Characters: Rhoda Halsey, deceased mother of Mary,
age 84; Mary Bowers,
daughter of Rhoda, late 50s; Ann Fletcher, daughter of Mary, late 20s; a
nurse's aide, age 25-60; and Ella Williams, roommate of Rhoda, age 86
Setting: The action takes place in the room occupied by
Ellen, and
formerly occupied by Rhoda, at the Living Manor Nursing Home.
Mary and
Ann arrive to
remove Rhoda’s belongings. She had died two days
earlier.
The stage is divided into three areas: To
the left is the image of Rhoda
Halsey in a wheelchair. She speaks the words of the notes the women find
among her things. To the left is Ella Williams, her
roommate, also in a
wheelchair.
Mary and Ann stand around a bed empty except
for articles of clothing,
and a few other personal item. The bed is off center and
at an angle,
closer to Ella than to Rhoda.
Except when Rhoda is speaking, the lights
are on Mary and Ann, but the
two older women, Ella and Rhoda, remain on stage
throughout. When she is
not speaking, Rhoda Halsey sits motionless, head bowed,
in her
wheelchair. Ella sometimes struggles against her restraint. At
other
times, she is still, in a posture similar to that of
Rhoda.
As the curtain rises, Ann and Mary enter the
room from Ella's side
carrying two suitcases. A nurse’s
aide is stuffing clothes from the bed
into a large plastic bag. At first, Mary and Ann’s attention is drawn to
Ella, who is speaking.
<><><><><><><><>
ELLA: My husband is coming to get me today.
I will wear my pretty blue
dress, the one I wore back then. Where did we go? I'm
coming, dear.
Don't push me. Don't do it. Where is that
woman? I didn't have anything
to eat today. Where's my blue dress? Where's my green
one? Come on,
let's go.
AIDE: (continuing to put articles of
clothing from the drawers of a
dresser into the bag) Don't mind Ella. She's okay. Sometimes
she doesn't
know where she is.
MARY: (politely to Ella, ignoring the aide
at first) Hello, Mrs.
Williams, how are you today? (to aide) What are you doing? Are you
throwing those things out?
AIDE: Oh no, it's just that we have to clear
the room and I didn't know
you'd be here. We always use these bags.
ANN: Garbage bags?
MARY: We came to get Mrs. Halsey's things.
Didn't they tell you?
AIDE: (taking items of clothing from the bag
and laying them on the
bed) Sorry, I was just told we need the room and to get
it ready. If
you're going to use those suitcases you won't need the
bags.
MARY: No, we won't need the trash bags for
my mother's things. I don't
remember you. Are you new here?
AIDE: I've been at Living Manor for two
months but I was in another
section.
MARY: Did you take care of my mother?
AIDE: Rhoda? I mean Mrs. Halsey? Yes, a few
times. Do you need help?
MARY: No, don't worry about us. We'll manage.
AIDE: Okay then, I'll come back later. (She
leaves with the garbage
bags.)
ELLA: I heard that. I know who you are. Who
are they? When Harold comes,
he'll show you a thing or two. All of
you. (pointing) That's where Rhoda
lives, lived, lives, lived. Can you take me . . .
AIDE: All right, Ella. I'll be back. There's
an activity this
afternoon. (to Mary and Ann) Just
ignore her. (starts to leave then
stops to adjust Ella's bedclothes)
ELLA: . . . to the bathroom.
AIDE: You just went, Ella. In a little while.
ANN: (to Mary) What
are we going to do with these things?
MARY: Let's leave most of her clothing here.
Maybe other residents can
use her housecoats and slippers. There isn't much
really. I think what
we decide to take will fit in the two suitcases.
AIDE: (with some impatience) I don't want to
rush you, but we have
someone waiting for the room.
MARY: Some of this is garbage. Some of it are things we can't use. Can
the nursing home use her clothes for other residents?
AIDE: (hurriedly) We'd
appreciate it if you'd take as much as you can,
but, yes, we can use the clothes if you don't want them.
And the bedroom
slippers. But don't feel obliged. (she
leaves)
ANN: (looking at some slippers) I remember
when we gave her these. She
seemed appreciative but I don't think they've ever been
worn. How long
was she at Living Manor?
MARY: Let's see. You were still in college.
I guess it must have been
seven years. It really isn't much accumulation for that
long a period.
(pause as they each
gather items and place them in two large suitcases
brought for the purpose) Look here, it's her writing.
ANN: Let's see. (reading)
Here I am. Living Manor . . ..
RHODA: (the lights turn to Rhoda Halsey at
stage right) . . . Living
Manor is where I live. The final repository
of the aged and infirm and I
am both of those by God. Life is here. Living is here.
Life stopped
here. Dying is . . . next door this week, across the hall
last week. Or
maybe someone from the long lost world outside these doors
may come
again to call. Maybe tomorrow. I
never know. Maybe I don't always
remember if they're coming or whether they came.
Sometimes when they come they bear offerings
-- little nice things like
candy and wool sweaters. And after they go I regard the
gifts. I eat the
candy greedily. I fold the new sweater and stuff it into
the drawer. Or
if my arm is having a hurting day I ask the one who
comes in with my
dinner tray to please do it for me. Sometimes she will.
Only two hours
until dinner. I take another candy but I put it down again
and think
about how nice it was to see them again.
MARY: I wish I could have come more often.
There were always so many
things to do. It was hard to get away. I came as much as I
could.
ANN: I know, Mom. You did the best you
could. You did more than anyone
else.
RHODA: At Christmas and on my birthday, they
bring presents.
MARY: On Mother's Day, too. We tried to make
it nice for her.
RHODA: Sometimes when my arm is okay I wheel
myself down the long hall
and peer into each room as I go. Very
slowly. In each room there is a
woman sitting in a chair or lying on a bed. Or two women. Not talking,
The television is always on but they never
seem to be watching. The
aides turn them on so they can follow the soap operas as
they go from
room to room. Sometimes I see a younger, temporary person
in for
rehabilitation. They watch. Or read. But most don't. I used to.
MARY: After she broke her hip, she needed
more care than we could give.
We thought at first she would be home in a
few weeks. But then she had
that heart attack and her arthritis became so bad that
she couldn't walk
. . . I was at work all day. I took her out
every week, at first. Then,
when Bill got sick, I couldn't do it alone. Sometimes I
tried. It just
got too hard. She never complained, just seemed glad to
see us when we
came.
RHODA: I used to play bridge. But there's no
one here to play with. I
don't like Bingo. I don't like to cut out paper hats. I
don't like to
make cardboard Easter bunnies. Maybe it's okay for the
ones who can't
concentrate, but it drives me up a wall. Funny
expression. Wish I could
climb a wall.
I like it a little better when Mister Mac
comes in and plays songs I
used to know. Some sing along, some hum. I think of the
parties we used
to have. Frank loved those old songs. He couldn't sing
but he sang real
loud. Usually they play hymns. I didn’t
mind that at first, but we've
sung "The Old Rugged Cross" and "Onward
Christian Soldiers" ten thousand
times.
ANN: Didn't Uncle Bill bring her a tape
recorder with some songs on it?
MARY: Well, actually, he said he would, but
I don't think he got to it.
It was around the time he was involved with
that bankruptcy scare.
RHODA: They put me here in Living Manor to
protect me. It would do me
good, they said. "Living Manor" indeed! What
manner of living is this?
My youngest daughter, Mary, lives here in
this town. She comes as much
as she can. She's busy. And little Ann . . . Little Ann
is big Ann now.
Little Ann and Frank are both gone.
Some of us are aware -- the poor ones are
not. Alzheimer's. That's what
I call them. The poor
ones. Some are rich, were rich, anyway, have rich
families. Here they are the poorest of the poor. Alzheimer's
kills the
mind.
Being here kills the mind. It robs mental
capacities. They tell the same
things over and over. And every day as long as they're here
they want to
go home. We all want to go home. Some of us know all
the time that there
is no more home. Some of us only know it some of the
time. Some never
know. The lucky poor.
When they visit, I try to act in the same
old way, but I don't think I
succeed. They try to look cheerful and interested but they
don't
succeed. I try to think of interesting things to say but
that distracted
look they get means they aren't really here even when
they are sitting
in my room. They don't hear. They don't listen to an
old woman anymore.
The wall of age and disfigurement has risen
between us. They're on the
other side. They no longer listen.
Even so, I like it when they come. They put
a small dent in the grinding
monotony. I wish I felt I could make it pleasant for them so
that they’d
want to come back. But I don't know how to do that here
in this place of
sickness and dying. If I sound too grateful or try to get
them to delay
their departure, I’ll make them
feel guilty for not coming more
frequently. It’s hard for them. It would have been hard for me. This is
not a pleasant place to visit despite the
"cheerful" paintings on the
walls and candelabra in the dining room.
The poor ones smell. I'm afraid I smell,
too. Someone took my perfume
long ago. How could they listen to an old woman's
prattle?
ANN: Did we listen? Mom, she's right. She
knew. I didn't always listen.
I was afraid she knew, but I didn't know
what to do.
MARY: It was hard. She did repeat, you know.
I know she didn't mean to
do it. I didn't want to embarrass her by saying
anything.
RHODA: About talking. The aides try. Some
try more than others. They
try to be cheerful. They try to get their work done in
time. Ten to
bathe before breakfast. The bathing isn't always thorough.
Sometimes the
water is cold. I try to imagine I am a baby being bathed
by my mother,
but the touch is hard even when the tone of voice says
she's trying to
be what I need as much as I'm trying to be what she
needs to get
finished in time. It's hard work. I know that. It's hard to
do me. How
much harder to bathe a poor screaming, struggling poor
one. It's been
diapers for quite a while now. They come in the night to see
if I need
to be changed.
ANN: I didn't know.
MARY: Neither did I.
I guess she didn't want to tell us. I guess she
wanted us to think of her the way she was.
ANN: When I was a child, grandma seemed like
a glamorous person, always
dressed in those beautifully tailored suits she used to wear
and always
coming from or going to an important meeting or to her
classes. Teachers
are pretty important people to children.
MARY: When Uncle Bill and I were very
little, Mother was always at home
in the daytime but she was going to school at night so
I remember her
already sitting at her desk in the morning when we left for
school. She
didn't start teaching until we were in middle school.
ANN: And she carried on until I was in high
school. I remember the big
retirement party they gave her.
MARY: Yes, she was admired. One of her
former students called a few
years ago and wanted to visit. I don't know what happened.
Mother didn’t
seem to want to talk about it.
RHODA: I can imagine the training the staff
must receive. You can tell
what it was from they way they act. They talk down. Some
try very hard
not to. I imagine the instructor saying, "Residents
deserve to be
treated with respect. This, after all, is their home, and
you must do
your utmost at all times to remember that and to make
them comfortable
in this home." They act like that's what they were
told in class. They
do try. It comes out as baby talk. They talk loudly as
if they think you
can't hear. What they are doing is trying to reach across
the chasm that
separates us, but there is no bridge.
MARY: She once said to me that she really
didn't like a 20-year old
calling her Rhoda. She was called Ms. Halsey by her
students.
RHODA: In the beginning I tried to complain,
to explain in as
dignified manner as possible about certain problems, about
privacy,
about wanting to watch certain programs on TV, about
getting prompt help
in a bathroom emergency. Once I raised my voice. I
shouted.
Things changed after that. I had acquired
the reputation of being
"combative."
But I had asked repeatedly for help. They were busy. "As
soon as I can, Rhoda. I didn't forget you dear," as
she breezed by. It
was after I fell and hurt my hip. The tape on my bandage
was binding
painfully.
ELLA: . . . to the bathroom . . .
MARY: Mother wasn't one to raise her voice.
A few years ago there was
a meeting. They called it a "care plan"
meeting. The social worker said
something I didn't understand. She used that word. I said it
was
impossible, that that was not like my mother. My mother would
not
complain without good reason and she certainly wasn't
combative! The
head nurse said that families would be surprised at the
"acting out"
that goes on, that they see a different person. Even the
worst of them
will sometimes act nice in front of family. I said that
if she had had
the supervision she needed she would not have fallen.
They said she had
a right to fall.
ANN: A right to fall?
MARY (musing): Maybe she tried to tell me .
. . I don't know. I guess
she knew that. I never had Mother's gumption. I guess I
just thought
they knew what they were doing. They always said she was
doing fine . .
. except when there
was some medical problem. (Sobbing) They meant she
had a right not to be placed in restraint.
I see now what I didn't understand then, or
couldn't let myself believe.
It's Catch-22. The patient has a right, but
the staff is insufficient.
RHODA: What's the worst thing about it? Is
it the lack of privacy? At
any moment of day or night someone might come in. What
makes it most
like a jail? I think it's the roommate. Almost any roommate. (Aside from
Lillian, of course.)
It's the total isolation. It's having no one
anymore, no one but these
words on paper. No one to talk to.
About talking. I tried when I first came, but it's a giant pyramid,
a
ladder of castes. You can never talk across castes. The
poor ones below
can't hear. The aides just above are rushed, overworked,
and they are
not my peers. Their interests are in another type of
existence. When I
was me, they were my students. Now the student washes my
privates and
helps me into my chair.
I am not a teacher to her. I am a duty to
perform. Part of that duty is
to act cheerful and positive. They all do their best
within their
varying abilities, but life is hard for them. Surely they
must sometimes
envy me able to sit all day and be done to instead of
doing.
Martha has children at home who need her
care. Louise has two jobs. How
wonderful they are to try to treat us as human when their own
lives
leave so little room for joy and hope.
We operate in the same space in different
worlds not touching, not
daring to touch for the wounds that would open. We speak
and cooperate
to get the job done, but we live apart.
I only wish I could close the door against
the roommate. I've had
dozens, all different. The best ones were too ill to do
more than lie on
their bed. If they were really sick, the aides came in
often and I got
better care. But they never lasted long. It wasn't that I
disliked them
as people. Some, maybe, but not most.
It was just that they were always
there and I could always feel their wishes and dislikes.
And I felt so
exposed to them. Except of course for the time with Lillian
. . .
MARY: I really didn't know. The nurses
seemed so friendly and
interested. I didn't have a lot to do with many of the various
roommates. I tried to be friendly and include them in our
conversation.
If I brought food, I always brought some for
both. And the staff seemed
so helpful and caring.
ANN: While you were around.
RHODA: The meals? Nutritious
boredom. The others, the poor ones, the
dribblers, the ones with the bibs that get fed like babies,
they get
everything cut up fine and liquidy.
Luckily I still get the food to my
own mouth with my own hands with my own knife and fork.
Sometimes poor
ones leave the dining room hungry because no one is able
to take the
time to help them.
The silverware here is crude. That’s a laugh.
It’s not silver. I
remember how Frank and I chose our flatware pattern after
much
discussion and deliberation. We used for dinner parties.
But count your blessings. The poor ones sit
in wheelchairs all day long.
The poorest of the poor are strapped in and
call all day but who comes
and whether they come depends on factors beyond their
calling. One of my
roommates sat in urine for hours because she didn't know how
to call for
help.
Some of the other poor ones get wheeled into
the "recreation" room and
sit all day before a TV set they don't see and don't
understand. I used
to watch sometimes but not anymore. Everything in the
tube is so remote
it has become meaningless. A world to which we
residents of Living Manor
no longer belong, no longer understand.
Sam Holden died this morning. Sam never
talked to the poor ones. He
didn't even talk to me.
Sometimes he'd yell at the aides as if he
were the boss and they were
workers under him. I heard the aides say he had been rich
and important
until they moved him in here. I asked about him but it's a
funny thing.
It's not funny. It's a big part of the
desolation of being a resident
here, a patient, a thing to be dressed and repositioned
and check your
vitals, deary, says a cheery
voice in the morning. They talk the same
way to everyone. Everyone is deary
or honey.
Or suddenly someone you never saw before,
someone a half century -- or
more -- younger, is calling you by your first name.
That's part of new
ways, I guess. Maybe it isn't meant to be disrespectful.
It's all first
names. "Hello, Rhoda, I'm Joan."
But one day the big one came in, the one
with skinny heels and jewelry
and a spotless suit, the one who shook hands but you
knew she'd wash
hers first chance she got afterward. The
big boss. They don't call her
Mary. She doesn't say "Hello, Rhoda,
I'm Mary." She just says, "Hello
Rhoda, how are you today? Is everything all
right? You're looking very
nice today." Then she's off to the next one. I don't
think she can tell
the difference. Maybe she doesn't want to tell the
difference. Maybe
there is no difference to her. That's what I wanted to
say. Even if
you're not a poor, screaming, clothes-removing one, even if
you know
where you are and who you are, at least who you were, you
can't hold a
conversation. They breeze through, the big ones with the skinny
heels.
Like a person running for public office. Big
smile, but you know you're
nothing. If you talk, they get glaze over. You learn to say,
"Fine,
thank you." You learn to play the role of a poor one
even if really,
secretly, you're not. Not yet.
I think Sam was afraid of sinking to our
depths. I think he preferred to
die. Usually you don't see these things, but I caught a
glimpse as they
wheeled him out on a stretcher all covered. Two hours later,
Joe moved
into Sam's room. It was as if there had never been a Sam.
I had also
seen him the day he came. Three sons in
expensive business suits. "So
long, dad." I never saw them again.
But getting back to how you can't talk with
them. Getting back to the
pyramid. The big one is at the top and under her are the
ones in the
offices and the RNs. Under that come people with special
jobs like
housekeeping and kitchen. Then the nurse’s
aides who do all the tending,
the feeding and bathing and changing and bringing water
and lifting
people twice their size into the chair, and wheeling us to
activity or
to the dining room. Some of us residents like me who
don't give them any
trouble come next. At the bottom are the poor ones.
ELLA: (who had been quiet up to now begins
to sing to the tune of "I
Remember You")
I remember Sam. he liked green eggs and ham oh yes he
did, that pig, that pigetty, pigetty pig. I loved him so. (she
stops
abruptly and drops her head to her chest as if sleeping)
RHODA: At first I kept track of days. I
thought I would be leaving.
You can't believe that this is it. That
takes a long time to dawn. It's
when I go home. Then, later, it's if I go home. Then one
day . . . .
ANN: I thought grandma was a great reader.
Didn't she have any books?
Wouldn't that have helped?
MARY: She was. At first she did read. Uncle
Bill used to send books
from
a box. She asked me to take them away. She couldn't
read anymore.
Cataracts. She had tried but it had got harder and harder and
she just
wasn't up to it anymore. There was no point in having them
take up
space. For a while she wrote letters.
ANN: What about tape recordings? Couldn't
she have listened to books?
MARY: Uncle Bill sent Shakespeare and some
music tapes. But her
roommate at that time was a TV addict and the tape recorder
couldn't
compete.
RHODA: They feel like they're doing a really
good thing for us when
they bring dogs and cats in for us to stroke. What would
be better is if
they'd leave the animals here so we could really get
friendly. I
remember my sweet cat, Bertha. Bertha would sleep next to me
on the
chaise in the patio where we would be surrounded by plants
and the
sounds of birds. Neither of us moved for the longest time.
Peace.
Here it's not peace. There is always sound.
Poor ones wailing down the
hall, muffled TVs, the clattering of medication trays, or
laughter late
at night from the nurse's station. The only sound you
seldom here is
that of residents talking to one another.
ANN: I remember Bertha. We gave her away.
MARY: To the ASPA.
ANN: Oh Mom!
MARY: She lost control. The house began to
smell. There was nothing
else to do.
ANN: Did you tell her?
MARY: We said Bertha got sick.
RHODA: Can't wait for lunch. Every day I eat
food I never ate in life.
I'm getting smaller. "Rhoda, we got to
put some fat on you. You're
getting thin as a bone."
Give me something that tastes good and I’ll eat it.
ANN: Grandma was comical, told funny
stories. I didn't realize until
later that she had made them up.
MARY: Remember that book she wrote "to
cheer herself up," she said,
after grandpa died? Nursery schools are still buying it. A
check came
last week.
ANN: Candy Dandy, Dandy Annie and the
Buttressed and Benighted Blue
Beastie! My four-year-olds used to adore it.
Oh, Mom, (weeping) Grandma
was my idol. She was special.
MARY: She loved you.
ANN: Then why didn't I come to see her? Why
didn't I know what was
happening to her?
MARY: Darling, you were away. You were busy.
You lived in another
city. You were having trouble with your relationship with
Harry. We
don't always realize what's important at the time it
happens. I didn't.
RHODA: Before, when I was me, I'd watch TV
for occasional distraction.
I thought the talk shows were interesting
sometimes, but it was PBS I
really liked.
MARY: One year she spent a lot of time out
of her room. The next year
she had Lillian.
ANN: I remember Lillian. She had also been a
teacher. What happened?
You never told me. I once asked grandma and
she started to cry so I
didn't pursue it.
MARY: It's just as well you didn't.
ANN: What happened?
MARY: They were talking one night from their
beds. Lillian suddenly
stopped. She had died in the middle their conversation.
ANN: Oh my God! Did grandma know?
MARY: Not at first. I think she must have
gone on talking for a while
and then she thought Lillian had gotten annoyed with her
and that was
why she stopped talking. It may have been hours before
someone came in
with breakfast. Apparently Mother was quite upset. They
gave her some
sort of tranquilizer and called me to come in. I don't
know what really
happened. All I know is what they told me. I never discussed
it with
Uncle Bill or anyone. It was just too terrible. Maybe that was what
Mother never got over. There was a change in
her. From their dates I'd
say these notes were written after Lillian.
ANN: Tragic, Mom. Oh, Mom, tragic.
MARY: Yes. Is that all she wrote?
ELLA: When you have to go the bathroom . . .
.
ANN: There's just a little more.
RHODA: They didn't come again today. I
remember. Out there are many
distractions, many calls on time, much to do and much to think
of. Not
like here. What is today? One day blends into the next.
Dates mean
nothing anymore. There's nothing to do, no one to care for.
Some of the
women clutch dolls. I understand that. I would like to
have one but I
don't dare ask. They wouldn't understand. My reputation
around here is
bad enough. They get back at you when you need to go to
the bathroom.
Jenny cried when Miriam stole her doll. They
didn't understand that,
either. One did. But she's gone.
AIDE: (entering suddenly) I hate to rush
you, but we really need this
room.
ANN: It's okay. We're finished. Aren't we,
Mom?
MARY: Yes. We're all though here. They can
have the room. Goodbye,
Mrs. Williams.
ANN: Goodbye, Mrs. Williams. (Mary and Ann
leave carrying the
suitcases)
ELLA: (the spotlight turns to Ella who
speaks almost inaudibly as the
door closes behind Ann and Mary) Don't go. Don't leave me
here. (the
lights dim and the curtain falls).
The end.
Copyright © 1995 Dorothy Tennov
All Rights Reserved
REGARDING "RHODA HALSEY AT HOME"
"Rhoda Halsey at Home" was written
to stimulate thought and discussion.
Please read it. Use it in classes,
perform it for relevant audiences,
and, above all, contemplate the social, political, and
economic issues
it raises through its portrayal of experience of a
mentally and socially
competent person in a long time medical facility. I read the
first draft
at the bedside of a hospitalized patient. Rhoda spoke
for the world his
illness had forced him to inhabit.
"Rhoda Halsey at Home" was
inspired by an article in Time Magazine in
which the voice of a nursing home resident very like Rhoda
in many ways
—- physically disabled, alone in her mental
competence —- was
transmitted through her son. The play, directed by Ferdi Perrone of the
in 1995 for audiences of nursing students, hospital and
nursing home
personnel, and members of the community. The production was
cited as an
"outstanding
new work" at the Delaware Theater Association’s
53rd annual
State Play Festival. Jean Savoy, who played Rhoda, was cited for her
"outstanding
performance in a featured role."
The implications are hard to take. It is
more comfortable to ignore them
until the ability to speak we may once have had is gone .
The experience
of the mentally incapable, the "poor ones,"
as Rhoda called them, those
who seem to exist only from moment to moment and whose
complaints were
inchoate, may consist only as scattered images of the larger
context of
their lives. It doesn’t mean
they do not feel the coolness of the bath
water or the coldness of the touch.
Dorothy Tennov 990912