New life in old knitting needles - nursing homes

Whole Earth Review, Fall, 1991 by Anne Watts

IN 1985, HAVING RECENTLY RETURNED FROM LEBANON and needing to be in Central Landon to attend some professional courses, I decided to take up the position of Director of Nursing Services at an 80-bed nursing home. For various reasons, all of them inexcusable, the home had fallen into a state of disrepair and neglect. Elderly residents, too many of them for the meager, untrained staff to cope with, were existing in canditions that can only be described as Dickensian. Long gone were any traces of human dignity. Incontinence was ignored; the smell was awful. The more infirm and bedridden were covered in suppurating bedsores and ulcers.

Most ambulatory residents sat and stared vacantly at that great anaesthetizer, the blaring television, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Forgotten by family as well as the system, they had long since been dropped unceremoniously from the mainstream of life, joining that large race of invisible people - the homeless, the mentally ill, the emotionally damaged, those down on their luck, and, of course, the aged.

Everyone was dressed from a central laundry pool. Sections were marked "Female dresses: Large-small"; "Mens' shirts: Large-small"; Mens'underpants: Large-small." All vests were "Large-small unisex." I felt the way I had when confronted with the sight of 40,000 Cambodian refugees lying on the ground: where in the world do I start?

But remembering what I had learned from that experience, that something negative could be transformed - and rapidly - into something positive, we set to: scrubbing floors, sewing cheerful curtains, hanging colorful pictures on the newly painted walls, speaking with local clergy, hiring new doctors, rounding up volunteers, contacting schools and encouraging children to come in to sing, dance and befriend. And breaking down the walls of silence and prejudice, bridging generation gaps. All the while we were nursing, and watching, as, slowly, individual characteristics began to emerge in residents beginning to remember who they were again. Tasting food and smelling flowers, they saw the colors of life once more.

Having nursed so many children, I was at a loss at first as to how to stimulate these elderly people into taking a real interest in a pastime or hobby. After all, at the age of 80 or 90, who wants terribly cheerful nurses trying to teach one such things?

One day I showed some of my photographs of Vietnamese, Thai, Cambodian and Ethiopian children to a group of residents, and gave a talk on their needs. From my days with Save the Children Fund I knew that an ongoing need in many parts of the world was for knitted blankets. I was astonished at the effect this talk produced. A group of five women got together and said they would knit squares, have them sewn together for blankets, and how many did I need?

So began the most prodigious knitting production line I have ever come across. Rose, the self-proclaimed "whip-cracker" of the group, 96 years young, with her sharp intelligent eyes and even sharper tongue, kept everyone on their toes. Occasionally her blanket square became a bedsock halfway through, carried on as a blanket square again and then wound up being a doll's dress, all on the same ball of wool. But no matter, nobody dared stop her.

Margaret, 88 years old, stood all of four feet ten inches high. What she lacked in height she more than made up for with her gentle smiles and quiet encouragement of the others. Her knitting was done on large needles and thick wool as her eyes were "beginning to peg out," as she laughingly put it.

Hilda had been profoundly deaf since falling off a horse at the age of 28. Now 91, she sat knitting away happily in her silent world, the only person who never got involved in the politicking and arguments that occasionally broke out. Everyone used to tell their troubles to Hilda, knowing that the little bits of news and gossip imparted were quite safe with her.

Maude was cursed with Alzheimer's disease, which, of course, was punishing for her family to see. But in fact, 89-year-old Maude lived in a wandrously oblivious state. As life swirled on around her, she smiled, sang old Cockney songs, left foot tapping constantly. A regular nudge from Hilda on one side, or a gentle helping hand from Margaret on the other, would keep Maude's knitting needles clicking.

Eleanor made up the fifth member of our busy group. All the nurses dearly loved Eleanor. Ninety-four years of age, blind for the past 25 years, she had survived the amputation of her right leg at the age of 91. We all dreaded the upcoming possibility that she might have to have the other leg off, due to circulatory problems. Eleanor was a very pretty, feminine woman. She sat in her wheelchair with the group, listening carefully to the conversation, her head tilted to one side. She regularly chipped in with a laugh, a joke, always a kind word for everyone. Her favorite color was blue. Not only did she always wear blue, but that was the color of wool that she always knitted as well.