Towards the end of March 2020, just after we raised enough money for an industrial-grade disinfectant fogger for the Mansion (and for Bishop Maginn), the Mansion went into quarantine and stayed there until last week.

It was a hard year for everyone and especially challenging for vulnerable people on the edge of life, dependent on others for their most basic care and survival.

According to the government, Covid-19 had claimed the lives of 100,000 long-term care residents and staff as of November 24, 2020. The disease our President claimed was not nearly as bad as the flu was devastating one nursing home and assisted care facility after another.

It was an absolute nightmare.

I was told I couldn’t go inside any longer and that the residents would have to be isolated from one another. The resident’s families couldn’t visit; they could no longer go outside or on outings.

They had to spend hours and hours alone in their rooms for days at a time.

Therapy dogs were no longer permitted, with or without their handlers.

The staff and management were almost instantly swamped and terrified by the horrific stories of elder care facilities.

The steady stream of communications I was used to stopping almost immediately. I understood. Things were bad, terrible.

Life turned upside for the residents, and for me, a volunteer used to visiting frequently. I knew all the residents, laughed and joked with them, knew their needs and wants, got shoes, bras, soap, deodorant, crafts, and arts, got them on boat rides.

I knew the aides. Also, we knew one another and worked together.

Much of that stopped.

The Mansion staff was almost instantly on a kind of emergency/war footing.

Everything inside changed – where people sat, ate, how they interacted and communicated, how every surface needed to be scrubbed several times a day. Masks had to be worn, staffers and residents tasted; nothing was permitted into the building that couldn’t be tested.

Week after week, the aides grew weary, worked long hours, felt helpless. The residents got depressed, sluggish, some lost focus, and cognitive sharpness.

The staff exhausted itself, and many worked round the clock to keep the residents safe. I got frantic messages from the residents wondering where I was, why I didn’t come any longer.

I couldn’t see it, but I heard about it and asked about it.

We could still help – catered meals for a chance of a place, ice cream sundaes, books, music, light shows, Christmas lights all kinds of arts and crafts, and games and music.

Today, I was eager to see what had changed. Almost everything had changed.

I saw trauma victims, weary and battered but very committed people. Some people looked dazed, some pleading.

The aides tell me we in the Army of Good made a difference, but I could sense from their fatigue and worry that the pandemic had taken an enormous toll on everyone, aides and residents and families. There is nothing worse for a caretaker than to be helpless in the face of suffering.

The fates rewarded their hard work. Some people got sick; a few people got the virus early this year,  others died of natural causes. A year is a long time in the Mansion. But the staff should be proud of themselves; They held off the demons.

Everyone is vaccinated now; people are beginning to breathe and settle.

I knew the staff was anxious about the emotional and cognitive tolls the residents’ isolation was taking on them; some talked to me about it.

The residents ate alone for months, spent most of the day alone, and the games and activities had to be radically reduced or canceled. There was no choice.

Only a few masked and distanced people could go anywhere together, be with each other at any time.

Meditation class today

This week I was allowed back in with Zinnia, and I was much touched by the joy and excitement our visit caused.  I was tested, sprayed, and had my temperature taken.

The aides warned me that this year was a serious setback for some residents; they became depressed, sluggish, and experienced dementia. Some died. They ached to see their families, their sons, daughters, and grandchildren. It felt, said one, as if their whole lives had been taken away.

Today, I felt the impact of that year.

I saw it in the aides’ worn faces, in the confusion and anxiety of the residents. I had five residents at my story reading Tuesday – I used to have 15 and five today for my meditation class.

That’s how it needs to be.

Zinnia brought a lot of smiles. Some things felt normal.  Peggy needs sports bras. Claudia wants some sneakers. Nancy wanted cigarettes (sorry, can’t do), Bill got his belt, but needs shoes.

Those who could come – only a few were permitted –  were eager and grateful for my meditation lesson. After breathing and talking, we sat in silence for 10 minutes, interrupted only by aides coming into offer medicine.

Madeline, the most spirited and talkative of the residents I knew, sat silently; I’m not sure she remembered me at all. She loved the puppy Zinnia but didn’t seem to notice her today.

“How are you?” I said. “Did you come to bring me ice cream?” she asked.

We all used to sit in a tight circle in meditation class, holding hands and talking softly to one another, we were all distanced today, it will take some getting used to.

I gave everyone some meditation necklaces; they seemed to love them.

Most of the residents remembered Zinnia and me, and we laughed and talked and told stories about 2021. Some asked for Maria, who they love.

At the end of the session, all of the residents were asleep.

At the end of the meditation, almost everyone but one had drifted into a soft kind of sleep, just what I like to see. Frightened people don’t fall asleep. The one thought I had come to bring food or medicine.

I felt a good measure of guilt. I did what I could during that hard year; we did what we could; I wish I could have done more. It’s a mistake to look back. Guilt is pointless.

There is a lot I can do now.

I’m back reading once a week, meditating once a week. Maria has been asked to resume her art classes, we’re visiting the Mansion together next Tuesday.

Zinnia will visit the residents who want to see her. Almost all of them do.

It’s a different place in many ways. I think it will take some time to get back to normal.

It feels different; it looks different. To get in, The dining room has been moved into the big room, and the residents all eat distanced from one another.

I can see, hear and sense the pain and fear and the meaning of losing a year.

One of the residents told me, “losing a year for us feels like a lifetime.”

I’m thinking of things I can do to help break the spell – meals, outings, boat rides, things to lift their spirits, bring them back to life, and pull their hearts and souls out of this awful year.

There are a number of new people to meet, and some of my friends are gone. I’ll find out more over the next few days and weeks.

My heart goes out to the aides. “It was awful watching them deteriorate week after week,” she said, “we couldn’t do anything about it. It was awful.”

I’m happy to be back. A lot of my own soul lives in that place. I have people to know, trust to earn. Right now, many of them are wary of the world.

The Mansion residents paid a heavy price for being old.

I hope I never again hear anyone say that the virus was a hoax and there is no need for vaccines.

There is also hope. The days are longer and warmer, and the residents can sit on the porch and take walks again. They are getting ready to plan the garden with the strong summer tools we bought them.

I hope to raise some money for them to go on outings again (Mansion Fund via Paypal, [email protected], via Venmo, [email protected], by check, Mansion Fund, PO. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816).

I’m bringing food gift cards to some of the aides this weekend. I’m going to think about how we can lift some spirits.  Thanks for hanging in there with me, with them, with humanity in a cold world.