Inanursinghome,theofficialaimoftheinstitutionis
caring,buttheideaofcaringthathadevolveddidn’tbear
any meaningful resemblance to what Alice would call
living.Shewashardlyaloneinfeelingthisway.Ionce
metaneighty-nine-year-oldwomanwhohad,ofherown
volition, checked herself into a Boston nursing home.
Usually,it’sthechildrenwhopushforachange,butin
thiscaseshewastheonewhodid. Shehadcongestive
heartfailure,disablingarthritis,andafteraseriesoffalls
she felt she had little choice but to leave her
condominiuminDelrayBeach,Florida.“Ifelltwicein
oneweek,andItoldmydaughterIdon’tbelongathome
anymore,” she said.
She pickedthefacility herself.It had excellentratings
and nicestaff, andher daughterlived nearby.She had
movedinthemonthbeforeImether.Shetoldmeshe
was gladto be in a safe place—if there’s anything a
decentnursinghomeisbuiltfor,itissafety.Butshewas
wretchedly unhappy.
Thetroublewasthatsheexpectedmorefromlifethan
safety.“IknowIcan’tdowhatIusedto,”shesaid,“but
this feels like a hospital, not a home.”
Itisanear-universalreality.Nursinghomeprioritiesare
matterslikeavoidingbedsoresandmaintainingresidents’
weight—importantmedicalgoals,tobesure,buttheyare
means,notends.Thewomanhadleftanairyapartment
shefurnishedherselfforasmallbeigehospital-likeroom
with a stranger for a roommate. Her belongings were
strippeddowntowhatshecouldfitintotheonecupboard
and shelf they gaveher. Basic matters, likewhen she
wenttobed,wokeup,dressed,andate,weresubjectto