Living with Nonagenarians: Part 2

Dear Old Uncle Jim, Grandma’s brother has lived in a nursing home for the last few years. He had to move recentely, due to the fact his previous residence was scheduled for flattening and reconstruction. So with a couple odd hundred elderly residence looking for new accommodation made apartment hunting a down-right kerfuffle.

Luckily, Mum came to the rescue.

She shoved and decieved a large number of seniors just to get a foot in the door. As expected some of the doors fell off, run-down and unkempt nursing homes barely and rarely observe a sufficient level of maintenence that keeps doors on their hinges. It became a fairly well choreographed operation. Nevertheless, we had other options.

I was the middle man, if you will, between my Mother and my Grandparents. I would relay the information as it happened.

So one day I get a call. It’s Mother.
“What’s news?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, “we have three leads: the first is a nurse at the hospital, she’s got a few ‘contacts’ higher up the chain, that could pull a few strings. A bit like a puppeter, I guess.”
“A puppeteer?”
“Get to the point, Helen.” My patience melting like the cheese I think Pat left under the griller a few hours ago.
“The other is a lady who works at the nursing home in Waverly.”
“A puppeteer?” I inquire.
“No, she just put Jim on the waiting list.”
“Oh, and the last?”
“A place I will visit this afternoon in Botany, I’ll keep you posted.”

At this stage, Pat conveniently enters the room. I relay the information, the nurse, the lady and the rest, excluding the puppet part.

Not twenty minutes later, I, from the desk in my room, overhear a conversation between my Grandparents sitting outside my window. Pat is talking.
“Helen just called, said she’s visiting her Nurse friend in Matraville, to put Jim on a waiting list in for a home in Bondi. That’s what Gage just said.”


Living with Nonagenarians: Part 1


noun \ˌnō-nə-jə-ˈner-ē-ən, ˌnä-\
1. a person who is between 90 and 99 years old

After my return from Asia, at the beginning of this year, I had to make a choice. A few things had changed while I was away, namely my bedroom had changed names, to include my my sister’s name and not my own. I was left with three options: the small room at my Dear Mother’s place, the room far from univerity at my Dad’s or the 2 isolated rooms graciously offered to me by my grandparents attached to the back of their house.So I move in with my Grandparents.

The rent is good, food is plentiful, the sun is shining and this is when my latest adventure begins.



I’ve decided to start writing this new collection of blog posts in honour of my Dear Grandmother, Helen “Nelly Ryan” de la Motte, turning 90 next month along with my increased frustrastion and a larger than ever vault of frustrating stories about living with Nonagenarians. However, despite whatever I may write or rant about, I’m eternally grateful that they’ve let me live with them.