An Article Honoring Nursing Home Seniors Killed
by Coronavirus and Those Who Cared for Them
By Gary Glennell Toms
It seems like it was yesterday when I graduated from Far Rockaway High School. The Class of ’81 was a very special class. It was the year the school took the title of "High School of the Year." We received the award because of high academic achievements by the majority of our graduating class and the exceptional career-oriented programs that had been developed. The New York State Health Assistant Program was one of them.
Ms. Barbara Jackson, R.N., was the director of the program that offered me a glimpse of what the medical profession was all about. I started at the beginning of the school year. It was 1978 and shortly before I developed “The Fever” for Saturday nights. As part of the program, we were trained to perform certain medical procedures, such as taking blood pressure, height and weight measurements and testing blood sugar levels. During the course of the school week, we would be assigned to the Queens Nassau and Surfside Nursing Homes, in Far Rockaway, New York, to assist in the care of patients. It was one of the most rewarding periods of my life. It ranked right up there with my role as Patrol Commander for the New York City Chapter of the Guardian Angels. What made my experience at Surfside Nursing Home even more memorable was my relationship with an elderly Irishman by the name of Jimmy O’Reilly.
The program stipulated that we had to maintain a journal on the patients we cared for and how we assisted them during our visits. When I was assigned to "Jim-Jim," as I lovingly referred to him, I didn’t know what to expect. Ms. Jackson informed us that certain patients had certain temperaments, and we had to deal with them in a professional manner, even if they went as far as to hit or spit on us. The image of someone hurling a phlegm ball at me was very discouraging, but I forged ahead. To this day, I consider that decision a blessing.
Jim-Jim was 85-years-old, balding, extremely frail and blind. The first time I walked into his room, I saw him sitting in what the nurses had described as "his favorite chair". He was leaning toward his right side, as he always did, due to his frail condition. His mouth was open just enough to view a small portion of his tongue, and he trembled just a bit. At that moment, something happened that changed my life. I felt an intense need to care for this man. It was the same feeling that made me join the Guardian Angels.
In the weeks that passed, I looked forward to spending time with him, and I anxiously jotted down the particulars of what we did in my journal. I remember, quite vividly, how I tried to teach him the words to "Rapper’s Delight" by the Sugar Hill Gang, and he would counter by singing an Irish hymn. I relished these sessions because the nursing staff, as well as Ms. Jackson, stated, "He doesn’t talk to anyone! Jimmy’s always quiet!" Despite this fact, we shared some very funny and heartwarming moments. Conversations were difficult, at times, because he would forget what he was going to say. I know this bothered him a great deal, and I could see the frustration and sadness in his eyes whenever it happened. To reassure him, I would gently touch his hand and say, “It’s okay, Jim-Jim.”
On occasion, he would mention the wonders of Ireland. Oddly enough, he never mentioned what part he was from. That’s still a mystery to me. I know he loved growing up there and truly missed his native country. After spending weeks with him, I noticed one striking aspect about Jim-Jim. When it rained, he asked me to place him near the window. He would sit for extended periods just to listen. A tear would always fall from his left eye. I wanted to ask him why he cried whenever the heavens opened up, but something told me not to. I don’t know why, but I always felt it had something to do with a lost or unrequited love. This remains a mystery to me, too.
The school months were quickly passing, and sessions with Jim-Jim were becoming a crucial part of my life. In fact, I would go by the nursing home outside of school hours just to check on him. The nurses were always accommodating, and I was happy even if I got to see him for just a few minutes.
It was nearing the end of the school year, and we would have to submit our journals to Ms. Jackson for review. I was excited about the relationship I formed with this amazing man, and I suspected Ms. Jackson would be overjoyed as well. After all, that’s what the Health Assisting program was all about. It was the middle of the week, and I arrived at Surfside for my usual visit. I entered Jim-Jim’s room and noticed that his bed was empty and sheetless. I assumed that maybe he took ill and had to be rushed to the hospital. I inquired about his whereabouts, but the nurses were vague in their answers. I turned to head back to Jim-Jim’s room and saw Ms. Jackson slowly approaching me. I started to tremble, and I could not stop. I asked her where Jim-Jim was, and in a calm, warm, almost motherly tone she said, "He died last night, Gary." At that point, I walked back into his room. I took a deep breath to see if I could still smell a trace of the ointment the nurses would place on his wounds. I knelt down by his favorite chair, and I started to cry until my stomach hurt. At times, I still cry.
Over 40 years later, and now that I have a far better understanding of human relationships, I realize that Jimmy O’Reilly had an enormous impact on my life. I often asked myself if he had not been blind, would we have been as close? If he could’ve seen my Black skin, would he have shared as much about his culture and homeland? You see, when you grow up in the North Carolina and watch the Ku Klux Klan repeatedly march through your town, or witness Black people being brutalized in history books and footage of the civil rights period, you can’t help but question the intentions or mindset of those who are white or have white skin tone. I traveled to Far Rockaway a few years ago and stood in front of Surfside Nursing Home, now called the Caring Family Nursing and Rehabilitation Center, for 30 minutes or so. After reminiscing about Jim-Jim, I was finally able to answer the aforementioned questions. I don’t think my race would’ve mattered at all because we needed each other. He needed me in order to connect with someone as his final days approached, and I needed him to help mold me into a sensitive, loving and compassionate man. I was sixteen at the time and fatherless. Thus, Jim-Jim played a significant role in my development. My relationship with him showed me that the only boundaries that exist between people are those that are deliberately placed because of fear, stupidity and/or sheer ignorance. We all will die someday, and if a total stranger happens to be with you at that moment, the person’s race certainly isn’t going to matter. No one wants or deserves to die alone, and although many of us attempt to dismiss the point, we all need each other in some way. Thank you for teaching me that, Jim-Jim. I love you, I miss you, and I pray that you will rest in peace…. forever.
