I am a person. I am not dementia. I am not diabetes. I am not simply a resident or client. I am not a care plan or a two person assist. I am not room 242 needs something for agitation.
I was a dancer. An ambassador. I fought for this country. I was a nurse. An engineer. I am a mother, son, daughter, sister. I am dying but I’m not dead yet. You make rules and say they are to protect me, and yet you don’t see me. You don’t ask me what I think. I am one more blurred face. I am one more bed filled. I am a number on a census.
Your voice and demeanor change when my family visits. Suddenly, we’re pals. Suddenly you are filled with concern but if I were to ask you how I slept last night or what my biggest fears were, or my favorite color or pet peeves, you wouldn’t know. That’s beneath your pay grade. That’s for the caregivers, if I’m lucky enough to have a good one that you doesn’t run off in search of greener pastures. And I don’t think you realize how truly demeaning it is to not be seen as an individual; how, more than anything else, the minimizing of who I am as a person to a checklist robs me of my dignity. There shouldn’t have to be a list of patient rights in order to be seen as a human being. Is there a more important rule than that? It shouldn’t be so complicated.
The higher up the food chain you are in this field the further you are removed from the people for whom it exists and the legislators making the calls are about as high up as one can get. The best way to find out how to improve the quality of life is to ask those who receive and provide the hands on care. It’s a no brainer.