If you search Parson's Hill, the results page on google conveys 1 out of 5 stars. Click on the link to U.S. New and World Report, and you'll see a floundering score on Health Inspections and Complaints, a mediocre score on the Staff, and a dismal rating on Medical Care. Compare those scores to the national average, and unfortunately, they aren't that much worse for the clientele Parson's houses under Medicare and Medicaid. Go back to the original search page and look at the picture Google provides: a run-down, depressing strip of buildings, precariously close to the road facing ma and pop stores, pizza places with gaudy neon lights, and boarded up buildings.

The blonde brick, weathered grout, and peeling off shingles on the roof of the rehabilitation and health care center in the outskirts of Worcester proper opened to stale, musty air that pulsated through the lifeless walls that bore the bones of the barely living. The poorly painted light blue walls of the entry way with a faux brick mantel showcasing brochures that faced the front desk with dated health inspection certificates hanging above the nurses threadbare hair added to my apprehensive mood that made me nervously crack my knuckles.

The common room filled with wheelchairs, moveable beds, and plastic chairs bordering plywood tables littered with dixie cups and paper plates was where I was for the first couple of weeks. The overfilled room of people varying from forty to over eighty acted as though the Hope Diamond was in their midst whenever anyone under twenty entered the room.

This was my first experience in an "elderly" home, and I did not know what to do with myself. I was surrounded by a group of aged women, gushing over my clothing, treating me like royalty. I felt guilty and overcome with pity. I walked over to the elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair, dressed head to toe in pale pink, hair cut short (not quite a pixie nor a page boy, but somewhere in the middle), wearing purple glasses, and holding brown chained necklace that hung around her frail neck.

That's when I met Sonia.

She welcomed me, placing her outstretched hand back on the arm of her chair as if to showcase her pristine pink painted nails that stood out in comparison to the disheveled status of the furniture. She always had the BEST nails, which she accredited to being something that "tells you a lot about a girl." When we first started talking once a week, our conversations felt forced, but paradoxically liberating- kinda like coming to college in a completely different place without anything immediately in common with everyone besides proximity. You could talk about anything under the sun and not feel judged.

Sonia, very early on, stressed the need to be unapologetically yourself.

She believed that what matters at the end of the day, was not regretting who you are. Her words hit me; I was intrigued by her rather astute wisdom that for some reason, I would have otherwise discounted. I didn't really know what it was that made me feel as though I could just tell her anything and be myself without judgment. But I really enjoyed my lack of apprehension in talking to Sonia, something that I didn't expect to find in this god-forsaken home.

Sonia was always eager to share her various adventures with the other residents at Parson's Hill. I remember thinking about how much she would gush to me about the littlest things that I often overlooked as a young adult. The sad reality was the people like Sonia were housed away from the rest of the world, poorly treated and ignored by most people. That information stuck in the back of my mind, reminding me before I left the campus center in the van for Parson's Hill, that I wasn't going just to volunteer, but rather, because Sonia needed me and I wanted to be there for her. Whenever I entered the dining room again, I would rush over to Sonia, who was no longer in a wheelchair, but rather, a moveable hospital bed, with her leg propped up slightly.

She would tell me how no one has visited her since the last time we spoke.

My heart broke at the thought of being ignored by virtually everyone and anyone. I always tried to cheer her up, but I wasn't entirely sure if she laughed in response to her own self-pity or if she genuinely found my comments funny. One thing that I discovered quickly about visiting Parson's was the lack of care. Recovery times were vague. Sonia would look a bit concerned every time her health was acknowledged. She'd say things like: "they said around 6 weeks after I was realized from the ward and it hasn't gotten any better" or "they had to tap my spine and do something else but I don't remember. I don't trust them here." Her conclusion was that the medical professionals at the home didn't care about any of their residents. They just kept them comfortable until they die. No one cared about old people rotting in places like this.

I would try to convince her otherwise, but I have to admit, it was challenging over the sound of patients crying as the nurse insisted that they have their medicine. Sonia would always seem to take their resistance as an affirmation of her skepticism with an unfazed expression of defeat. I'd tell her that I was sure the doctors know what they're doing, they don't do surgery unless you absolutely need it. But, I also knew that I was speaking out of hope rather than actual knowledge.

Time would go on and I would enter the same decrepit dining room, the familiar odor remnant of decaying flesh found in moratoriums would fill my lungs as I scanned the room for Sonia. It was always a bit disorientating walking into Parson's Hill no matter how much I thought I adjusted to the ambiance; nothing seemed to change, everything was frozen like the imprisoned men and women holding onto false hopes and unwanted truths. She'd be waiting amongst the usual crowd of attention seeking elderly people who acted more like children than children themselves did, but, this particular time, she was nowhere to be found.

My mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario- it wouldn't be completely out of left field either.

Residents were not exactly given a first class experience. After about a year in any nursing home decreases the resident's life expectancy by at least fifty percent. Considering Sonia had been here for at least three, I was connecting dots I didn't want to connect. I felt my throat get tighter as I walked down the hall towards her room on the right hand side of the west wing. The chipped cream colored door was ajar, the light from the windows pouring into the hallway. I knocked on the door, but there was no response. I pushed the door open and saw her. She was covered in blankets, her grey streaked hair matted on her head resting on a large pillow, clear tubes flowing from her nostrils attached to a rather loud oxygen tank on the floor next to her bed. I went over to see if she was awake, her eyes barely open.

Her health was seriously failing.

Sonia was hardly audible at this point and slept for the majority of the time. When she laughed a bit, it would be broken up by slight wheezing. But, despite it all, Sonia's nails still looked perfect as always. That's when Sonia gave her what turned out to be her goodbye present to me: a journal with a small butterfly in the center.

I remember that moment as clear as day. She told that she wanted me to have it as a memento of her. A couple months later, Sonia passed. The nurses told the other residents she had switched buildings, rather than tell them the truth. I only found out via asking several personnel as to Sonia's whereabouts. That was the first time I cried in public. But, at least I found some comfort in knowing that before she died, she spoke about me. In fact, the nurse was under the impression that I was her granddaughter. And because of that, I felt as though I made a HUGE difference in someone's life just by talking for about an hour each week during the school year.

Having a relationship with her taught me several things, but one of the most important lessons was that embracing the elderly is something that our society greatly needs, but often neglects.

Is this an easy task? Obviously not. People have lives, time is hard to come by and going for an hour each week to "do service" is often seen as simply a resume builder for most. But, that being said, going to talk with Sonia quickly became something I looked forward to as we became basically family to one another. You grow when you experience situations that might seem out of your comfort zone. And, who knows, you might just have made someone's day a bit brighter.