When Don first went into the nursing home in August 2008, he was in a shared room. It turned out to be something of a “death” room because in a little over three months, he had no fewer than three different room companions, each of whom died shortly after admission. That’s fairly unusual in the nursing home, where an average stay is several years rather than months – or, in these cases, weeks.
The Sister in Charge made up her mind that Don needed his own room. He was younger than almost all the other residents, secondly he had his wits about him and found no companionship with the comatose room-mates he had had so far, and thirdly he was visited daily by me or by others, and of course visiting is much better if you have the room to yourself. So when a single room came up, she moved Don into it.
It was a nice room, looked out onto the courtyard:
It was also the first room you come into from the foyer, so I had the advantage of seeing people come through the front doors, would give them a wave if I knew them, invite friends into our room.
But for various reasons (too complicated to explain) they suddenly needed this room for somebody else, and offered Don a different room. It’s further down the corridor so we don’t see who comes in but apart from that it’s a larger and nicer room, and Don prefers it. It looks out into the grounds:
Don also likes the blue colour, as opposed to the cream of his previous room. And (I know this sounds stupid) it is Room 11, which is my favourite number – Don’s birthday is 11th, Ross’s birthday is 11th, it is the street number of one of the best manses we ever lived in (Mudgee). And I always liked 11 before any of that – the first prime number in two digits, the multplication table so easy to learn because all the multiples up to 100 are so symmetrical, and it is just a great number.
I can’t wave to friends as they walk in the front door any more, but it’s a good room and Don is happy with it.
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