So one of my Dementors bit me this morning. I still have a mark HOURS later. I mean, I know she's usually unpleasant in the morning (an unfortunate side-effect of her dementia), but seriously, I did NOT see that one coming. I was helping her get dressed and she just CHOMPED down on me with no warning, and HARD. I was so suprised I was laughing before I even managed to get her to release her bite. I'm sure part of that was being surprised, but I think the main reason was because of this stupid "Orbit Gum" commercial...
... All I could think about was targeting those deep dark fears of the baby boomers, "For stronger teeth, so you can better fend for yourself when your friends are dead, your children have abandoned you, and you're all alone in a nursing home!"
I know, pretty terrible. And it's REALLY not that bad. But you know the stereotypes. And exploiting the fears based on shaky stereotypes (are there any other kind?) can be oh-so-entertaining... entertaining enough to mask the pain of a set of dentures chomping down full-force on your wrist, even...
Dementor**: (gravely equivalent of screaming)Mo-ther! Mo-ther! Mo-ther!
Maggie: (briskly walking into room) Dementor, what's wrong? Dementor: Mother, there you are! Here, take a look at this! (holds out something invisible in her hand) Maggie: Okay, let's take a look..(discreetly slipping on glove and holding out her hand to recieve the invisible something, fully prepared if necessary to play Adam and name it if it turns out to be a nothing) Dementor: What IS it?? Maggie: Ummm... well, it looks like a booger, Dementor. Dementor: A WHAT? Maggie: You know... a booger... from your nose? Dementor: you mean... (pointing at her nose)? Maggie: 'Fraid so. Dementor: Oh, Heavens. (pause, pause) Boy, and I thought it was money.... (trailing off)
Man. The day my boogers become a form of currency will be a blessed, blessed day. Think what a cash-cow getting a cold would be!!!
** "Dementor" as being used here defined under the heading "Dementors" on this post.
I might have shared this, but it was making me giggle again. There's this woman at work- she's totally ghetto and a drunk- and usually she's totally negative. But every once in a while she's in a good mood. Mainly when she's been drinking too much before work. (I will refrain from ranting about the problems associated with this.) And then she starts talking about men.
When she's in a good mood she talks about Men. When she's in a really good mood she talks about Mens. When she's in a really really good mood and lonely she talks about Menses and gets crazy animated and excited.
Tonight at work they had to turn off the electricty and switch to generator power... which only is supposed to have enough power to vaguely illuminate the halls. Seeing as how I work 3rd shift this meant that we'd be doing cares for people in their rooms in pitch black by flashlights. This also meant that people who have those pressurized air mattresses (to help prevent bedsores), NG feeding tubes, or oxygen tanks needed alternative source of energy.
So we went around hooking all that crap up, extension cords criss crossing halls everywhere, filling portable oxygen tanks, and what have you. And then we had to do something about the call lights so residents can get a hold of us if they need something. Our solution? Noisemakers. You know, like for new years or birthday parties. Speaking of which, I want those at my next birthday party. But right, so I have to go around waking people up, explaining to them their purpose, and giving to them. Of course this is a ridiculous idea because none of these oldies have the lung capacity to go crazy on a noisemaker (least of all those on oxygen tanks!!). In fact, the most I got out of them was the feeblest of toots that could hardly be heard from 5 feet away. It was pretty pathetic. And it got most of them all anxious and stressed out-- they could die and no one would know. But right, we "covered our asses," I guess. Or something.
And then after spending an hour getting this all worked out, the call lights ended up being powered by the emergency generators after all. Which meant that EVERY FREAKING resident we'd woken up had their call light on when the lights went out because they were scared and needed to be reassured they'd be taken care of-- and also just to see if they'd work. But I mean... any one of those lights could have been the real deal, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" or needing to be toileted, or what have you. So I had to answer every freaking one and spend FOREVER on each of them reassuring them everything was going to be okay. Sigh. Had we not bothered with that bogus crap and woken them all up they'd all have slept right through it!
Lately I've been learning some interesting tidbits from my black coworkers at the nursing home about things that are culturally different between us. For example:
1. Black women wear brown, black, or purple panties underneath white pants/skirts so that their panties don't show through. Makes perfect sense. But that NEVER would have occured to me. Please don't ask how it came up.
2. When a black woman says "He favors so-and-so," don't be confused and think that it's a matter of social preference, because then she'll think you're an idiot. (Sigh. I'm such an idiot.) "Favors" in this context means "resembles."
3. Black hair is incredibly difficult to style, but once styled far easier to maintain. Also, it needs to be washed WAY WAY WAY less. Apparently this is because it's easier for oil/grease from your scalp to slide down a relatively straight/finer hair shaft than it is down a kinky-curly/coarse hair shaft, making split ends and moisture deficits more of an issue for them, and greasy hair more of an issue for us. This I knew. I guess I'm not really communicating the new knowledge I've learned, because I just realized it's too hard to explain hair styling for someone with as limited experience as I have. I'm not really into all that girly crap. I'm on top of things if I remember to brush it. I bought my first bottle of hairspray in around a decade a couple months ago and have hardly used it a half-dozen times. So much for that.
4. White girls often interact by talking lovey or flirting with each other. At least this is what I have observed, and what has been my experience- maybe I have creepy female friendships. This is not appropriate with any of the black women I work with. I've attempted to bond with some of the ones I'm closer to in this manner and they looked at me like I was crazy and I had to very frankly explain, no, I am not in fact a lesbian or in any way posing a threat to your sexuality-- I was just messing around and trying to bond with you. Then they thought I was even crazier.
5. The black women I work with seem to be vehemently opposed to interracial mixing, to the point where I would never DARE mention to the majority of them that I've dated black men in their presence for fear of being shunned or causing tensions in the workplace. I don't know if this is common, but it's incredibly pronounced with the women at work. I was talking to one woman who I'm closer friends with and it came up, and she told me point blank that she found interracial mixing offensive and even went so far to admit that it wasn't just on a sexual level, and when she told her sister she was going out to breakfast with me after work, her sister was affronted and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing hanging out with me. She said it was hard for her not to be embarrassed when her family all saw her being dropped off by her white girl friend. I was baffled by this. And honestly, it kinda hurt my feelings a little. Whatcha gonna do.
6. Okay, I don't know if this one is normal either, but let's talk about those head scarves that some black women wear. I had no idea, but apparently it's not just a fashion statement-- it's quasi-"political," kind of a flashback to how female slaves used to wear them on their heads in the fields. Our black supervising nurse said something to a black coworker about how she should not wear her headscarf in the building because it was inflammatory. I didn't see how it was in any way an issue- it was a floral print scarf, for goodness sake!- and asked her what on earth she meant. And apparently it's supposed to be reminiscent of slavery days, reminding people of the oppressiveness of their cultural heritage. She explained it as kind of like a "fuck you" (sorry) to white supremicists. I guess that while the younger generation (I'm assuming I'm not the only naive one) isn't aware, it's a bigger issue for all the racist old people at the nursing home and they find it offensive as there are lots of very racist old people (though some of them remember to try not to be openly). It was weird. I felt naive.
Okay, that's all I got. I wonder if this is a weird post. Is it not PC to talk about cultural differences? Hmmm. Dunno. Don't care. I thought it was interesting.
If by "the ball" you meant a 375 lb. woman. Yeah. That was not a high point tonight at work.
I was trying to get this woman washed up and dressed this morning. Normally we use an EZ-Stand contraption pictured below. It also has a blue harness, but in order to put it on around the resident and then attach it to the red handle hooks (again, refer to illustration), the person has to be close enough for it to hook in. Buuuuut... this woman had these hugie blue plastic boot-things on to protect her bum ankles. Normally this is no problem, but they were impeding our ability to manuever the EZ-Stand close enough to her. The bed height needed to be adjusted. At this point, however, I had already hoisted her dead-weight into a sitting position and was physically holding her there (she's pretty much immobile save some minor to moderate upper body strength)... consequently it was quite the reach. So as I'm reaching around full stretch trying to get the bed down a mere 4 inches or so, she starts panicking a little and pulling with her hands on the EZ-Stand... resulting in pulling her weight FORWARD... resulting in the beginning of her descent to the floor.
I really thought I could stop it. So I grit my teeth, abandoned trying to adjust the height, and focussed on throwing all my weight against her sliding body.
And then there was a flash of clarity where I realized, duh Maggie, you can't stop the fall of a 375 lb. woman. It's just not happening. So, true to my training, I changed my objective to "easing her fall." Old people's bones seem to be made of porcelain and their skin tears like tissue. I was DETERMINED not to have either of those scenarios.
So I "eased" her down. But what really ended up happening in the process was in easing her fall, I mainly just broke her fall.
... and took all 375 lbs. on my inner thigh, trapping a leg and an arm beneath her. It was soooooo painful and hard to get my leg free. My leg is... not happy. BUT! On the bright side, she was completely fine. It was incredibly embarrassing, though. I mean, come on. I dropped an old lady. I know accidents happen-- I just don't want them happening to ME. Poor old lady. I must say, the whole thing was a rather undignified and an unfortunate way to start the day.
Given the nature of my work as a nursing assistant, I am continuously placed in (and placing others in) what under normal circumstance would be very awkward situations. Sure, they're still awkward- but you get over it quicker when it's a matter of necessity. I've also developed a calm, confident, comfortable, considerate, and undaunted can-do demeanor (CCCCUCDD) to assume when necessary to put my residents at ease. This invovles enormous self-restraint at times when stifling a wide range of very natural responses to unideal situations.
A few examples of my work-situations that require unusually high levels of self-restraint:
Not being embarrassed by complete nudity, bodily functions, or the most pitifully unfortunate modes of existence.
Not wrinkling my nose or gasping when I turn away due to the obscenely foul odors originating from the resident I'm cleaning's body.
Not cringing when someone accidentally urinates on me.
Not rolling my eyes or getting exasperated when an evil old lady verbally abuses me and threatens to have me fired for letting her pillow fall to the floor ("..and get covered in bacteria!") when she kicked it.
Not showing my disgust and rage when an ornery old man deliberately knocks his bed pan over and says to me, "Now get down on your hands and knees and clean it up."
Not showing that I'm startled or caught off-guard when I first realize that the person I'm undressing is in fact unbeknownced to me an amputee.
Not panicking (or freezing) when I walk into a room to discover that the reason why my resident (with thighs the thickness of wrists who cannot walk on her own) is not in her bed is because she's lying face down in a pool of her own blood out of sight on the other side of the bed.
Not tearing up in desperation when my recently deceased resident's eyes WILL NOT stay shut.
Individually they're doable. But add them all together in one night and it can be REALLY HARD to stay in control of yourself. Honestly, that's HOW I stay in control of myself-- by reminding myself that at least I can modify my behaviors, and that's not necessarily the case with all of my residents. And the craziest thing at this point is that there are a number of things I'm presently restraining myself from sharing because they're just too horrible to share, even without identifying the person in question. I guess some things are better off never mentioned again. I hate to say it, but sometimes I'm actually relieved that certain people have dementia-- because they won't have to be ashamed of themselves for what they just did later. It must be really hard to get old. But I gotta say, it's not exactly easy caring for the elderly either.
But that being said, the particular type of restraint I routinely have to exercise that I would like to discuss here is:
Not laughing insensitively at old people, no matter how funny what they said might have been.
Granted, sometimes it's okay and GOOD to laugh things off, especially if they were awkward to begin with, but most of the time it would be oh-so-unhelpful and just plain insensitive. ***
Now maybe I'm too easily (or even wrongly) amused, but here are a few of tonight's work experiences that challenged my ability to restrain my laughter:
"THE CATFIGHT"
So I was in a shared residents room responding to one of their call lights. Two women lived in this room. As I was determining what the woman who put on her call light (Woman A) needed, her roommate (Woman B) piped up. It all happened so fast. The conversation that took place between them went something like this: WB: Heeeeyyyy!! (screeching) Shut up already, I'm tryin' ta sleep! WA: Shutcherr trap, you old HAG! WB: I'M a hag?? Have you SEEN yourself? Can't a person get some SLEEP without you flappin'? WA: YOU TALK IN YOUR SLEEP THE WHOLE DAMN NIGHT. You think I want to hear you blab to your dead husband about some damn drapes? Now MIND YOUR G-DAMN BUSINESS. WB: *drops the F and N Bombs* In the middle of WB's last comment I gathered up my jaw and quickly intervened. Okay. Maybe it's not so funny to you guys, but if you HEARD how sugary sweet and innocent each of these ladies are individually and how in a flash-bang they went to cranky old lady versions of the Hulk-- Wow. That and I've never heard anyone actually called a hag, in earnest, to their face. It was hard not to laugh-- It was so sudden!
"THE DEMENTORS"
Crap. This one is also going to seem so insensitive. "Dementor" is the term that I fondly use to refer to people with obvious dementia when I'm far far away from work or school-- in fact, this is the first time I've used it other than when speaking to my mother over a cup of coffee in the privacy of her kitchen, or for the sake of making my little sister's ill at ease in the same location. Somehow wrong seems more right over a cup of coffee with mom. I've also tried out the terms "dementoids" or "dementards" but those just didn't have the right feel. I usually only use it when they unwittingly terrorize me. Yes, I'm a terrible person picking on the weak and helpless. Get over it.
So like I was saying. This is actually a two-fer because the set up for both of these isolated situations was the same. So I'll just start with the first. I was in a particular dementor's room changing her particularly poopy adult brief (giant diaper). We were making small talk. But here's the thing about dementors. Sometimes they can make perfect sense, but much of the time they just sound like they do. This particular woman was at least using words (as opposed to garbled sounds with only the appropriate tone of voice), but they were not concrete words and didn't make any sense whatsoever- just stringing them together left and right. When she began it seemed like she was talking about the diaper changing, but her tone of voice more fit a conversation where she was commiserating with an acquaintance over the childish rebellions of a distant relative's son, or perhaps how unsatisfactory the preparation of last night's chicken was. My response in these situations, particulary given that I work nights and everyone's groggy, is to play along so as to avoid causing them unnecessary anxiety or distress when they realize their inability to communicate effectively. Again, mind you, I must stress that she's saying words but they are NOT MAKING ANY SENSE. I have no clue what she's talking about at this point. So I throw in a "Isn't that terrible!" or "what a shame," or a "you must be so proud!" or even a "tsk tsk"... whatever sort of ambiguous, noncommital response seems to play into the tone of voice, and body language, she's using. If I'm feeling cocky I'll even ask ambiguous questions in response, even though neither of us it really talking about anything at all.
So we were harmlessly chatting away about God-knows-what, the dementor and I, and as I turned her on her side to continue cleaning up all the BM, she get's really quiet. And then, mid-wipe, again, WHILE I'M WIPING HER BOTTOM, she quietly says, "It's rather tempting, isn't it." It was SO.HARD. not to laugh!!! I REALLY want to know what on earth was going on in her head at that point! Does it get any more randomly bizarre and awkward than that?? No, lady. I cannot think of a single situation where the poop on your bottom could EVER.POSSIBLY. be tempting. My goodness.
But maybe it does get more awkward. In a very similar situation with a different dementor, I was ALSO wiping her bottom (though there was absolutely no verbal communication on her part preceding this), when her gravelly voice inquires, "How does my butt look?" Uhhhhhhh. Tricky. My oh-so-professional response was, "Hmm... Healthy!" I mean c'mon- how the heck am I supposed to answer that one!!
"THE LITTLE PIG"
This one actually was the funniest. And the most awkward (funny how that works). A little context. It can at times be awkward for a man to have a woman doing intimate, personal cares for them (and vice versa even more so, but that's outside of my scope). Generally speaking, most men don't seem to have much of a problem with it, and are pretty comfortable being naked (or get to be quickly) in front of people. One of the things I've noticed, however, is that while my WWII vets seem to be the most comfortable with actually being naked or exposed, they're also the most uncomfortable with it-- because they're worried about scandal for the sake of the women doing cares on them. Common variations I've heard are, "You're too young to have to look at this!" (response: "Not looking!-- just washing!") or "You poor thing, this job must be TERRIFYING for you!" (granted, he WAS rather formidable). And nearly exclusively I've heard these sorts of concerns coming from WWII veterans. Most non-vets act (and maybe they even are) oblivious to any sort of awkwardness that could arise from such situations.
Tonight's WWII vet variation took the cake, though. I heard distressed sounds coming from this vet's room as I was walking down the hall, so I went in to ask if he was alright. He shyly admitted that he was not in fact alright. So I asked what was the matter. He hemmed and hawed a bit, and then came out with, "Well...er.. ah.. is there actually a man that could help me?" Which there was not. So I explained that there weren't any men working that night, and asked if perhaps there was something I could do to help? His response was, "well... yes. I suppose so-- If you're strong enough." So I turned on the bedside lamp and the problem was clearly illuminated. He'd futzed with his adult brief and consequently peed all over himself in the bed. Nothing too difficult or that uncommon, really.
So I started getting supplies together to change his clothes, bedding, and clean him up nice. But while I'm preparing he was getting a little anxious about the whole thing (he is, by the way, a borderline dementor). For some reason he seemed to have it in his head that I didn't know the difference between men and women and would be traumatized by what lies hidden beneath his cheery-patterned PJ's. So naturally, when I asked him if he's okay (seeing his mounting anxiety), he tries to gently warn me by saying, "Now, ah... you see... well... there's a little pig in my bed!" Me: (pleasantly) A little pig, huh? (not understanding what he means, but assuming he'll keep talking.) V: Well... not exactly in my bed, actually... it's more... here... *very generally indicating groin region with a wave of his hand* Me: Ohh... I see... (internally having a brain-chuckle while wondering if he's blaming the "little pig" for the mess in his bed, and not quite clear on why he's bringing it up) V:(cutting me off, not yet convinced that I do see and very concerned as my preparations are nearly complete-- girls can't possibly know about men) No, you see... it's not a REAL little pig! ... it's more like.. (grasping).. like the kind that's cooked and ready to eat!! ... *pause*... (HORRIFIED, realizing his attempt at circumlocuting the crass illusion to his "sausage" was even more crass than saying it could have been)... err!.. I mean!... I just don't want you to be frightened is all!!!
It was really hard not to laugh. He was so incredibly distressed that he was going to scandalize me. So sweet, however clumsy. I have to admit, I have a serious soft spot for oldey veterans...
Anyways... this got to be a lot longer than I intended. Good for you if you read the whole thing!
*** Note: At this point I feel inclined to warn you that I am not a very sensitive person when it comes to matters of humor. I stand by the level of care I provide to my residents. And while I do make jokes at their expense sometimes (as you can see), I have never ONCE made any sort of comment at a residents expense at work, not even to a coworker. My humor in no way compromises the level of care I provide.
I have been exposed to 4 different strains of influenza in the last week, which have resulted in much sickness and 3 deaths so far. Okay, fine, the deaths were of elderly people (who are far less resilient to disease and infection), but still. It tends to make one fairly uneasy. Particularly when I'm not able to so much as walk down my hall without Droplet Precautions (mask, gown, gloves..). Of course Droplet Precautions were not instituted until AFTER there was a death from it and several people I have had extensive physical contact with were finally tested/diagnosed). I've also had cause to wash my hands a couple HUNDRED times each night, as opposed to a mere 50-70 (no exaggeration here. you should see how dry my hands are, and I use lotion ALL THE TIME). It's kinda hard not to get paranoid. Especially when you see healthy young adults laid up with less serious strains than what's going around at work for a full week. I just don't have the time or energy for that crap.
At any rate, work is legally required to offer us Tamiflu. It's used to "treat" people who have it and as a preventative measure for people who don't-- really it just inhibits mitosis of the evil cells, preventing it from getting much worse. All it'll really do is shorten how long you have it, not "cure" you. Also, it's expensive. I've "accepted" treatment, though I haven't started it yet. Have any of you taken this stuff before? I'm loathe to take it right now when I'm not exhibiting flu symptoms and I have to finish this crappy week of school-- I'm not really interested in nasty side-effects for the first couple days while my body gets used to it (it's a 10 day series). I guess I could save it in case I do start exhibiting symptoms other than being really tired all the time(heh. cuz influenza's the only thing that can exhaust you, right?), but by that point I will have lost any benefits as a preventative measure. Then again, I've had exposure for over a week and I'm still not sick, so maybe I should just bank on not getting sick. I'm getting the pills either way cuz they're free (never know when they might come in handy!), but I just can't decide whether or not to take them.
My gosh, how I hate the complications of drugs. Anyone have any advice?
In the room, about to help Walter to the toilet. In walks the new girl. Never worked here before. From House Pool. I've been training her on the other wing. She got Rosa up in her wheelchair and took her to the toilet. Rosa doesn't use the toilet at night. Too much effort and strain. Diapers. Rosa fell asleep in her chair? Can't get her back into bed? Okay. I'll come take care of it when I'm finished here. Rosa and I understand each other. We really get along.
Walter's taking his time. Lonely. He asks about my boyfriend in the army. Walter's a WWII veteran. You heard from that boyfriend of yers? That's good, I guess. Do they get supplies? Me? Oh, we always got supplies. We were with Patten. What was it like? Well, we'd sit around in a circle counting. COUNTING, I said COUNTING. Yeah. We'd get past a thousand, and they just wouldn't know what to do. We'd sit there and one of us would start "thousand..." and then one of them would jump in, "...five!" and we'd all be so excited. It was a big deal. You can't blame them y'know. No one taught them consecutive numbers, y'see. Later it'd be... "thousand....... six!!" and then that's where it'd stop. At first it was okay, sittin in the circle. counting. but after a while you just got plain bored and you had no patience left for counting. you didnt want to count anymore. And then you'd start callin them dirty names. goddamn arabs. it wasnt their fault, goddamn arabs, nobody taught them to count consecutive numbers like that, but you just didn't have anymore patience. What? What's that? Yeah, Patten. Yeah, that's the very same one. He was one queer duck. But he was a damn good leader. They all feared him cuz he could count thousand-SEVEN. And that's why he was a damn good leader. They all feared him. Action? Oh, boy did we see action. Did we ever see action. Killed those goddamn bastards by the dozens. They could hardly count past thousand-TWO. Oh. Okay. Goodnight.
Walking briskly down the hall to Rosa's room. Already been a good 10 minutes. The light's off. Flip the switch, cooing "Ros-." Stop silent. No need for language. One glance reveals the vacancy. Stillness. Sallow, yellow-green beneath her tan, cuban skin. Slumped ever so slightly. Icy stillness. Maybe it's a mistake. A false alarm. An overreaction. Creep closer and slide fingers across her smooth, cool wrists. Impossibly still. Hand moves to her chest. Still warm there. Is that her moving ever so slightly? or the illusion created by the pounding in my breast. Nothing. Her lungs are deflated, just like her shoulders. CPR? Thought dismissed immediately. She's DNR. Everyone on this wing is DNR. Not that it would have made a difference at this point.
Inform the new girl on your way down the hall to the phones. Her theatrical "NO! Really??" Makes your stomach turn. She already knew. Maybe she couldn't accept it either. She's not dealing with it well, though for very different reasons. Poor girl. What must that have been like. First day, first time she set eyes on this woman, she dies on her watch. She was only unconscious when she left, though... not sleeping... not vacated... Rosa slipped away to the Lord alone in her chair in the dead of the night. There was no blame in her passing. Maybe that's the hardest thing to accept.
Post-mortem care is not as horrifying as I had expected. Unreal would be a better word for it. It's too easy. Caring for someone can only be difficult if the person is there. Rosa was not there. Only something nearly 300 lbs. Deadweight. Dead deadweight. A nurse gives a terse laugh at her own joke. Stare blankly. Six people needed to transfer her from her wheelchair to the bed before she stiffens, and so she can be prepared for her family to come pay their respects. So I can prepare her. Six people. Urgent voice, "NO skin tears, ladies! Caaaareful of the shoulder, there!! NO BROKEN BONES!" Realizing with shock how insanely fragile the human body is when its muscles aren't being used to counteract force applied to it. How excruciatingly fragile is the human body. Gown slipping. Flesh exposed. What is flesh? Her diaper is soiled. Nurse says it's common for the strain of having a BM to kill the elderly. Rosa was already compromised. She didn't have a BM on the toilet, though. She had it after she'd passed. "This is the cacapoopoo that killed her." I thought as I wiped her clean. Strange thought at a time like this... but that's how she always referred to her BM's to me every morning. "Bring extra paper... I made a cacapoopoo!" she'd call from the bathroom as I made her bed. Part of me felt like I ought to save that soiled diaper for her family. Immediately embarrassed by the impulse. It wouldn't have any significance to them.
There was no peace until everyone else had cleared out. I said a rosary with her at her bedside while we waited for her daughter to arrive. She would have liked that. She was Catholic and very religious in an earthy sort of way. She was in the habit of talking to the Lord as I got her ready for the day each morning in spanish. It was endearing.
I was blind sided by Rosa's death. When you walk into as many people's rooms while they're sleeping as often as I do, you come to take for granted that they'll be alive. None of the people I care for are in good health. But I wouldn't have thought that most of them were that close to death, least of all Rosa. Rosa was probably the most together, at least mentally and in some ways physically, of my residents. Now it dawns on me the reality of the situation: I am walking amongst people with one foot already through that door. Funny how you can know these things without KNOWING them.
Rosa's death was a blessing. I can honestly say that praying at her bedside I found true joy at her passing. He life was like a job well done. And now she can rest. Looking at her lying peacefully still in bed, her sheets pulled smooth and tidy, her seemingly translucent skin by the soft light of the bedside lamp, I saw I think for the first time ever that death is not just natural... it's beautiful. Perhaps you need more personal separation from the one who has left in order to be able to appreciate that.
Even so, there is now a subtle urgency behind every kind word, every gentle touch. Nagging in the back of my head is the knowledge that I may very likely be the last human interaction that any of these people come into contact with. It has to count. It's like hanging out with the wrong crowd... while no one can make you sin, they can certainly lead you to it. I am capable of being an occasion for grace to each of these people before their death. I can choose to have positive interactions with them, those productive of joy and hope and goodness. Or I can be short tempered and impatient and brusque, and lead them to despair and contempt and hatred. And that might be the context in which they die. The spiritual state in which they face their Judgment. That is the true burden of my job.
Walking out to the car the even greater burden hits me... the same is true of EVERYONE whose life is in any way intertwined with my own. Nothing can be taken for granted. No one. And in the words of Father Zossimo in the Brothers Karamazov, "We are each responsible for all."
Oral care= brushing teeth, flossing, denture care, mouth swabbing, etc.
Today at work I had to go in for this "training" session. But it was really more like a 5 hour quiz. With occasional little "informative" video clips showing you what an acceptable attitude is interspersed.
There was a manikin set up for us to go through and demonstrate cares complete with a removable wig to reveal old-Ken hair, removable male genitalia to reveal female privates, holes for a colostomy bag, needles, catheters, etc. It's all pretty basic stuff, nothing that any of us should have hesitated on because we've all already been trained on what is and is not acceptable. Just a little refresher course so people don't get in the habit of doing shortcuts and compromising the quality of care our residents recieve. Today they left the manikin as a woman because someone misplaced the man parts.
So at one point she wanted someone to demonstrate the proper procedure for performing oral care on an unconscious resident. And some girl (I won't voice my judgments about her based on her attire) chimes in uncertainly, "Ummm.. you mean on a woman...? Or a man."
Everyone turns to stare vacantly at her, just blinking. A few look at the floor and turn away a bit.
1. Told I was beautiful. 2. Told I was a ***damn indian b***h. (It's a real shame how so many old people are incredibly racist, yet unable to distinguish between races.) 3. Peed on. Literally. Just straight up peed on. Whatcha gonna do. 4. Hugged. 5. Scratched. 6. Told to "Go to hell." 7. Kissed. 8. Slapped. 9. Told I was gentle and would make a great mother. 10. Told, "Wipe my damn butt off. And no funny business about it." Can we say awkward. 11. Told, "Don't be scared to wipe my butt, sweetie. Get in there really good." Even more awkward. 12. Told, "I thought you were an angel!" by sleepy old lady. 13. Told, "Go back to Africa!" Different person. Again, racist. Again, unable to distinguish between races. 14. Told, "Scratch my left (butt) cheek, will ya?" 15. Told, "I love you!" At least 20 times. 16. Escaped an attempt at being bitten. 17. Begged not to leave.
Seriously. It really does a number on you after a few hours or so.
Working at Nursing Homes is like being trapped in Oz or Wonderland, but with a lot more butts. I wonder if there's an online quiz that'll tell you what kind of old person you'll be. I think I'm gonna be pretty damn crotchety, just for kicks...
Today at the nursing home I'm working at I had to give a bed bath to a woman with shingles, at a point when it's highly contagious (the vesicles, blisters full of pus, are erupting). In case you guys didn't know, Shingles is caused by residual viral tissue or something from ChickenPox that can remain in your body and might remain latent for life, or after decades erupt into a painful rash with or without blisters- namely, shingles. It also can be caught from someone who has it. Although the blisters usually heal within two to four weeks, in some people residual nerve pain continues for months or years, a condition called postherpetic neuralgia. It's pretty nasty, and INCREDIBLY painful from what I can tell. It's symptoms are commonly followed by sensations of burning pain, itching, and hypersensitivity. The pain may be extreme in the affected nerve (the blisters and rash tend to follow a certain nerve on one side of the body). These sensations are often described as stinging, tingling, aching, numbing or throbbing, and can be interspersed with quick stabs of agonizing pain. Lots of quick stabs of agonizing pain.
It was horrible on several accounts. First, because I'm WASHING this ladies agonizing, bursting blisters and she's whimpering and screaming and wailing and it's horrible, horrible, horrible. It's so painful, she can't even wear a gown to bed. That's crazy. Second, her poor roommate is in the room getting frantic and near tears about the whole thing. And third, I've never had chickenpox before, so this highly contagious disease is even worse news for me because I haven't had to fight it off before-- it's supposed to be harder to deal with the older you get. Plus it can last 4-6 WEEKS. So I was supposed to be taking extreme infection control measures. And that really stressed me out. Especially because I'm trying not to let my person or clothes (granted, I had a gown on) touch or be touched by anything, and she's grabbing at me begging me to make it hurt less.
It was pretty crazy. Nursing is fascinating. Fascinating like a siamese twin or a car crash.
Why do so many people in nursing homes seem to be writing their memoirs lately? And where is the need? Is it some sort of Homerian desire to live on after death if only in the minds of people to come? Is it worthwhile for the ordinary, or do we only really benefit from the shared experiences and reflections of the extraordinary? Recently two people in my life in one way or another wrote their memoirs while in nursing homes. His was not published, hers was. I had a very strong reaction to them both, though in different ways.
One of them (which granted, I only was able to spend 45 minutes or so glancing through), seemed really beautiful and incredibly valuable for his family once he passed. He was a WWII veteran and shared stories, photos, and various little anecdotes and things documenting the course of his life. It seemed smart and pithy, but not self-important. It was very beautiful and touching from what I saw: he lived his life to the fullest.
The other made me cringe. It seemed on the surface to be sincere, but what is the point in being sincere with others when you're being dishonest with yourself? I feel a bit strange harshly criticizing the elderly, particularly people I know, but I have never read anything so patently selfish and self-promoting. Clearly she was not familiar with the maxim, "If you can't say something nice..." I can't understand why someone would choose in her memoirs to reinforce bad blood between family members and publically air in a published book not just her own dirty laundry, but that of her close family... and not out of any sort of concern for them, but just in a feeble attempt to present herself as a martyr or a saint. Regardless of it's childish content and horrendous lack of ethos, however, what reinforced its not needing to exist in my mind was how poorly it was written, despite the fact that she was at one point a journalist. Even the most basic of grammatical errors had not been corrected, there was no accurate or discernable chronology in what was presented as a chronological work, and this was a published book. I was not impressed: it more closely resembled the private diary of a young girl, a silly young girl, than it did the reflections and stories of a mature elderly lady looking back upon her life.
Then I got to thinking about the difference between these two people. I can't ignore or fail to mention that the latter woman shared in her writings that she had been diagnosed with dementia, while the man remained alert and oriented up until the point he was put on pallative care (he passed way early last tuesday morning, please keep him in your prayers)- long after he finished his memoirs. I know dementia is a serious mental illness and you cannot afford to take personally or hold them accountable for things people suffering from something like that say or do. But my goodness. I find it so hard to deal with the fact that this woman presented, with such great pride, this unflattering account of her life for her to be remembered by, dementia or no.
But moving away from the problem dementia presents, I've been wondering more about the content and what it is these people at the root of the matter had to offer. Putting aside presentation and personal issues, and even attitude, to just look at the content of both of their lives as they presented it, it seems to me that whatever drama she was able to conjure up, her life seemed more ordinary, and his seemed extraordinary. Her stories dealt with all things personal, while his stories transcended mere troubles and approached addressing issues. However biased a reader I am, I'd be willing to offer a guarantee that most all of you would in retrospect have enjoyed reading the WWII Vet's memoirs more. I don't think it is unfair to apply standard expectations of literature to autobiographical works, particularly those written in a nursing home (that is, while headed "down hill"), and praise it in virtue of it's meritorious content, the praiseworthy accomplishments of the author, and good presentation. Am I cruel and unfeeling for being so decidedly appalled by the selfish, poorly written memoirs of a little old lady with dementia in a nursing home? It still is quite the feat given her situation. I just can't bring myself to in any way praise it.
I'm not doing a very good job presenting the problems with this situation as I see it, so maybe I'll come back to this later when my mind is more clear. Also, perhaps I ought to mention that the woman I'm speaking of is closely related to me. I find it so difficult to try and objectively critique literature not just written by someone you know, but about the very same person. Maybe I shouldn't even bother trying to be objective. My small little mind just does not know what to do with it.
There's this crazy little 92 year old German lady at work that cracks me up (most of the time). She is the most viciously fiesty person I have ever encountered, even in a nursing home. I have to go in to "change" her adult diaper 3 times a night, but it's quite the challenge.
First off, she rips off anything they put on her body: diapers, gowns, bandages, ANYTHING. So every time I go in there she's completely naked, lying on a sopping wet pad (cloth pad with plastic bottom in case they wet through the diapers-- if they're wearing them) because she's incontinent, often with blood spots on her sheets because the bandages she ripped off were over wounds. Pretty crappy and unfortunate.
But the worst part is it's so hard to do anything to put her in a better situation! She is crazy racist against blacks, and I get the impression most of her aides during the day are black. But every time I've gone in there it's either been alone or with this one mexican lady, and one of the most common things we hear is "Go back to Africa, ***dammit!!" Other favorites include.."Get the hell out of here!" "It's NIGHT! Leave me alone, damn you!" "What are you doing! Get your swine hands (? yeah, I know. Pigs have hooves.) off of me, you filthy pig!" Usually when I come in I have to be armed and ready with wet soapy cloths to wash her with and clean pads... I generally have about a 10-15 second window in which I can do as much as possible before she fully wakes up and goes crazy. She claws and scratches and bites in addition to the verbal abuse... it's pretty crazy hard to try and roll her over to change the pad, much less change her diaper. The part that REALLY got me though is how sneaky she is... sometimes there'll be a lull in her insults and you suspect the storm is breaking and she's starting to calm down so you can change her pad and wipe her off... and she gets really quiet and gently places her hand on your wrist, almost as though she's about to caress it or something, and then RIGHT at the last second her grip tightens like a vice and her other hand comes flying over to claw the hell out of your trapped wrist, cackling insults left and right. It's crazy!! Also, an impressive grip for a little old lady.
This woman embodies the battle I have every two hours to remove soggy, urine-filled linen from her bed every night at work. It's so hard to get done what needs to be done, not just for my job requirements but to improve her quality of life... she's too old to be rotting in urine all night. I'm kind of at a loss as to what to do with her, because it usually only works out once a night where I'm able to change the pad in addition to wiping her off. The nurse is okay with that (she knows what Mary's like)... but it's just so not ideal. How do you soothe such a beast?! And I thought my bedside manner was improving...
"Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole day long? From morn to night my friend." --Christina Rossetti
