When I entered room 3, she was sitting on her bed amidst the paraphernalia of embroideries and ceramics which she produced over the years. Her head seemed clouded by wistful photographs anchored in an album depicting her travels in Japan. Her eyes met mine, she let me in her personal bubble and we continued behaving like birds over Japanese reminiscence.
Gloria grew up in Wellington and often frequented the lighthouse in Island Bay when it was overcome by Italian fishermen in the 40’s. This lighthouse is not what it used to be anymore, it’s been converted into a romanticised airBnB for visitors to sojourn by the animated sea and pretend to walk in a lighthouse keeper’s shoes.
As a nurse, the rows of cursed bodies in beds were many, her name was oscillating between agonising mouths fading with paleness. She was no mere mortal, she was needed and praised, a portal to faith. Little did she know, she’d have to drop her heroic cape after being introduced to Lloyd. Her profession prohibited nurses from wearing a halo of love on their ring finger, for the entanglement with such a profound personal life could distract them from diligent work. Lloyd’s heart won over the purse of her career, she unreluctantly abandoned her white uniform and jumped on a plane all the way to Dunedin to relish the country life with her beloved. Lloyd was a teacher and he managed to lead Gloria into a relieving position at the same school. Her southern years were filled with long walks crossing paddocks to find dairy farms and get bottles of fresh milk, raising children, tasting the relaxation that comes with painting, embroidering landscapes and symbolic pillowcases, and stitching garments for her offspring.
Once the kids were older and independent, the retiring bomb eventually exploded. They divided the next chapter of their life by two directional scenarios, one was to be harvested: a pair of new cars or a string of plane tickets. The couple figured any car would get them to places, no matter the armour. The old cars remained, the luggage was packed and the unknown dribbled with impatience to be explored. A country was ritually cherry-picked each year like clockwork. England was the most special place of all for Gloria: something about the stretch of land, the endless walks by the rivers of Bristol, and the scenic beaches. Australia was stained by the memory of a long sleep on the train somewhere on the east coast, Japan’s population was intimidating because they seemed so sure of themselves, Malaysia was filled with folk dance and myths, France put her off with overly proud citizens and a language that was impossible to catch.
Fifty-eight years earlier, she lodged in the Raglan Rest Home and Hospital building giving birth to her youngest son, Peter. Back then, it was a comfortable maternity hospital and the matron was strict and orderly. To her delight the pleasant atmosphere persisted moons and moons later in what is now the Raglan Rest Home.
“When I walked in here for the second time, everything was unrecognizable, it is modern now and the town seems much closer. I expected strong feelings about coming back here, but I didn’t. My legs are different from when I gave birth I suppose, but that’s all.”
Before I left, Gloria pointed at a frame placed on a small table. It was an embroidered image of a lighthouse made after Lloyd passed, one of her latter artistic creations.
“The forever rotating light represents Lloyd and I, an eternal light of togetherness.”
Elisabeth Denis wants to tell the stories of the residents at Raglan Rest Home and Hospital. Elisabeth wants to show up for someone every month and bring awareness to the community about caring for our elderly and appreciating their memories and wisdom.
