Hurt Toys

When I was a kid, our local discount store, Venture (akin to K-Mart), had a section in the back of the store called "Hurt Toys". It was just a few shelves of slightly damaged toys, all marked at a discount. I would often go back there to look at what unfortunate toys had found their way to those shelves. While I could always walk away from broken trucks or board games that were missing pieces, anything with a face was hard for me to resist. Once I bought a stuffed rabbit with one ear.

The other day, after relating this story and talking about my affinity with strays, misfits, and all things broken and abandoned, my counselor asked me (sometimes, you just gotta pay someone to listen to you and ask the hard questions) "Are you a hurt toy?"

Yeah, I think I am. I don't know why I think that, but I always have. In some ways, I think we all are like hurt toys -- we all have those "broken" bits, some of which are perhaps visible to others, some we keep hidden. Maybe part of growing up is learning to love those broken bits in ourselves.

Don't even get me started on "The Velveteen Rabbit".

SO Yesterday

I've been spending a lot of time in nursing homes during these past 6 or 7 months. My mom, who is only 68, is unfortunately old before her time. Being hard of hearing, legally blind and diabetic along with having poor balance and trouble walking, along with a host of other physical and mental challenges, landed her in an assisted living residence about 7 years ago, where she is expected to be somewhat independent. Lately, frequent falls have been sending her to the hospital, and then on to "skilled nursing", which takes place in nursing homes.

Look online for "photos of nursing homes", and you'll likely find pictures of smiling, well-groomed seniors, interacting with friendly staff members, or taking part in lively group activities. "See?", these photos seem to say, "Being in a nursing home can be FUN!". ( A side note: I am reminded of when I was in grade school -- a Catholic school -- and they'd have "Vocation Day", when nuns and priest would talk to us about what it was like to give your life to God. The nuns showed us slides of young-nuns-in-training, all in curlers and t-shirts and shorts, piled into a VW Bug convertible, making goofy faces and the peace sign with their fingers. It looked like one big slumber party to my fourth grade brain. Sign me up!!)

But back to nursing homes. Look up "nursing homes" online or in your phone book (if you still have/use one of those relics) and you'll find lots & lots of them. Chances are really good that the city or town you live in is full of building after building dedicated to caring for old people in their final days. But many of the people aren't really all that old. And many of them are nowhere near their "final days". There's simply no place else to put them.

Life moves fast, especially in our culture. We are driven by speed. Things cannot go fast enough for us. We are always grasping, reaching for the next, new, shiny fast thing, and ready to just discard what came before. We value youth above all else. If you move too slowly, if you can't keep up, you get pushed aside.

I would love to see a day when all the people in nursing homes were brought outside into the streets -- on a beautiful, warm day -- and the streets and sidewalks would be full of old people in wheelchairs, just sitting, claiming their rightful place in this world.