By Eileen Hodge, December 1, 2019 — Thinking back to my childhood, I remember living across the street from this gigantic wall that spanned from where I lived on 53rd street to 54th street with two smaller streets in between. Our challenge almost every day was to see how many of us could climb this wall which was made entirely of these large stones. At 10 years old, it seemed like the biggest thing I had ever seen. Little did my friends and I know that beyond that wall was a lovely nursing home. This home was run by a group of dedicated nuns called “The Little Sisters of the Poor.”
When I was about 14 years old, my closest friend and I decided to go visit the nursing home. Walking around this beautiful building, we saw so many elderly people who were either very sick or just there because they had nowhere else to live. The sisters asked us if we would like to volunteer our services and help where needed. Of course, we said yes because we got so drawn in by the helplessness and kindness of these wonderful old people. I think most of them had dementia and thought we were family members. We really didn’t mind because we felt like we really brought them some joy and happiness.
As we got more involved with these lovely people, it was very difficult to see them get sick and, on many occasions, pass away. That didn’t stop us from going there as much as we could and help in whatever way we were needed. Whenever I could, I came home from school, did my homework, and ran across the street to get ready to see my old friends. My greatest memories were when we were able to spend some of the holidays with them.
We always tried to stay as long as we could and take them to the solarium or outside on the grounds just to get them out of their rooms. We helped with their meals, which were mainly dinner, but some lunches on holidays or the weekends. Many meals were eaten with them. When we would take them to the music room, we loved to see them singing and dancing without a care in the world. Of course, there were some who either didn’t want to join or couldn’t. They were the ones we spent the most time with.
I want to think that we were a welcomed addition to their time spent there. Sometimes they didn’t want us to leave, but we always said we would be back soon. We became as attached to them as they were to us. When I think back, I remember how patient and gentle the sisters there were. That was their calling when they joined the convent. They really were a special group.
Years later, at my high school reunion, one of my friends who had gone with me to the nursing home told me that not only was the building still there and being managed by the Little Sisters of the Poor but that her 97-year-old mother was living there and being cared for just as we had cared for someone else’s relatives over 50 years ago. I always felt that if I was able to bring a smile and some happiness into one person’s life, that all those days of cleaning up after them and trying to understand them was worth it. I would never trade those days for anything.
