I’ve just spent six months in a nursing home. It was a revelation

‘It’s been a unique experience living every day with old people, eating, talking, joining in activities,” writes Marycrest resident and veteran journalist John Coleman.

We’ve all heard of the nursing home scandals: abuse, assaults, poor food, hygiene, lack of trained staff, a royal commission. I’ve just spent six months in a Brisbane nursing home and found it a revelation, a unique experience living every day with old people, eating, talking, joining in activities.

It was not only scandal-free but there was also the overwhelming impression of dedication, kindness, genuine compassion. That was at all levels, whether from the tall Zimbabwean who saw that I always had water; the super-efficient lady from Tonga who supervised the dining room and brought meals on a tray; the nurse from Nepal who dressed my leg skin cancer wound and graft; the stately nurse from Bhutan who brought a cup of milk at night; or the always smiling woman from Uganda who encouraged me to attend activities.

They were multinational staff members at the Sisters of Charity St Vincent’s nursing home, Marycrest, overlooking the Brisbane River at Kangaroo Point – one of several across the city and throughout Australia, all developing from Sydney’s St Vincent’s Hospital. The sisters were founded in Ireland in 1815 by Mary Aikenhead, now on the path to sainthood. She sent sisters to Australia in 1838 to care for female convicts.

I was in the home first for respite following my wife’s unexpected diagnosis requiring major surgery. She returned home, but there were complications involving more hospital admissions and home nursing. Since I have advanced prostate cancer and also need care, I’m now a resident at Marycrest until my wife recovers.

There are 30 residents on my floor, the six-tier building connected to a hospital, staffed by doctors and nurses, and a palliative care section. I’m introduced to the spirit of the home on my first day, at mass in the chapel, an oasis of peace dominated by a stunning stained-glass window behind the altar, its centrepiece a gigantic flame symbolising the Holy Spirit.

The window, recalling Christ’s resurrection and ascension, was designed by Hungarian-German migrant artist Stephen Moor. It has a mystical feel, enhanced by the shadow of the palm outside the window gently stirring in the breeze.

John Coleman

There’s no kneeling or standing in this congregation, the priest raising his voice through the microphone. Responses and hymns are barely audible – until the end of mass, when residents, in the line of wheelchairs up the corridor, burst out with When the Saints Go Marching In.

Much and varied entertainment is offered at the home. A disc jockey resembling Elvis belts out hits at a happy hour, when residents at tables are served beer, wine and nibbles. It’s a little subdued until a staff member jives and is joined by a thin resident, perhaps in his 80s, shuffling with his walking stick to the beat, enthusiastically if slowly.

Another day: a luncheon of chicken pies and drinks, featuring a trio of colourfully costumed dancers from Uganda who go through a vigorous routine of tribal dances with songs such as You Raise Me Up and Top of the World. Staff, in T-shirts inscribed with Be Kind, jig to the music as they serve drinks. One of the performers wiggles her hips with the words “God makes all things good”.

Residents are in their element when they join the choir, launching into I Still Call Australia Home and other favourites such as Over the Rainbow and Raindrops are Falling on My Head.

An art gallery is opened by former triathlete Sharyn Northcott, who tells how she rediscovered her creativity following breast cancer. She displays a beautiful array of paintings, all on the theme of flowers, each work complemented by a Tennyson poem. A staff member talks of plans to invite other artists to exhibit in the gallery and introduce painting classes for residents.

I join a discussion group but, rather than politics and Gaza, we’re more interested in the life stories of participants: a former headmaster from NSW who taught rural Aboriginal kids; an ex-Northern Territory public servant, proud of an ancestor who worked on Broome pearling luggers; a soft-spoken pastor who devoted his life to spreading Christianity.

‘Death happens frequently at Marycrest, on average almost once a month. We remember them all in a moving memorial service.’

This nursing home is a UN mixture of staff: people from The Philippines, Nepal, Mauritius, China, South Korea, Bhutan, Zimbabwe, Uganda, Papua New Guinea, to name some. I find it hard to keep up with the proliferation of activities: gym, walking group, bingo, tenpin bowling, book club – a library with bestsellers – crafts, happy hours, excursions to the beach, shopping centres and Queensland Art Gallery, visits by schoolchildren and pets.

Diet is varied and well presented, with choices from a daily menu. There’s a warm spirit of camaraderie among residents and a collaborative approach by management who involve residents in decisions.

I attend a meeting; the atmosphere is positive and good-humoured, residents unconstrained and speaking freely. Discussion ranges over pastoral care and activities, from student and pet visits to food presentation, the agenda noting average response to call bells down to four to five minutes – and aiming lower.

I’m only in my second week there when I begin bleeding, a complication of advanced prostate cancer. Within minutes an ambulance arrives and I’m off, strapped to a stretcher in the vehicle to the Wesley Hospital emergency centre. The ambulance is driven skilfully by diminutive Morgan; Chloe, tall, sits in the back with me. Impressive young women, fit and knowledgeable.

No waiting at the emergency centre. I’m driven straight into the building and wheeled to a bed, the blockage and intense pain relieved by a doctor who shows me the sizeable blood clot in the catheter. I learn the ambulance ride is one of the advan­tages of aged-care facilities. No cost, and I’m driven back and delivered safely to my nursing home room.

The chapel at St Vincent’s nursing home, Kangaroo Point, Brisbane.

I’m familiar with St Vincent’s, then known as Mt Olivet, from years ago when I was editor of The Catholic Leader, at that time a national newspaper. Joh Bjelke-Petersen ruled Queensland and I led the paper’s campaign for more palliative care funding. I saw my wife’s beloved war widow aunt die peacefully there. Mt Olivet was run by a saintly Sister of Charity, Nola Riley, whose legacy is apparent today in the enlarged premises. The riverside land where the home is located was donated in the 1950s from the estate of Lilian Cooper, Queensland’s first female doctor.

There are gift bags for every Marycrest resident at Christmas. As well as bathroom toiletries, I receive a biography of rugby league legend and coach Wayne Bennett, The Wolf You Feed, by Sydney Morning Herald sports writer Andrew Webster.

Early in the new year, Broncos coach Kevin Walters and former coach Allan (Alfie) Langer are greeted with ovations as they hand out jerseys and footballs.

The highlight is the presentation to Pauline, who is celebrating her 100th birthday; Walters and Langer join her with cake and candles, the photo appearing in The Courier-Mail and on TV. I chat with the alert, diminutive lady, who always walks unaided to her place in the same seat in the dining room. Then one morning the seat is empty.

The death of this popular resident is accepted sadly though stolidly; death happens frequently at Marycrest, on average almost once a month. We remember them all in a moving memorial service.

Pauline’s absence reminds me, if I need reminding, of my own mortality. At 89, how much time have I left?

I don’t know. But I do know where I want to be as it runs out.

John Coleman is a veteran journalist who has worked in Australia, London’s Fleet Street and the US.