I was in a nursing home today to visit a family friend, and my perspective on dying in America has been irrevocably altered.

Being the son of two pastors, it’s difficult not to hear the horror stories, though I think it takes seeing it first-hand to completely understand the absolute social destitution in which we authorize institutions to place our elderly. Sure, I’ve been in these homes before, but never had a personal connection with their occupants. I think it just never sunk in.

I felt for our friend as she (successfully) fought tears; was moved to a different room for the sixth time; found her new room in shambles, without even the dresser drawers put in the dresser; spoken of in the third person by a C.N.A. with a short temper; and left alone with her questions unanswered.

The home itself smelled of urine and the staff somewhat intimidated me. I got the impression that none of the employees I met were well treated themselves, actually, which probably led to the poor treatment of my resident in question.

I understand that it’s incredibly difficult to care for someone who’s dying. It brings out the absolute worst in both parties. I just cannot believe this is so accepted. Everyone seemed so complacent with the poor conditions. Perhaps there’s another standard that I’ve missed?

Beyond the poor treatment our elders receive, aging itself also scares me a bit. Most of the residents had such a look of hopelessness on their faces that I could do nothing but think of what their lives were like, forty years ago. What did they contribute to our society? Who were they? Who are they now? Their faces were all blank, an army of wheelchairs with vacant drivers; tanks without commanders.

It leaves me breathless; pushing a symbol of my own mortality down the urine soaked hallway of a nursing home.