A Violet and a Rose

At first we would bring Mammam home from the nursing home for Sunday afternoon visits but as she began to resist return, those visits became less frequent and eventually stopped. Visiting Mammam, surrounded as she was, with people in similar mental states, was always funny, exhausting and heartbreaking. I remember wanting to go and then, upon arriving, I would immediately want to leave. The halls smelled of living decay, excrement, cafeteria food and disinfectant.

Mammam’s first roommate was Violet. I forget her last name. Violet probably weighed no more than 85 pounds and spent most of her time sitting in silence propped up in a wheelchair/highchair hybrid. On a somewhat regular basis, Violet would brace herself, take a few deep breaths and scream a brief obscenity in a volume that was highly disproportional to her frame. The otherwise quiet hallway would suddenly be filled with an ear-piercing “BASTARD!” or a blaring “FUCK!” You could see that this was not a small task for Violet and after a while we became familiar with the build-up of energy she needed to let loose these bits of her limited vocabulary. She would sit up a bit, take one or two deep breaths and one of us would intervene, “Violet!” we’d warn sternly. Her exhale would deflate her posture and her body would slouch in a bit of resolve - she’d quietly murmur, “fuck.”