Editor’s Note: The following piece written by Dr. Russell Hoxsie was published in the Gazette on July 17, 1990, with the headline “Old Friends: Life in the Long Term Care Unit.” Dr. Hoxsie died last weekend at the age of 83.

Vinnie sits at the table in the lounge. He wears, as always, a cap. A big pin in his shirt says I’m The Boss. He’s singing Roll Out The Barrel in a thin tenor. He’s also making me keep to the regular four-four time on the piano. Sometimes I miss the right chord but Vinnie sings on. I’m taking lessons from Ed Wise. Ed tells me it’s good for me to play in front of an audience. Vinnie and a dozen of his friends at long term care make a good audience. Most of them are level threes. They can move about and do for themselves in lots of ways. Forty-one patients live at long term care. The level twos don’t get to spend much time in the lounge. Vinnie’s been a resident since long term care opened in 1975.

When I first go into the lounge Peg Shea is sitting. The minute I hit the first note a great smile wreathes her face and she’s on her feet dancing and swaying. Before I finish the first eight bars several others are joining in the words.

Eleanor turns to look directly at me. She played the organ at St. Augustine’s for years. “I didn’t know you played the piano,” she cries. “You should play in church like I did.”

Tim roams the corridors a lot but the music brings him in, hands clapping.

By the time I run through my small repertoire I notice my brow’s sweating a little. Ed’s right. I need the experience of playing in front of people.

One day I tried Deep Purple. No one sang because it’s so slow and I forgot the chords in the middle. It sounded awful. Peg said, “Sounds wonderful, Doc, keep playing.” The other evening, about quarter to seven, I stopped by the unit to write some orders. I slouched into the chair. Bernice Orcutt was in charge. “It’s too bad you have to come in so late,” she said. Already I feel better. “How’s Gus doing these days?” I asked. “All’s quiet,” she said. “But he’s lonely since Gert died.”

I finished in a couple of minutes. “That wasn’t so bad,” I said. “Now I can go home to supper. Could have done several more without pain. Thanks, Bernice.”

I visited Gus the next day. He’d eaten about half his supper. “How are you, Gus?” I asked.

“Not so hot these days,” he said.

“How long were you married, Gus?”

“It’d be 57 years this August. I was on the police force in Oak Bluffs. Young girl came by. Asked how to get to the post office. Went to the dance hall that night. First girl I saw was her, asked her to dance. We danced. ‘Did you find the post office all right?’ I asked.

“‘You’re the policeman who directed me to the post office,’ she said.

“‘Yes.’

“‘You have a good memory.’

“‘We went together five months and got married. She was a great dancer, a lovely lady, a wonderful mother.”

Last Thursday Erich Luening was helping Horace Devine down the long hall on his walker. Erich was singing You Are My Sunshine. He went through all the verses as Mr. Devine made his slow way.

“Erich’s singing,” scoffed Richard Michaels with a smile on his face. None of the other staff seemed to think there was anything unusual. They were all smiling and watching the duo. Each of the staff has six or seven residents to help feed, wash and dress by noon.

Rose Hawley was sitting outside of her room in the hall. She enjoys watching the traffic. “Dr. Hoxsie, come over here. I have something to tell you. Remember next Friday is Dr. and Mrs. Mazer’s wedding anniversary.”

“By golly, thank you, Rose. How do you remember all these details?”

“You should call me Miss Hawley. Rose is too familiar.”

“I forgot, Miss Hawley. Thank you.”

Last month an old familiar face reappeared after a winter’s absence. Peg Downs returned from her daughter’s home and resumed her daily duties. Peg’s an R.N., raised five children and retired. She volunteers two hours each morning: feeds three patients and makes their beds. “Peg,” I shouted, “you’re a wonder.” She told me an anecdote about Michael, her Marine Corps General son.

This week another old familiar face appeared. Bob Norton fractured his hip and was operated on in Falmouth Hospital. He had complications and spent a long time in recovery. He started making his home in long term care just this week.

“He’s a cutie,” Yvonne said, while I was checking him in.

“Has anyone ever called you a cutie before, Bob? You’re not very cute to me.” He looked up at me with a grin. I can’t imagine how it must be for him to give up his home. At least he’s back in the community. His family doesn’t have to make the trip several times a week to see him in Falmouth.

Ruth Olsen came home too a couple of months ago. She was hospitalized in Falmouth and waited a long time for a space to open up. Long term care is usually occupied one hundred per cent with a waiting list of 30 to 40 persons year-round. Making the choice to fill an opening is a tough decision. The admissions committee goes over the list. The one basic rule is that whoever is the most needy gets the space. Two or three people who lived alone needed care urgently and bypassed Ruth on the waiting list because she was at least in the hospital. Finally she got the nod and her family breathed a big sigh of relief. “I’ve got my own wheelchair now. It’s good to be home. Cost Esther eighteen dollars to visit me in Falmouth. You’re so good to me.”

Sally Kallman, nursing director, showed a wonderful video on validation therapy by Naomi Feil. Its message is for staff and family to enter into the lives of nursing home patients on the level they can understand. Naomi Feil is coming to the Vineyard this fall to hold a one-day seminar.

For Mrs. Stawniak, her level may be in the memories of her native Poland and her wedding day and early life with her husband. Donna Blackburn, recreational therapist, mounted a great picture essay on several residents including Mrs. Stawniak some weeks ago. Pictures and stories were pasted up in the main hospital lobby. Zophia Stawniak glowed in her bridal gown.

When I talk to her on the floor of long term care we don’t understand each other in the ordinary sense but her warmth and sense of humor touch me even when she lapses into her native Polish.

Marion often sits next to Mrs. Stawniak although they never speak together. “Would you like to hold my kitty?” Marion asked. I reached down, took the proferred brown stuffed cat and patted its smooth head. She’s often out of sorts but never when she and I are sharing her brown kitty.

Eunice was my first office receptionist. I remember her standing at her desk, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, figuring accounts and answering the phone. “Why don’t you sit, Eunice?” I asked. She’d stomp her foot and say, “I always stand.” She can’t stand anymore and hates being in her chair in the hall. “Can’t I go back to bed soon?” she pleaded. She always calls out when I pass. “How many grandchildren do you have now?” she asks. And for the hundredth time I pull out my wallet pictures and show her the two, no three, no, by golly, four little kids we have now.