My sister Hazel is disabled, and lives in a nursing home. After our twice-monthly family breakfasts, the Hollands usually visit her, and the visits are much easier in a group. I visited Hazel alone once, and wow it was difficult, making conversation with someone who really can’t make conversation.
She has difficulty talking, and we all have difficulty understanding her, unless she’s saying something obvious, like “Hi, Mom” or “I love you.” When she says something more complex than that, you’re basically guessing at what she’s said, and the guessing is easier when the whole family plays, like Charades.
Because conversation is such a challenge, most of each visit is other Hollands talking to each other, and there’s always a sing-along of hymns and folk songs we all know from our childhoods. “I Knew an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly,” and so forth. Hazel sings, as much as she can, and enjoys the singing and the visits.
I enjoy the visits too, long as I remember not to think too much about the situation. My sister has all her wits and brains, but she can’t hardly talk, has very little muscle control, and can’t sit in her wheelchair more than an hour at a time. Which means she’ll never again leave the nursing home, and other than our visits, she’s incommunicado to the world.
We all come into Hazel’s room, and the staff makes sure there are enough chairs. It’s a big room, and private, not shared, because my late father had solid-gold life insurance. He’s been gone for more than 30 years, but Mom still gets a monthly stipend that leaves her no money worries, and Hazel lives at the nicest nursing home I’ve ever seen. It’s homey, not fancy, because it’s actually a house. The owners live there, along with several patients/residents, and even a couple of dogs. It’s literally a mom-and-pop nursing home.
Hazel’s TV is always on when we arrive, and always on the Hallmark Channel. They manufacture movies that are all basically the same, about sweater-wearing white people falling in love. It’s a comfort for her.
The staff clicks the television off when we arrive, or a few times it’s been left on but with the volume turned down. If the TV’s on, even if the volume’s off, Hazel will be watching it any moment we’re not actively talking with her.
There’s no remote control, because Hazel doesn’t have the dexterity to punch buttons. She could ask the staff to change the channel and of course they would, but she doesn’t ask, because it’s on the channel she likes. It’s sad, but except for the twice-monthly hour we’re there, the Hallmark Channel is all she’s got.
What channel would you choose, if you were disabled, stuck in bed, unable to go outside or go anywhere, and the TV was your only portal to the outside world? Would you want PBS, where the flavor of pablum changes every hour or so? Would you want CNN, if your fingers didn’t work well enough to flip off the anchors? Hazel wants Hallmark, and I can see the appeal of it — it’s a channel that always paints a happy world. Sweaters and smiles, all day, every day.
When our visit is over, we make sure the TV is on again, always on the Hallmark Channel, and turned up loud enough for her to hear.
“Goodbye for now, Hazel,” we say as we’re leaving. “We love you.”
She smiles and says “I love you, too,” but she’s already watching the TV.
9/5/2025
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