Day 12
Day 12... Or, Day 1 of my new job! What is it exactly?
The doctor says to ask the recreation coordinator, but she’s not in today. I ask the nurse but she’s preoccupied: “I guess you could go talk to people?”, but not right now because breakfast is in progress. I hunt down the social worker to see if she has any ideas. “Oh that’s great,” she says. “Mrs. P is the sister of the resident who died last week. She could use a check-in.” Ok, that got heavy fast. I’m adding social work to my expanding list of qualifications.
I find Mrs. P in her room, sitting in her wheelchair. She’s slumped over but when I ask how she’s doing she perks up a bit and smiles sadly. “Oh, you know.” By the standards around here she is very coherent, although she chides herself for forgetting names and details. “You know, I never thought my sister would go like that. I went to see her, she recognized me but she couldn’t talk. She’s younger than me. I always thought she’d be the last one. I could have gone first, I’m ready, I tell God every day. But the Lord has a plan. And I trust Him, I do, and I talk to Him every day and you know, He listens and He answers. Even in here, He answers.”
The moment is shattered by a loud beeping and an announcement on the intercom. A license plate number is read out: it takes me a second but I jump up, “Hey that’s me!” Mrs P’s eyes widen, and then she starts laughing, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Ooooh you’re in trouble!!”
“It was so nice to meet you and I’m so so sorry about this,” I apologize, “can I come back and visit?”
“Oh yes dear. Yes please do.” There’s a new sparkle in her eye as I hurry out, which I suppose is something, even if it’s at my expense.
It takes some time to get downstairs, what with all the doffing. It turns out I can’t park in a certain area because it’s garbage day, which is something I would know if I actually worked here.
When I get back, I adopt a very unscientific approach of wandering the halls and peeking in on any residents who look mostly awake. The first woman is sitting at a table with a glass of juice, but when I greet her there’s no response. Nearby is a stack of papers scrawled with tic-tac-toe boards. “Wanna play?” I grab a mostly blank sheet and 2 pens. I draw the board, she grabs a pen and draws a circle in every square. I think I lost. “Play again?” Her watery eyes stare past me but she nods slightly. We repeat this 7, 8 more times. “Ok, I’m gonna… go now, but this was fun!”
The next resident is much more chatty. She’s so sociable and animated that it takes a minute to realize that what she’s saying makes zero sense (my clinical brain says, “Classic Wernicke’s Aphasia,” which matters not at all). Her window features a view of a brick wall, but she seems enamoured of all the things that go past: “the boffers and the niffs.” I do a lot of, “well isn’t that something!” and I laugh when she laughs, which is often.
In the afternoon, I help set up a FaceTime call between a resident and his daughter. I hold the screen up to the bed as she waves and calls his name, but it’s unclear if he hears. He motions for us to leave. The daughter thanks me for trying. We’ll try again tomorrow.
What did I do today? I’m not sure. Everything and nothing.
Day 13
The doctor says to ask the recreation coordinator, but she’s not in today. I ask the nurse but she’s preoccupied: “I guess you could go talk to people?”, but not right now because breakfast is in progress. I hunt down the social worker to see if she has any ideas. “Oh that’s great,” she says. “Mrs. P is the sister of the resident who died last week. She could use a check-in.” Ok, that got heavy fast. I’m adding social work to my expanding list of qualifications.
I find Mrs. P in her room, sitting in her wheelchair. She’s slumped over but when I ask how she’s doing she perks up a bit and smiles sadly. “Oh, you know.” By the standards around here she is very coherent, although she chides herself for forgetting names and details. “You know, I never thought my sister would go like that. I went to see her, she recognized me but she couldn’t talk. She’s younger than me. I always thought she’d be the last one. I could have gone first, I’m ready, I tell God every day. But the Lord has a plan. And I trust Him, I do, and I talk to Him every day and you know, He listens and He answers. Even in here, He answers.”
The moment is shattered by a loud beeping and an announcement on the intercom. A license plate number is read out: it takes me a second but I jump up, “Hey that’s me!” Mrs P’s eyes widen, and then she starts laughing, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Ooooh you’re in trouble!!”
“It was so nice to meet you and I’m so so sorry about this,” I apologize, “can I come back and visit?”
“Oh yes dear. Yes please do.” There’s a new sparkle in her eye as I hurry out, which I suppose is something, even if it’s at my expense.
It takes some time to get downstairs, what with all the doffing. It turns out I can’t park in a certain area because it’s garbage day, which is something I would know if I actually worked here.
When I get back, I adopt a very unscientific approach of wandering the halls and peeking in on any residents who look mostly awake. The first woman is sitting at a table with a glass of juice, but when I greet her there’s no response. Nearby is a stack of papers scrawled with tic-tac-toe boards. “Wanna play?” I grab a mostly blank sheet and 2 pens. I draw the board, she grabs a pen and draws a circle in every square. I think I lost. “Play again?” Her watery eyes stare past me but she nods slightly. We repeat this 7, 8 more times. “Ok, I’m gonna… go now, but this was fun!”
The next resident is much more chatty. She’s so sociable and animated that it takes a minute to realize that what she’s saying makes zero sense (my clinical brain says, “Classic Wernicke’s Aphasia,” which matters not at all). Her window features a view of a brick wall, but she seems enamoured of all the things that go past: “the boffers and the niffs.” I do a lot of, “well isn’t that something!” and I laugh when she laughs, which is often.
In the afternoon, I help set up a FaceTime call between a resident and his daughter. I hold the screen up to the bed as she waves and calls his name, but it’s unclear if he hears. He motions for us to leave. The daughter thanks me for trying. We’ll try again tomorrow.
What did I do today? I’m not sure. Everything and nothing.
Day 13
I just wanted to make a quick note about this post and others that discuss the residents directly. I’m trying to walk a fine line here between conveying their individuality and humanity, and protecting their privacy. The anecdotes here are real, but details (including some genders) have been changed; conversations are mostly not direct quotes but more the gist of what was said, and some of the individuals described are actually composites of similar encounters.
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