Nursing home blues

A warm family photo of 22 people, all dressed in white clothes, hangs on the wall of a dark one-room apartment. In the picture are my parents-in-law, their five children, five in-laws, and ten grandchildren. That was the last photo we ever took together. There are no family pictures with great-grandchildren.

My father-in-law loved taking family photos every year. To make sure everyone came together, he would even send us plane tickets from New York. As soon as we arrived in LA, the kids would run to the backyard pool, happy to see their cousins again under the palm trees. My father-in-law, who loved to cook, busily carried the food he had prepared for his grandchildren, smiling with pride.

The cheerful house where my husband and his siblings grew up, full of love under the palm trees, is no longer there. After my father-in-law passed away, my mother-in-law sold the house and now lives alone in a small studio apartment. Her vision is getting worse, and the bright, joyful atmosphere of the old family home is now gone.

Many elderly people forget where they currently live and only remember places from the past. This leads them to get lost. My mother-in-law is the same. She can’t remember recent events, but she clearly remembers living near Namsan and the tragic bombings during the war, as if it just happened yesterday. She talks about it often.

A friend of mine lost her mother, and her elderly father needed someone to take care of him. None of her siblings wanted to take him in. So the youngest sibling finally said,

"Maybe it's best if Dad goes to a nursing home."

Since Korean-run facilities were full and had long waitlists, they placed him in a non-Korean nursing home. When I visited with my friend, I was surprised by how many elderly people were just waiting near the elevator. They weren’t trying to leave — they were simply hoping, “Maybe today, someone will come visit me.”

My friend’s father complained, “They don’t feed me,” even though we had just seen him eat. At first we thought he was confused. But on the way home, we realized he meant he couldn’t eat Korean food, which was what he considered a real meal. He couldn’t even enjoy smoking, something he liked. He couldn’t speak the language either. With all these frustrations, he often yelled. And though we didn’t see it, I could imagine the staff using various ways to control him. Before entering the nursing home, he had been in good health. But without Korean food, unable to adjust to a new life, he passed away not long after. 

When I saw my mother-in-law, I felt my friend’s story could soon be mine. She looked at me, the daughter-in-law she trusts the most, and asked,

“What will happen to me if I get sick?”

She was looking for a real answer. But all I could say was,

“Don’t worry, Mom. You’re still healthy.”

I avoided the responsibility. I couldn’t bring myself to say,

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’ll take care of you. Please spend the rest of your life peacefully.”