.”
As the game progresses, Dorothy Gilliand gets better letters. Her hands, the skin almost transparent, confidently pick up her tiles. She puts down the word “ape” and claps her hands.
She spells out “beer,” and at one point asks, “There’s no such a word as trig is there?”
“Yes, it’s short for trigonometry,” he answers.
She wins the first game. “I won,” she says modestly, “it’s just happenstance, that’s all.”
Gilliand credits his mother’s upbeat mood and her keen mind to her daily visits from him and weekly communication from her other children. Gilliand has a sister in New Hampshire and a brother in California. They write weekly. The grandchildren visit often.
The interaction with the family keeps Dorothy Gilliand’s mind ticking. Some of the residents he sees aren’t as fortunate. “There are so many . . . (residents) I stop and talk to,” he says. “A lot of people, from what I understand, don’t have families who come in and see them. Some people come in and just sit with their families, but don’t talk to them.
“Every afternoon, I bring in a family scrapbook of photos,” he says. “and we go over them. I bring in an album a day and it refreshes her memory. That’s the idea, to keep her mind active.”
It’s an idea she likes. “I still hope to reach 100,” says Dorothy Gilliand. Then she laughs, adding, “I hate to see what I’ll be like at that time.”
Her game luck runs out during the second Scrabble game. “We’re running out of places to play, Mama,” Ned Gilliand says as she tries to form a word. Then, as he places his final word,
“Well, I hate to say it, but I finally beat you today.” After two games of Yahtzee, each of which she wins with modest giggles, it’s 10:45 a.m.–time for Ned Gilliand to leave.
He guides his mother’s wheelchair back to her room.
