The Kline Galland Home

On Friday, I temporarily moved into the Kline Galland home. It’s a Jewish assisted living facility in South Seattle with a rehab ward where people like me can come to better. There are all walks of life in here but with its strong Jewish affiliation, I feel a comfort, settling to my soul, that I don’t think I’d feel elsewhere. I also appreciate the Kosher meals, Judaic artwork, and spiritual outreach from staff.  

But truthfully I’m the youngest here by 20 years and most patients are frail, aged, and weakened by the weight of hard years. These are the ones that are better off too. The others, stored on the second floor down institutional hallways, lay frozen in beds or sit slanted in wheelchairs and moan and complain, waiting for a staff member or death to come, whichever gets there first.

Unfortunately, though, I wait with them and wonder when my time comes. You don’t come this close to a shave without looking back at what could have been. I’ve improved by life spans in a week but I can’t help to find doubt and discouragement down these lonely hallways at the end of time — the incandescent lights offer the same glow, and I can’t steal that image of an old lady chained to a wheelchair calling for me to help but me looking bewildered, and then finally relieved, or off the hook, once a staff member lightheartedly sidesteps her pleas. She must sit there often, daily even, asking for help beyond what can be done for her, a help we all want but one that never materializes.

What can I offer you lady? My breathing that’s improved each day since beginning steroids has stalled the last two nights and I’ve woken in a dizzying whirl where air is short and I sit up straight, suck air and race through thoughts to catch that elusive breath. My heart beats to a worrisome place I’ve searched before in panic attacks last week. But in a minute it’s over, and I’m back to recovery, back to sleep, and back to dreams of getting better and out of here.