Between Here and There — Watching a Luau in a Nursing Home

The nursing home did everything it could to make the luau feel real.

Tiki torches and an Aloha banner lined the sidewalk leading to the courtyard behind the facility. Plastic leis hung around residents’ necks. Bright Hawaiian shirts were pulled over fragile shoulders. Straw mats covered the tables, and soft Hawaiian music played in the background.

There were pineapple slices, kalua pork, rice, macaroni salad, and sweet rolls, served as part of a regular diet, as a mechanical soft, or puréed.

A few residents shuffled slowly across the patio. Some wheeled themselves. Some were pushed. Some wandered, unsure where they were headed, but pleased to be outside.

I could see the effort. I could see that many residents were enjoying it. And still, it depressed me.

As the residents moved through the yard, I kept hearing the same thing.

“I wish I’d gone to Hawaii.”

They weren’t complaining.

They were stating a fact.

They weren’t at the facility because they wanted to be there. They were there because they could no longer live on their own. Their world had narrowed until it fit inside a building—hallways, a dining room, a shared television, a room with a bed.

I kept thinking about that sentence. “I wish I’d gone to Hawaii.”

About how many people reach the end of their lives with a list of places they meant to go but never did—not because they didn’t want to, but because life narrowed before they got the chance.

I sometimes walk back into nursing homes after weeks, months, or sometimes years away. Once, even a decade.

And I see the same people sitting in the same places.

I’m struck by how time keeps moving, even when nothing changes.

While they’ve been here, I’ve been on safari in Africa, watching a lion chase and take down a zebra. I’ve gone to Brazil and taken the train up to the statue of Christ overlooking Rio. I’ve walked the Great Wall of China. I’ve go

I’ve gone to baby showers and weddings. Family gatherings and lunches. Movies and concerts. Easter egg hunts and gingerbread house parties. My grandchildren’s Christmas programs. My grandkids’ birthday parties. I’ve visited relatives in other states. They’ve visited me. We’ve watched fireworks. We’ve gone hiking.

I’ve done thousands of ordinary things without thinking about them.

And in all that time, they’ve been here.

Tonight, I’m sitting in my own bed. Tomorrow night, I’ll be sleeping in Jamaica. I’ll pack a bag, leave my house, and move through the world without asking permission.

For those of us who can get in our cars and drive to Walmart for groceries—who have the health, money, and freedom to cross borders, or even change scenery—these aren’t small things.

They are enormous privileges, so familiar we forget they aren’t guaranteed.

Standing there, watching residents shuffle and wheel and wander through a carefully

constructed version of somewhere else, I thought about this:

Many people don’t get to leave.

And when they do, it’s for a doctor’s appointment, or on a stretcher.