You do not like anyone to see you looking less than impeccable. You don’t remember that right now, so I will remember it for you. Your perfectly coiffed hair in the framed photos and closet full of matching Alfred Dunner suits tell me what you cannot. So I wash you up, despite your grumbling and put on your favorite turquoise outfit. I hand you the lipstick and steady your hand as you apply it and the previous frustration you felt melts away to a smile. I know you. You can’t make it too easy for me and at the end of our morning routine, you look pretty and I look like a sweaty mess. You chuckle and say thanks.
You have lucid moments when you realize that your mind isn’t working the way it should. These moments break your heart and mine, as I watch you work through the reality that your mom died decades ago and your sister is in another country only to forget again by my next shift. Right or wrong, I wish those particular moments of clarity wouldn’t come; that you wouldn’t have to grieve anew every time your mind decides to tear that scab off. There is nothing I can do but walk with you through it. Thankfully, those dark, cobwebby moments are few and far between. You are my night owl, regaling me with your extensive knowledge of music. The mind is an amazing thing. You struggle with the concept of saliva and yet you know every word to countless songs from Mack the Knife to Proud Mary. It is your love of music and dance that inspired the idea of early morning dance parties. You never like for me to be out of your line of vision, and yet when another resident is having a difficult day, you are the first to sit beside them and hold their hand. You are able to put aside your own anxiety for others.
You are a natural born healer. You were a medic in a war in which you never killed a single person. You told me that your calling was to bring life not to take it. You have told me this countless times and I never tire of hearing it. You are bi-lingual. You are witty. You get frustrated sometimes because you spent a life time caring for others and it’s hard when you realize that you need care too, now. I tell you that what little help we do for you is nothing compared to the wealth of wisdom you bring us every day. You are dapper and do not like to leave your apartment without your hat…your chapeau. That’s French. You taught me that.
You are an artist. Your apartment is a gallery of your work. As your thought process changes with this disease, so does your artwork and yet I see you in all of the paintings. You are head strong and I have to resort to some creative trickery to get you to allow me to help you at all, not that you need much help. I know it isn’t that you don’t want assistance as much as you don’t want the reminder that you need a little help every now and then. I get that. I would feel the same way. And you are far too young for this. I am mad at the disease for you, but rather than focus on that, I look at your art work and remind you how amazing you are. How incredibly talented you are. How lucky I am to have such a friend. And I mean every word of it.
At the very heart of what we do as caregivers is the art of knowing. This is a tiny sample of what I’ve learned about those in my care over the years. Knowing them as individuals not only helps me improve the quality of care for them, but also deeply enriches my own life. I am a better person for having known each and every person who has ever been in my care. They are more than a room number. They are more than a diagnosis or level of mental acuity or a two person transfer. They are people; flawed, nuanced, interesting, complex people who have lived full lives. As they walk through their sunset years, they certainly have earned the right to be known as something more than room 346.
Working the graveyard shift on a memory care unit…there really are no adequate words to describe the experience. In many ways, it’s the most challenging experience I’ve ever had in this field. I have twelve residents on my hall and on any given shift there are four to six that won’t sleep. It’s a crapshoot whether it will be an all night dance party full of fun or a nightmarish landscape over which I have little control. Mostly, it’s some combination of the two.
“I think I’m dead.”
“You’re not dead.”
“I might be.”
“ You’re not.”
“Ok. If you say so.”….I have that exchange at least once a week. This particular resident is very matter of fact about the whole idea that she might be a ghost, as if she finally figured out why her life has become so strange and unrecognizable. Death, however final, at least made some sense to her. The disease that has ravaged her mind and slowly robs her of who she once was makes no sense at all. She is still in there, though. Her caustic wit cuts through her mental fog; a beam that lights brief paths to moments of clarity in which who she is underneath the Alzheimer’s disease shines through. She loves music. All kinds of music and she loves to dance. She hates tuna fish. If she doesn’t trust you, she lets you know it. She doesn’t respond well to formality, preferring warmth to surface level pleasantries and when she laughs, it is full throated and from the soul rather than polite titters hidden modestly behind a handkerchief. This is a woman who does not bother with giggles. She laughs like she means it and I love that about her.
Those are the moments that I hold onto when the bad nights come; when my people wander in the darkest hours of the night, confused and afraid. When she is having a difficult night, she doesn’t sleep.
“I’m frightened!”, she tells me. Eight hours straight of I’m frightened. And when I’m on a round and out of her sight that fright turns to panic until I am finished helping another resident and she can lay eyes on me again. The best I can do to help her through those nights is to continuously remind her of who she is; that she hates tuna fish and loves music and loves to dance. That helps some, for a little while…but I have eleven other residents who also need me and when three or four of them are having a difficult night at the same time I feel like I’m drowning in my own powerlessness. I can’t cure dementia. I can’t bring back dead mothers or lost dogs from their childhood. In the light of day, with the activity and structure of the daily routines, redirecting is much easier. At three in the morning, it is much more difficult to escape the ghosts of the mind. That’s true for me, so I can’t imagine how hard it is for them.
When I first started on this hall, those shifts were so emotionally exhausting that by the time I punched out, I was feeling something very close to despair. I do not do despair very well. I haven’t for a very long time. Despair leads to giving up and that is quite simply not an option. Besides, those were only the shifts when it seemed that everyone was having a bad night at once and as painful as they were for me, it was exponentially worse for those in my care who were actually living through it.
So much of this field is trial and error. I decided to go back to my basics; ideas and tools I learned years ago when I worked in memory care on first shift. The hours are different and as are the mental state of those in my care but certain truths transcend from day to night. Consistency is always vital in memory care. If I say I’m going to do something, I follow through. I learned my residents, their patterns and preferences and the best night time bathroom times for each one individually and developed my routine. I keep it consistent but flexible. I work around them. If a lot of my folks are restless, I have a midnight snack party and play calming music. My night owls like Law and Order. It’s funny…the can’t follow the show but they seem to remember enjoying it and that’s enough. All of this has helped a great deal.
Of course there are still really tough shifts when events seem to snowball, but they are less frequent and I am better able to deal with them. One of my favorite aspects of my work is that in order to be most effective, I have to learn continuously. Anyone who says differently isn’t doing it right. I have been blessed with the support of those who love me most, both in and out of the field. It is impossible to give up when surrounded by people who believe in you. I walk in the footsteps of those caregivers who trudged the path before me and passed on what they know. At the end of the day, good or bad shift, daylight or in the still of the night, I love what we do. I love writing about what we do. I love that I see the value in what we do and I love those in our care for whom we do it.
It’s not uncommon for caregivers to say they were drawn to the field or that they were “born to do this work.” Others will tell you that life circumstances brought them to the job, but after some time as a caregiver they began to regard it as a calling. Probably both are true in different degrees in different people. But either way, I think the experience of caregiving incites something within our psyche that might otherwise remain dormant. It can change us.
The notion is supported by science. Psychologist Daniel Goleman, the author of Social Intelligence: the New Science of Human Relationships, tells us that person to person interactions literally shapes the human brain. The more important the relationship, the more profound the effect of those interactions upon the brain. When we help someone we care about, there is a psychoactive reaction in our brains that also connects with the circuitry that makes us feel good. We are biologically wired to learn to love and each experience expands our capacity for kindness and compassion. Dr. Goleman says that the brain area that becomes stronger in this activity is the same area as a parent’s love for a child. We often hear caregivers talk about residents being like family members. This may be one reason why.
I’ve experienced this in my own life. Late last summer, following a speaking engagement at the Pioneer Network annual conference, I was ready was to devote myself full time to promoting this blog and our message. However, two months earlier, my granddaughter, Claire had been diagnosed with Agenesis of the Corpus Callosum (ACC), meaning that she had been born without the part of her brain that connects the two hemispheres. ACC is a developmental disorder that does not have a cure and treatment involves a lot of early intervention. Soon after I got home from the conference, circumstances related to Claire’s treatment and care resulted in me becoming her primary caregiver during the day. I wasn’t planning on taking on this responsibility and I knew it would interfere with my work, but I couldn’t turn my back on my granddaughter when she needed me.
While I was initially motivated by a sense of family obligation, I soon realized that not only did I very much enjoyed my time with Claire, I found the experience quite fulfilling. I discovered that many of the skills and attitudes I developed in my years as a caregiver in LTC were applicable and I quickly became comfortable with this new responsibility. Soon I began working with the in-home therapists from the Early On program and learned about ways we could actively address the developmental challenges presented by Claire’s ACC. I knew that Claire will always have her struggles, but I was encouraged by the idea that we could do things here and now that would make a significant impact later in her life.
It makes sense to me that this transformation from a sense of obligation to experiencing emotional fulfillment to a desire to give more has something to do with Dr. Goleman’s psychoactive reaction. While there is little doubt that this process is enhanced by the expected grandparental bonding, it is quite possible that my daily interactions with Claire conditions my psyche in the same way an exercise regimen conditions the human body.
I believe there are certain universal truths that apply to any form of caregiving, whether it’s practiced within a family, within a facility, or in some other setting. And the first of these truths is that the relationship between the caregiver and care recipient can be a mutually beneficial experience. Under the right conditions, it’s an experience that has the power to change the lives of both parties.
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.
I get so tired sometimes. I want to shrink from this world that seems to subsist and thrive on anger, panic and fear. Has it always been this way and I’ve just been oblivious to the fever of it or is this some new beast fueled by everyone’s absolute certainty that they are right? The days of context and nuance seem to be gone for the moment and shades of grey no longer exist. Black or white. Right or wrong. Bottom line thinking for an end results world.
I am never very certain about very much. In my experience, that way lies madness. I have certain ethical guidelines and passions that anchor me and I try to keep my mind open to learning from others who have different points of view. Work has been vital for my sanity in this social climate where people seem to be filling some inner need by yelling at one another and coming up with shallow, half-hearted and blame-filled excuses to the deep and complex problems that our society is facing. I guess that’s easier and less satisfying than putting aside anger and wounded egos in order to come together and effectively work toward common solutions. We currently live in a world where everyone wants to be the boss but no one wants to lead.
Those of us who work in Long Term Care are no strangers to the damage such a management style causes. It’s flat out ineffective. The best supervisors are the ones who roll up their sleeves regardless of who is watching. If I only see you when state is in the building, I’m less likely to trust you around those in my care. I have more respect for an LPN who will help me calm a resident who is lashing out in fear than a career administrator with degrees on the wall who’s first solution is Ativan because she’s about to give a tour to a potential new client and wants the hall orderly. That is the difference between a leader and a boss. Because I find my own personal standards of quality care to be much higher than what is expected of us, I have no need for a boss. I learn from leaders, however, and that makes them as invaluable as they are rare.
I decided to step back from Facebook for a little while. Every other status I read is angry. Every article posted has completely different facts cherry picked to enrage or validate you depending on what side of the given position you take. They all agree that everything is the absolute worst. The only difference is who they believe is to blame…and all of that is crap. Cynical, self serving crap wrapped in a bow made of ego.
But, Alice! Aren’t you concerned about the state of affairs?! Of course I am, possibly shocked and appalled reader, but here’s the thing…this is NOWHERE NEAR as bad as it’s been. In my years in this field I’ve cared for people of color who actually lived through the civil rights era. I’ve cared for a Vietnam vet who lost his sight, and a WWII vet who lost his leg. I’ve cared for people who were children during the Great Depression and for people who lived through the Cold War. I’ve had women in my care who lived in a time when it was more socially acceptable to be an abused wife than a divorced woman. Collectively, we survived all of that. As a society, we have faced our worst behaviors and bit by bit we have grown from them; progressed step by painful step forward. I refuse to believe that this…this angry, entitled, backwards thinking reality we are all actively creating is going to stick. I have more faith in us than that.
Individuals are all more than one thing. Are my residents simply their Alzheimer’s disease? Or prostate cancer? Or schizophrenia? Are they not bigger than that? Am I not more than my political affiliation? Is it not beautiful that we are all people who bleed the same? It is a combination of different ideas and individual experiences that gives life it’s richness. When did we decide that we should only surround ourselves with those who look, think, believe and behave exactly like us? How can we possibly come up with and solutions to vastly complex issues without the benefit of diverse ideas and the freedom to dissent without fear?
So I would like to thank every single person who has ever been in my care for teaching me gratitude and perspective. Life is too short to waste on fear and anger over troubles that we create or stir up in our minds before they even occur. I would also like to thank you for living through adversity and sharing your stories so I know what courage looks like. I would like to thank my fellow caregivers who adapt to the reality on the floor rather than the one we are told to expect. We come together to make the most of what is rather than complain about what should be…ok to be fair sometimes we do both but for the most part we are about action. It is a diverse world on the floor, full of people from all walks of life with a variety of skills and reasons for being in this field. Despite what some may think, we cannot all be painted with one brush and for that I am incredibly thankful. This field has honed a strength in me that would not have developed otherwise and directed a passion for purpose toward a path where it would be put to good use. I get tired, but I’m one of the lucky ones. I get these reminders at least five nights a week. I can step back from the combative and fear filled world online and reorient myself to the world in which I live.
I’m sure in the light of day, this facility is charming. I can’t quite remember the impression I had of the building in which I work during my two day orientation, which took place in the bright sunshiney hours. The relief and excitement I felt about the new job opportunity dimmed my keen powers of observation; the same Sherlock Holmes level of visual acuity that prevents me from getting into the wrong car and trying to start it more than twice a week. So I can’t say for certain that in daylight it’s a charming, lovely place. I can only assume. At night, however, there is no more fitting a descriptor than “creeptastic”.
Let’s start with the huge portrait of an incredibly stern looking man above the fireplace. His eyes seem to follow you everywhere and then there are the clown pictures and blood red carpets and creaks in the floor and the overabundance of wind chimes…all of which may add whimsy and class to the joint in the day, but at night? No. It feels like the environment of a stereotypical horror movie that would be panned for being too predictable.
I say this with great affection. It’s exactly the sort of strange and surreal experience that I’ve come to appreciate in my life. It’s anything but ordinary but after this weeks stretch on memory care, I realized that buildings are not the only things haunted at night and there is only so much I can do to chase away another person’s inner demons.
It makes sense, really. When does my mind spin the most, picking apart the day and chasing my own imaginary fears? When is my own anxiety at its peak if I had a rough day? Right before bed. And if I can’t sleep? Forget about it. My mind runs wild. Why would I expect any different from those in my care?
At night in the quiet, dimly lit halls of the memory care unit, my night owls pace. Sometimes they are just confused about the time. That is easy to redirect usually. I explain to them my days get topsy turvey too, we share a chuckle, I tuck them in and off to sleep they go. I can do that all night without losing patience. No, it’s the other situations that get to me.
I call them the “night dreads”. When one of my folks has a rough night, it’s very different than what I experienced when I worked the day shifts. Sure, there was any number of challenging behaviors and there was less time to redirect in the day but it was different. Maybe because there were more people around and the extra stimulation kept them more alert. They seemed less…haunted. Nightmares can be hard to shake off. A vivid enough one can muddy my perspective for awhile but when I’m awake, I’m awake. This is not how it is for my residents. A nightmare will shake them to their core. They don’t always understand the difference between their dreams and waking life. Often they will wander up and down the halls, looking for lost loved ones. Where is my mother? Where is my love?…letting them know they aren’t alone and are safe seems to help. I put them back to bed and sit with them for awhile. Sometimes I sing quietly. I make certain that the bathroom light is on.
More often than not, I will be repeating that throughout the night but each episode seems to be just a little easier. Each time the resident seems a little less scared. Usually, right as the sun is coming up, they are able to rest more deeply. Those nights are the hardest; the ones when I can’t chase away the ghosts for them, I can only put them at bay. They leave me exhausted, sad and a little scared at the idea of anyone having to live through the night dreads and little frustrated that the best I can do is walk with them through it.
Thankfully, tonight was free of that. Tonight there was mostly laughter. I have a resident who without fail leaves his room wearing the oddest combinations of clothing: long johns with a back brace and a red ladies hat with a purple flower (no telling where he picked that one up) was today’s fashion choice.
“Is is time for coffee?” I managed to keep a straight face for five seconds when I saw his get up.
“No, buddy. It’s 3:00 in the morning.”
“Ok. I’m going back to bed then. Don’t forget me in the morning!”, he called over his shoulder.
“Never, my friend.”, I assured him. You know what? Today, I’m going to make a conscious effort to see how this place looks in the sun. Most things are clearer in the light of day.
It will get better. I promise… I must have said that a hundred times to our new resident. She didn’t sleep at all. She searched for her mother, father, friend, a child and a pair of shoes that she must have left in England. She paced the floor for hours on ends. She changed her clothes eight times. She knocked on the doors of my other residents and asked me a garbled series of questions to which I had no good answers. In short, she did absolutely everything BUT sleep.
It was an unusually hectic night and by the end of the shift, I was emotionally tapped out. My new resident was so scared, hurt and anxious and eight straight hours of trying to soothe her in between my other tasks left its mark on me. In the end, I walked with her as she paced, rubbed her back when she cried, and made promises that I can’t possibly keep when she frantically asked questions based on the reality within her mind.
It will get better. I promise. I say it all the time. I redirect and calm and search for pets or loved ones that exist only in my residents’ memories. And yes, more often than not using those skills in those moments will bring a measure of short lived relief. But that doesn’t mean it will get better for them. Not in any lasting or impactful way. I can’t stop the loss of her memories. I can’t take away her confusion and unfamiliarity at her new surroundings nor the sense of abandonment and anxiety that comes from being pulled from one reality and placed into different one. I. Am. Powerless.
Normally I am good at compartmentalizing this awareness. It does no good to let those thoughts dance around in my mind. Such thinking only robs me of space in my head that is better used for what I actually can do to make life better for those in my care…normally. There are moments though when I am struck by a wave of such sadness that it robs me of my breath and I feel crushed; paralyzed by the weight of it all. Usually they hit me when I’m feeling powerless in my life outside of work or have been dabbling too long in my mind for my writing. My mind can be a fun place to be, but there are roads in there better left untraveled. The fact is, both on and off the clock, I deal with some pretty heavy shit. It’s kind of what I do. And acceptance of that, even joy in it, is so hardwired into me that I forget sometimes that it takes a toll if I’m not careful. Those short lived crashing waves of momentary despair are my wake up call. HEY ALICE! You’ve been playing too long in the deep end again! Come up for air!
So how do I stick with it and keep the faith without losing the ability to feel? Without becoming hardened? I get out of the problem as quick as I can and get back in the solution. Can I cure Alzheimer’s? No. Can I make someone living with Alzheimer’s laugh hard? More often than not. Can I force someone to get sober? No. Can I offer numbers and resources to someone who is in desperate need of help? Yes. I can do that. There are many aspects of life over which I have no power at all. Some but not all. I can DO. I can consistently and relentlessly keep moving forward. I can brighten another person’s day. I can do my job to the best of my ability. I can be kind and I can never give up. Even when it sometimes feels like the world is begging for it. That I have power over. That is my choice. Powerless and helpless are not the same thing.
I was hurting. It wasn’t the only emotion I was feeling or even the strongest but it was there, nagging at me; an annoyingly persistent hangnail in my soul, taunting me in the back of my mind. The weather wasn’t helping with its clouds heavy with unspilled rain lingering above as I drove the ten miles to what promised to be a long shift full of me biting my tongue through twelve hours of political discussion.
I’m not sure why everything decided to crash in on me this morning. Sure, I have had a long tumultuous stretch in my life, but the good has far outweighed the bad and the opportunities abounded in ways that I never saw coming. Still, emotions don’t always work in logical ways and I just felt so…tired. So uncertain of everything.
Leave it at the door, Alice. It wouldn’t do to simply plaster a smile on my face, keep an upbeat tone of voice. No. What I have discovered throughout my years in this field is that what those within my care lack in physical ability they make up for in emotional awareness. This has especially been true in private care, where we spend so much time together one on one. I can’t just fake it. My client would call me on it. I took a deep breath before I unlocked the door and made a silent list of all I had in my life for which to be grateful and got to work.
I thought I was doing well. I really did. I honestly believed that I had worked my way through that vague nagging malaise that invaded my spirit this morning. Blood sugar. Morning meds. Breakfast. Wash-up. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass. My mind unconsciously chanted as my hands moved by muscle memory.
“What’s wrong, Alice?”, the words cut through my repetitive thoughts. To my shock and horror, I felt tears well up in my eyes.
“Nothing. Everything. I can’t really tell at the moment.”, I answered honestly.
“Oh. I have days like that.”, my client replied. And suddenly I felt a little better. Suddenly I felt less alone with my troubles and I was able to regroup.
We caregivers have to compartmentalize so much. It’s just part of the gig. Our client’s and residents have so much to deal with we never want to add to their troubles by carrying our own into the work place. Leave it at the door. It’s hard for me to shut that off sometimes; that dissection of my own emotions in order to function better for those around me…that minimization of my own concerns.
It’s been a process for me to learn how and when to let down those walls and sometimes I still miss the mark. Still, today my client showed me that it was nice for her to be reminded that she wasn’t just being helped and comforted. She was able to help and comfort me as well.
Learning to Let Go
There are some aspects of this field with which I will never be comfortable. Being covered occasionally in body fluids is a cake walk, long shifts are usually no big deal. I quickly learned to adjust my pace and tone of voice to those in my care. I absolutely love working with people from all walks of life to solve every day problems, big or small. After nearly a decade, even death itself has lost its bite. I don’t mean to imply that such events are always easy to cope with or don’t come with pain. It’s just that after a certain amount of time in our work, death becomes the natural end of a journey we began together. For the most part, we caregivers enter our clients’ and residents’ world in the last chapter of their lives. Death is not an event over which we have any control. Leaving is.
Lately, I’ve been considering making a change. It isn’t that I don’t love the family in my care and it isn’t the money. I’ve enjoyed this sojourn into private care and my understanding of what it means to be a caregiver has deepened because of it, but now I want to explore new avenues and branch out. There is a new facility in town that has been designed by women who worked for years in this broken system and decided to do something about it. Person centered plans, amazing caregiver/resident ratio, beautiful grounds and owners who understand what is important from personal experience in the field. How could I NOT want to check out the possibilities?
Like so many of the most important opportunities in my life, this information landed in my lap. The timing was providential. I had just taken a short break in the middle of a particularly difficult shift and was contemplating how much I missed working in a facility when a text came from a friend of mine describing this new place. Alice! It’s a perfect fit for you! You HAVE to apply.
And then came the rush of excitement, immediately followed by the crash of guilt. How can I leave my client? How can I leave the whole family that both trust and depend on me? Such thoughts have always been a weakness of mine. On one level, they motivate me to give my all to my clients and residents regardless of where I may work. On the other hand, they prevent me from moving forward.
Caretaker personality, co-dependent tendencies, avoidance of conflict, fear of letting people down, lousy boundary setting skills. I get it. I have all the ingredients for that gigantic tossed salad of crazy, but I successfully work through such traits in a manner that promotes a healthy and vibrant life in most areas. They do pop up in my line of work, though. Especially when I’m considering change. Such complex emotions come from a good and genuine place within my heart. It’s those same feelings that motivate me to do my very best in every way that I can to improve the lives of others. It stems from empathy. It’s only when I let those instincts go awry that I become the master of my own misery.
The truth is I know change is not only inevitable but it’s also healthy. On an intellectual level, I am aware that the world won’t stop spinning because I consider other avenues in caregiving. Both my client and her family survived long before I got there and they will survive after I leave. And I haven’t even APPLIED for the facility yet. I’m putting the cart before the horse, here. I get that…Still. It’s a difficult thing to let go once the bond is formed between a caregiver/client. It SHOULD be difficult. If it were easy for me to walk away; if I could just brush off someone who has trusted and depended on me for over a year without flinching then I’d need to reconsider why I am in this field. That’s a level of cynicism that I hope I never reach. There are some aspects of this field with which I will never be comfortable. And I am okay with that.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!”, I said to the woman behind me in line at the food court. I accidentally whacked her with my client’s folded up walker as I switched it to my other shoulder. She looked at me with pity, completely unaware of the fact that I was celebrating a personal victory.
I wasn’t certain how my first shift after this election was going to be. The result left a wound in me that seems to be incomprehensible to those who voted for our new president elect. They don’t understand that for many of us, it’s not about the man as much as it’s about what we are willing to overlook or embrace as a nation in the name of “ending corruption”. It’s the ideology that’s so painful.
Be that as it may, I had a job to do and doing it well matters a great deal to me. Still, it would be a real test. Do I love the family in my care more than I despise and fear their ideology? In this environment, would I be able to detach from my own deeply held convictions for twelve hours of non-stop coverage followed by commentary by my client and her husband? I honestly didn’t know and, for the first time in a long time, I dreaded going into work.
I took a deep breath as I stepped through the door and immediately felt a shift in my thinking. Without any effort on my part, the caregiver in me rose up and took over. Outside that house, I’m Alice, free to feel and do whatever I see fit whenever I see fit, but once I stepped through that door, I had job to do and I knew in that moment that it was well within my power to do it.
As I assisted with ADLS, prepared meds and breakfast, I listened to my client chatter happily about the election results. To my COMPLETE surprise, in that moment, I found myself grateful, not for the current state of the nation, but for a moment of genuine excitement for my client. I was happy to hear the hope in her voice without agreeing with the reasoning behind it. I was able to put that in perspective because her being happy in that moment was more important than me being right. That didn’t mean I had to sit in that house and listen to it, though.
I needed a win. I desperately needed to feel like good could be accomplished in the face of all the chaos that has taken over this country… the chaos that had taken over my mind and heart. I needed a win and my client needed an adventure. We were going to Belks! Not just any Belks, either. The big one in the mall all the way across town, where she could get her hair done before she browsed the store.
Now, this was a big undertaking. It takes about an hour and a half to gather all the necessary paraphernalia and requires several tricky transfers. From the wheelchair to the car, to the wheelchair again and then to the salon chair, hair washing chair, back to the salon chair, back to the wheelchair, back to the car and finally back to her wheelchair at the end. It means that I am carrying a walker, tote bag with emergency supplies, her purse and my purse as I push her through the mall. It is every bit as exhausting as it is gratifying for both of us. That day, it was completely worth the effort, maybe more for me than for her.
That day came with a lesson that I hope to always hold close. The best way I know to protest the unacceptable is to not allow it to rob me of who I am; to apply the very same ideals that make this election result so difficult to swallow in every walk of my life, even when it’s difficult. I’m a caregiver first. I do not get to choose who is placed in my care. I do not get to dictate their opinions. However,I do get to hold on to my own and use them to motivate me to do my utmost best for them, regardless of the circumstances. I can lead by example and hold tight to the belief that, in the end, love always wins. While I’ll admit that is far less satisfying then ranting in the comment sections of news articles, I like to think in the long term, it will be more effective.