My Dad’s #journal recounts the daily trials and tribulations in Rm 207. #residentialcare. PART 1

Found journal.

 Roar Thorsen recounts the daily trials and tribulations in Room 207 and the halls of a residential care facility.


My father passed away in Room 207 on October 25, 2012 at approximately 9 PM.

To share this journal is incredibly healing for me, for as I type it, I feel I am sitting with Dad in our favorite spot in the cafeteria, discussing and laughing and sharing with each other.  I learned about the importance of journaling from Dad.


[I have kept crossed out words as they show his process and I am using only nicknames and initials for residents and staff]

“Careful what you wish for.” Dad’s birthday card glued onto first page.

Feb 25, 2007 [date may be wrong as my father had difficulty with numbers, dates and mathematics after his stroke]

Items for preparation proposal of for new movie.

Script for Fredrik Thorsen & group

Prel. title proposal:






Starting procedure:

#1: signing in-forms

#2: viewing rooms 1-2 pers. rooms (“cells”)

#3: meet nurses and other patients

Examples of typical patients:

“Speedy Gonzales”: old lady, can’t talk, runs fast, fast wheelchair runner.  [Dad adds later note]<– Gonzales has stopped.  Only sitting in her wheelchair.

“Collector” R.: steals towels

Old lady: “Please.  Please.  A lady fell.  Please.”  Man: “Nobody lives in that box.”   Old lady answers: “I know, I am just checking for the body I put in the box.”   Man: “Oh?”

White hair old lady come into my room and ask, “Who the hell are you?”  I chased her out.

Often a white hair bandit comes into the room looking.  “Where am I?”

K. spits paper balls.

Monday Feb 25:  Moved to presidential suite due to painting of 407 [sic] for 2-3 days.  Door to dining room could not be closed.  In the morning, an old man rolls in asking, “Are you Mr. Bunsen?”  I said, “No.  Try the kitchen.”  “Thank you.”  

View from the suite very depressing looking through the glass door.  All you see is a collection of old people in various stages mainly sleeping in chairs with open mouth, staring at nothing.  Large TV is always on.  Nobody watches, except an old lady which [sic] sits always in in front, approx. 2′ from the screen!

My old “cellmate” dies (M. from Latvia), about 3 months after I entered Evergreen [Roar entered Feb 14, 2007].  He snuffed it.  No more snoring (thanks).  As a routine they placed him in the “transition room” which is used for the family to be with the person for the last days.  I called it the “elevator,” next step heaven or hell.  The transition room contains oxygen for use.  

Administration were looking for suitable replacements after M. died.

“Candidates” were proposed:

NO 1. Mr. J. Typical English snob from London.  “Can you please dampen the light?”  Can you please turn down the TV?”  “There are going to be changes around here!” he said.  After notice to the nurses, he was moved the next day to the room he came from.

NO 2. Mr. R.  A big man rolled in on his large electric wheelchair.  When he came in all the way into the room, he could not run around and was banging the wall and bed.  “Could you please move your bed so I can have better space?”  I said, “No.”  He was moved back to his room the same day.

NO 3: Dr. S...

Stay tuned for PART 2!

See also:

Life has no opposite

Healing sock monkey watching over Dad

Document it.  All of it.

We’ve become a band of gypsies

Dad’s inner work

Dad’s last day

A pencil box. Regarded with reverence.

Change.  What does it mean?

Saudade- the emotion of missing

I miss the mundane to-do lists

These days when I dream of Dad…

Drawn Together

5 Comments Add yours

  1. Deborah says:

    Beautiful post.

    I love “You know nothing” on the cover.

    Heal on.

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