I found this out today in a short conversation I had with an elderly lady in the elevator. She asked me to please press the button for the tenth floor, so I did, and when I pressed the button marked "Hospice" for my destination, she said, "Oh, you're going to the sad floor."
"The sad floor?" I asked.
"It's very quiet and sad there... different from all the other floors."
"I suppose it is."
"That's the way it should be."
And it struck me that she was right. The Windermere Care Centre is quite a happy place - all hustle and bustle during the day and the nursing staff and attendants are always quite cheerful, except (of course) for the ninth floor. I can imagine how awkward it must be for people to see family members or friends visiting someone on the sad floor. It's palliative care - the end for people who are patients there. It's the portal through which one must travel, alone, to the Light and all we can do is try to make them feel less alone. Everyone who works there already knows that; we who visit loved ones there come to that understanding in time.
"That's the way it should be." Quiet. Sad. Peaceful. Dignified.
The irony of the whole thing is that at around nine-ish last night, just when my sisters and I were contemplating our depature, in walks mama, Tita Estrell, Tito Chito, Tito Dan, and Jeff. What a great surprise and burst of energy for my grandmother!
They noticed her weight loss immediately. She's been hungry, but can't seem to bring herself to swallow anything - it must hurt to swallow.
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