Edward J. Nichols Memorial Award in Writing (Creative Nonfiction)
Golden Years
by Jay Johnson
An old man deteriorates out of sight from the world. Sitting
in a stained recliner chair that overlooks the fenced-off property of the
retirement home, he sees a typical Pennsylvania field, a fall in the land,
a few trees. He spends most of the day looking out this window. If you
listen closely, you can hear him cursing the land beneath his breath. Such
anger manifests itself in the vicious way he scratches at his arms, along
which run clear bandages that conceal the injuries of age, the skin that
tears too easily. Sometimes he holds his hands up between himself and the
window and they shake so badly that he says he doesn’t recognize them.
People in white jackets or colorful scrub tops are there to tell him that age
comes too quickly, and he looks for the voices, startled, unaware that he
was never alone.
He hates the voices because they tell him to do things he doesn’t
want to do.
“Come on, Les, let’s walk you to the bathroom.”
“Walk yourself to the bathroom,” he replies, his eyes wild.
“But you’re wet, Les. You need to be changed.”
Even the gentlest touch from these faceless people prompts him
into action, showing that age has not diminished his reflexes in striking
out at them. People in white jackets or colorful scrub tops have gotten
hurt in this room – kicked in their stomachs, grabbed at their throats,
thrown to the floor. Now it takes more than three of them to pin him
into submission while he helplessly kicks and spits, while the nurse inserts
t he long needle into his quivering arm. The cussing will stop soon. The
body lulls until it must be lifted into bed. Raised into the air, the real
care begins: his new flannels stripped, an old hospital gown applied.
Bedside cleansing can commence. He wants to fight back, desperate in his
drugged limbs that shake idly. But he is already dreaming.
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