Came for the Treatment, Stayed for the Laughs

The support clinic is its own microcosm. This is not lost on my dad, and he doesn't care for it. Once you're a familiar face, you are a part of this universe, a permanent case. True, most residents (or guests) seem to be worse off than him. He refers to them as sad, tragic cases, "not normal people, with normal life, not like me". His companion at the table in the dining room is a man in a wheelchair, to whom everyone refers as "the professor". He sits at the head of the table, arranging his "things". These are a magnifying glass, a magazine, usually Time or New Scientist, some press cuttings with an article he had published in the past, a thick, large medal which he moves around absently and uses as paperweight, a pair of sunglasses, never worn, never removed from the table, and a wicker basket for miscellaneous items, scrap paper etc. "The professor likes to find his things just the way he left them", tells me one of the staff. You can glimpse The Professor's corner at the table in one of the pictures here, the one showing my dad chatting with another man at the table. The professor has a bit of a temper, and he barks his demands of the staff without resorting to any pleasantries. "I want tea. No, put it here. I am going now. My girlfriend is at the next table. Bring my tea over" and so on. I amuse him by saying he won't get far calling on his lady friend with empty hands. No flowers? By George, he really rolled up and sidled up to a female resident the next table. Gosh!
Mrs. Germann is always there, reading the broadsheets mostly solitarily at her table. She scans the room with a severe, disapproving look (or is it me?). She can be heard occasionally being argumentative with staff, and I thought I heard her snap: "What for?" to a younger female visitor who said to her: "We'll come and see you tomorrow", but I suppose she may have been trying to be considerate and demure. Some residents are severely immobile, and at least a couple of ladies there have an advanced form of dementia. Dad hates being technically in the same condition: "care dependent". "I am most certainly not!" he hotly contests. I don't fully agree, but I am glad he feels that way.
Another gentleman, a soft-spoken, smart fellow, around my dad's age, comes from his flat up in the main building to see his wife, who is confined to a wheelchair, and has no mobility at all. He embraces her gently and kisses her cheek. "Mi amor", he says tenderly. He talks to her, and feeds her. She is unable to response or even show facial expression, yet other people there who are not visited as often look on in some envy.
On the maternal front still no change. In her defence I am very firm with her, and when she starts babbling I cut her short unceremoniously. When she's uncooperative to the point of being disruptive I "correct" her, and there she was, thinking her blue-eyed boy was coming over to be at her beck and call, no questions. Not so. At some point I said to her: I am not here for you or your whims, I am here for dad. So you see, it's not as though I am completely innocent. But hey, this is my blog, right? She can write her own if she likes. Still every meal, with no exception is greeted with no thanks or acknowledgment, but today during lunch (I made sweet potato soup for a starter) she commented it was hot (ok), could have been thicker had I cooked some kinoa in it. Another mantra of hers: "It's healthy" in Hebrew: "Zeh barri". Go on, say it, but roll your "R"s. Personally I'd like to kick hers. Then the chicken (yesterday's fare, reheated. In best tradition I made way too much) and the potatoes were too hot, or too cold, I forget. She got a rude "Just shut up and eat your food". Gawd, it felt good!