Category Archives: Rose

What I Can

 

 

Rose

 

Old People’s Home
– W.H. Aulden

All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
  are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
  easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit’s bane: intelligent
  of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
  majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
  the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
  unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
  sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
  spacious, more comely to look at, it’s Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
  in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
  we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
  to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.

As I ride the subway
  to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
  when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
  painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?

The poem that Lynn shared in her post a couple of weeks ago inspired me to start looking at poetry again.  This one in particular really spoke to me today.  The lines of this poem match up with the faces in my head.  I think that’s why I like it so much.  It puts into words something that I’ve never been sure how to verbalize- how do I help people who’ve lost so much?  Each line brings to mind a resident to match it. 

Mrs. E- a stroke took her sight, and old age took her strength.  Every time I help her with a shower, she apologizes for taking up so much of my time.  Mrs. A doesn’t like my help- her mind is going, but while she still has her body she wants me to know it.  Whenever I forget, she’s quick to remind me, “I can do it.”

A resident whose name I can’t remember anymore.  “Would you like to go to Happy Hour?”  A blank stare at the wall- no.  “Would you like to watch some TV then?”  An eye roll and a shrug- yes.  I turn the TV on, and change it to the channel she asks for.  I’d like to stay and cheer her up.  But I have two call lights going off, and a shower to give before dinner.  The stare has been transferred from the wall to the TV.

Mrs. F.  I like to think that she and I have a bond- she might be losing most of her function, but her sense of humor is still intact.  After dinner she leaves to round the building in her wheelchair, and I let her go.  It’s better than keeping her cooped up on the hall with nothing to do. 

The geri-chair group on the Skilled unit.  After dinner, we group them around the TV until we can put them to bed.  Mrs. W sits and watches the TV, and next to her Mrs. K mutters nonsense, the same phrases repeated over and over.

Sometimes I find myself forgetting that they used to be different.  I’ve only known them like this, and in a way, I guess that makes it easier?  I don’t have to remember, to look at their faces and see what used to be.  But if I pay attention, I can see glimpses that still shine through.

Mr. J used to be a farmer and every once in a while he’ll tell me he can’t go to bed because he needs to check on the cows.  Mrs. F isn’t the person she used to be, but she absolutely lights up every Thursday evening when her grandson visits.  It’s the longest I’ve ever seen her sit in one place without getting bored.

Mrs. V used to let me practice my Spanish with her, before she stopped walking down to the dining room.  Mrs. M likes to chat about crime shows.  Mr. B likes to discuss logic and human nature. 

They’re still there.  Behind the eyes of each of my residents sits a person trying to hold onto what’s left of their life.  I find it hard to deal with, and I get to go home at the end of the shift.  They don’t.  If I’m burnt out, I can’t imagine how they must feel.

My favorite quote comes from the book Unwind by Neal Shusterman.  The book itself has nothing to do with long term care, but this one quote has always stuck with me- “Love the ones you can.  Pray for the rest.”  I’m trying to make this my work philosophy.  Each day, I am given a group of people to care for, and for that day, they are mine to love.  I can’t do everything.  I can’t make legs work or memories come back or pain go away.  But I can smile.  I can listen.  I can look and actually SEE.  I might not be able to do everything, I can do SOMETHING.  And then I can go home and pray about the rest of it. 

 

It will be okay

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Rose 

It seems like every other word out of my mouth tonight was an apology.  “I’m sorry I forgot your towels.”  “I’m sorry I forgot your coffee.”  “I’m sorry it took me so long.”  “I’m sorry, but it looks like I won’t be able to do your shower tonight.”  After two years of this, I finally felt like I was starting to get the hang of things.  But this particular hall was so busy that some things just slipped through the cracks.

              Every time I feel like I’ve finally got things figured out, it seems like the universe drops a load of crazy in my lap.  Or in this case, a week of crazy.  They just filled this rehab unit up after having it closed for a few weeks due to low census, and it seems like they managed to find every demanding, picky, or needy person in town and drop them on us all at once.  Everyone who works this unit knows that it’s crazy.  We’re struggling to get the bare minimum done, and it’s starting to show.  We’ve been asking for more help for days, but it’s not going to happen.

              It’s been a while since I’ve had an assignment this busy, and it was a rough day.  I forgot Mr. A’s towels and Mrs. B’s coffee.  Mr. C’s wife and daughter were sitting in the hall just before dinner, watching me run my legs off and making sympathetic comments about how I needed more help.  Mrs. D waited over two hours for me to be able to put her to bed, and I never did get the chance to give Mrs. E her shower.  As I’m driving home, I find myself running through the day in my head, trying to pinpoint what I could have done better.

              I want to tell them that I’m busy.  That there are too many people.  That I need more help.  But I try to avoid excuses, because they don’t really change anything.  For better or for worse, this is what I’m stuck with, so I’ll figure it out.

              In the end, Mr. A and Mrs. B got their towels and coffee.  Mr. C’s family went home and I was finally able to take care of him without someone breathing down my neck.  Mrs. D got into bed, and I told Mrs. E that maybe she can request a shower tomorrow or the day after if the staff has time.  The orientee from the other hall came over to help me for the last hour, and I finally got everyone into bed.  The charting wasn’t finished, and I clocked out late, but that’s okay.  It happens.  I’ll get to try again next time.

              The truth of the medical field is that it’s hard.  Some days it feels like I’ve been put through the wringer and dropped on a sinking ship with a teaspoon to bail myself out.  I can either sink or learn to swim very quickly.  But in the end, it’s worth it.  Because when I walk into a room, they smile.  They ask how my weekend off was, or how my classes are going.  I celebrate with them when they graduate from the wheelchair to the walker.  I give them a hug goodnight and tell them I’ll see them tomorrow.

              They need me.  It’s terrifying to realize that these people are totally dependent on me to care for them.  It’s a million times more terrifying for them.  There will be good days and bad days, but I’ll figure it out, because I have to.  It will still feel like things are falling down around me, but I’ll learn to be calmer and deal with it.

              When I first started as an aide, it was hard for me to accept the fact that I can’t do everything.  That some days I was only able to get the minimum done.  I thought that I was failing, and or that there was something I was doing wrong.  But eventually I realized that everyone else was in the same boat, and that we were all just doing our best within a tough system.  I learned to cope by focusing on the good parts of my day, not the bad.

              And there were good parts today.  I was able to share a joke with Mrs. F as I readjusted her pillows and gave her something to drink.  Mr. C told me that I must like my job because I’m always smiling.  I was able to teach the new girl a few tricks she didn’t know.  Several people asked me when I would be back.  If they want me back, I must be doing all right.  I’m driving home listening to a good CD, and I have the weekend off before my classes start.

              So I’ll go home, go to bed, and come back next week to start all over.  It will be crazy, and I’ll probably mess up a few times.  But I’ll survive in the end, and I’ll find a way to make someone smile.  Just as I told Mr. C, I really do like my job.  And it will be okay.