I never imagined my old age would smell of disinfectant and lukewarm soup.
I pictured myself at seventy with red lips, dancing the waltz on Sundays in Hyde Park, flirting with the old boys from the club, sipping tea with scones while chatting about politics or football.
But no.
Reality landed me in a care home called “Horizons of Life”sounds poetic, but it has more locked doors than a prison.
My son brought me here on a Tuesday, right after lunch.
“Mum, youll be better off here,” he said, with that sheepish voice he uses when hes about to do something terrible. “Youll have company, medical care, activities”
“Oh, brilliant,” I said. “While youre at it, leave me your credit card, and Ill book myself a recreational cruise.”
He didnt answer. He gave me a quick kissthe kind you give when you want to leave before the guilt sets inand off he went.
I stared at the white ceiling, breathing in that bleach smell that clings to your skin, thinking if this was “whats best for me,” Id rather have the worst.
The first few days were a nightmare. I couldnt sleepone of my roommates, Margaret, snores like a tractor, and the other, Doris, hides everyones socks “to see if theyll look,” as if its some psychological experiment.
But I adjusted. People underestimate the elderly. They dont know how adaptable we are when theres no other choice.
I do chair yoga (though I look like a crumpled paper doll), play bingo three times a week, and Ive befriended a lovely old chap named Arthur, who proposes to me daily.
“Love, you and I would make a fine pair,” he says, holding a plastic daisy.
“Sure, Arthur, but first remember my name,” I always reply.
He laughs. I laugh too. Truth be told, Im having a better time than I expected.
Then, one Sunday, my son turned up unannounced. He wore that suspicious grin Ive known since he was fivethe “Mum, I need something” smile.
“Muuuuum!” he drawled, like he used to when begging for a toy.
“What have you broken now?” I asked, arms crossed.
“Nothing! Its just Im getting married.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really? What a surprise! I didnt know anyone was that brave.”
He laughed nervously. I didnt.
“Well, Mum, weddings are expensive thought you might chip in?”
“Chip in? You moved me out because you said there wasnt room! Now you want me to pay for your fancy do?”
He gave me the sad puppy eyes. I gave him the look of a mother whos seen too many puppies and knows they always chew the wrong shoe.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You dump me here, surrounded by old folks fighting over the telly remote, and now you want my money for canapés at your wedding?”
“Its not canapés, Mum, its a proper venue.”
“Proper my foot. Why not marry here? Ill lend you my bingo pals as bridesmaids, and well make Arthur the vicar. He even knows how to say I do!”
He turned red as a ripe tomato.
“Mum, Im serious.”
“So am I,” I said. “If you want a party, make it potluckeveryone brings their own sandwiches, and were all happy.”
He grabbed his head.
“I cant believe you wont help.”
“Oh, Ive helped plenty, love. I gave you life, changed your nappies, held you when your first girlfriend broke your heart, and even co-signed your car loan. My mother investor contract expired.”
He went quiet. The nurse passing by winked at me. I reckon every mum in the home wouldve cheered.
In the end, I didnt give him money. But I gave him something betteradvice worth more than a cheque.
“Listen, son. To marry, you need three things: love, patience, and the will to share your life. The restthe venue, the cake, the flowersyou can pay off in instalments. And I wont be covering those.”
He sighed, kissed my forehead, and slunk off.
I watched him from the dining room window, smiling. Because I realised I still have something to givenot money, but wisdom.
That night, Arthur proposed again.
“What do you say, love? Shall we tie the knot and have the reception in the dining hall?”
“Only if you promise not to snore on our wedding night,” I said.
We both laughed.
And as the care home quietened down, with its scent of soup and nostalgia, I thought maybe Im not so bad off here. Im still useful, still teaching, still alive.
And when my sons wedding day comesif Im invitedIll wear my red dress, polish my walking stick to a shine, and toast with my bingo pals.
Because even if he left me here, Ive still got something he doesntexperience and a sense of humour.
