Last week I hosted an evening activity. As I was about to take a lady in, the woman next to her said, "Can I come too?" I said, "Of course! I'll come right back and get you."
I forgot to go back. I don't remember why exactly - all sorts of things tend to happen there that demand immediate attention and force you to constantly re-assess your priorities. But the reason is not important. I simply forgot.
After the activity was done and we came back out, I saw her sitting there. I felt awful, but I didn't think it was that big of a deal. As the night went on, though, I really started to feel bad. I began thinking about how these people deserve better than that from me. That those little things are the ones for which I want to go the extra mile.
During the activity one of the nurses had apologized to me for something. It wasn't a big deal, but she felt the need to apologize. I was pretty surprised, and I respect her a lot for bothering to do it.
It got me thinking, and I decided I needed to apologize to the resident I had forgotten.
Before I tell you what happened, you should know this is the same resident from two earlier posts ("What's Your Smile-Trigger?" and "Now That I'm a Lady" from October). I think I called her Jane then. From those two posts, you can hopefully see what kind of relationship I already had with Jane. She was a very special lady - encouraged me constantly, had a monstrously joyous spirit, and repeatedly touched me in ways I cannot explain.
This is how the apology went:
Me: "I need to apologize to you....next time I'll make sure you're the first person I take in."
Jane: "There won't be a next time."
Me: "Why not?"
Jane: "I might be dead."
And the worst part is, she was right. Jane passed away last night.
She spent the week sick in bed, so there really were no more activities for her to attend. That night was literally the last one she could have gone to, and I forgot her.
But the story doesn't stop there. I went in to see Jane a couple times this week while she was in bed. She was clearly not doing well. Hooked-up to machine and whatnot, keeping her eyes closed. No one even bothered to open her Christmas presents on Christmas morning because she seemed too out of it to appreciate them.
The first time I went in, though, I realized she was singing. I couldn't make out any of the words, but it was some sort of patriotic song with a very catchy, uplifting rhythm. I wanted to hold her hand, but she had a tight grip on her blanket and would not keep it still long enough because it was constantly bouncing in beat with the song.
The next time I went in, the night before she died, she was much more still. I thought she was sleeping, so I quietly sat by her side and held her hand. She gave it a little squeeze. I sat for a while in silence, gently rubbing her hand. After a while I knew I needed to leave, but I didn't want to just walk out without saying anything in case she was awake. I leaned down close to her ear and simply said, "I love you, Jane." She squeezed my hand again, and she started breathing heavier. I could tell she was trying to say something, and she finally managed to say "I love you MORE!" in her usual, enthusiastic tone. I smiled and stayed a few more minutes.
She started to breathe heavy again and let go of my hand. I got nervous at first, but I realized she was just trying to say something else. She started slowly raising her hand up toward the ceiling (an act of great will-power considering the condition she was in) and she started saying, "I love you....." I realized what she was doing and asked, "Jane, is that how much you love me?" referring to her rising hand. She smiled a huge smile, looked me square in the eye, and said "Yes."
I wouldn't trade that moment for anything. I didn't deserve it, especially considering how I forgot her the week before. But that's Jane. I learned quite a lesson this week, and got a big helping of grace in the process. This will be a tough one to recover from.
May you find rest and joy in the hands of the Everlasting, Jane. I hope you are sitting with your son now, preparing for the rest of your children to join you someday. Have fun at the Big Guy's activities - He'll never forget you, and I'm pretty sure His are better than mine anyway. I love you.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
They Must Have Sent Him Home
On our nursing unit, it's always kind of a guessing game when someone gets sick or is passing. No one really talks about it. I don't know if it's because the staff is too busy caring for the other residents or if it's just too painful. Maybe everyone has become desensitized (a fate I pray I never encounter), or maybe I'm just out of the loop, but for whatever reason I seldem get told when someone dies or is dying. The only way I know is if I look at the daily census updates myself (which I don't see on my days off) or if I notice a certain person missing and ask about it.
Last week I noticed I hadn't seen Harvey all day. He is usually up almost every single day, often sitting in the hallway chewing gum or humming to himself. He had lots of medical issues that I won't get into, but they made him pretty uncomfortable at times. That was probably his only downfall, though, if I can even call it that. Harvey was a very sharp man, very "with it" as you might hear him described on our floor. He had some signs of dementia, like when he'd call me "Mom" after I would hand him his breakfast, but otherwise he usually knew what was going on and could carry an intelligent conversation.
Because I noticed that Harvey wasn't out and about the hallways like he usually would be, I made sure to pass by his room before I left. Sure enough, he was laying in bed with two family members at his side, holding his hand. I've been here long enough now to know that when family members show up at the bedside (especially for a person who you've never seen with a single visitor otherwise), it won't be long. It happens quick, and it happens to the ones you'd least expect.
On my way out that night, I overheard a visitor saying, "I wonder where that man was. You know, the one that's always there in the hallway. He was very bright. Knew a lot of things, mechanical especially. I would always talk to him. I wonder where he's at - didn't see him today. I bet they sent him home. I always thought he was too 'with it' to be living there. That's good he went home, he was a sharp tack."
I knew he was talking about Harvey. The description fit him to a T. But I didn't have the heart to tell him what I already knew. This man thought Harvey was home and healthy, but I knew he was lying in bed, probably in his last days, maybe even moments.
Sure enough, Harvey passed away a few days later. I wish I had been wrong, I really do.
I hate to be such a Debbie Downer in this post, especially right before Christmas (I promise I'm not a Scrooge!). But the main reason I write this blog is to share my experiences with other people who may not ever find themselves in an environment where these life lessons are so prevalent. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm positively convinced that the world would be a better place (pardon the cliche phrase) if we would take seriously the experiences of our elders. As G.K. Chesterton said, "“I believe what really happens in history is this: the old man is always wrong; and the young people are always wrong about what is wrong with him. The practical form it takes is this: that, while the old man may stand by some stupid custom, the young man always attacks it with some theory that turns out to be equally stupid.” I think a good start to ending that cycle would be to put more weight in the stories of the generations outside of our own, whether older or younger. I digress...
I guess the moral of this post would be to not take your loved ones for granted (there's a nice Christmas message, eh?). We hear it all the time, "life is short" - and it really is. But I'm learning now that even more so, the life of a loved one can be even shorter. Maybe I should credit it to my "post-college, the-world-is bigger-than-me, time-to-become-an-adult-and-think-about-others-instead-of-yourself awakening," but you really never know how long someone will be in your life.
I know Christmas is a time that we make an effort to appreciate our loved ones anyway, but maybe this year it can be more than just "appreciating" them. Instead of just giving them a thoughtful gift or sentimental card (which is wonderful, don't get me wrong), try making an effort to really know them. Ask to hear a story they've never told you. Seek out an interest you have in common and enjoy the experience together. Share something personal and get their advice on the issue. Those are the things you'll remember if, heaven forbid, that person is suddenly not in your life someday. The thoughtful gifts can bring joy for a moment, but those memories are what you will cherish (and grow from) for a lifetime.
Last week I noticed I hadn't seen Harvey all day. He is usually up almost every single day, often sitting in the hallway chewing gum or humming to himself. He had lots of medical issues that I won't get into, but they made him pretty uncomfortable at times. That was probably his only downfall, though, if I can even call it that. Harvey was a very sharp man, very "with it" as you might hear him described on our floor. He had some signs of dementia, like when he'd call me "Mom" after I would hand him his breakfast, but otherwise he usually knew what was going on and could carry an intelligent conversation.
Because I noticed that Harvey wasn't out and about the hallways like he usually would be, I made sure to pass by his room before I left. Sure enough, he was laying in bed with two family members at his side, holding his hand. I've been here long enough now to know that when family members show up at the bedside (especially for a person who you've never seen with a single visitor otherwise), it won't be long. It happens quick, and it happens to the ones you'd least expect.
On my way out that night, I overheard a visitor saying, "I wonder where that man was. You know, the one that's always there in the hallway. He was very bright. Knew a lot of things, mechanical especially. I would always talk to him. I wonder where he's at - didn't see him today. I bet they sent him home. I always thought he was too 'with it' to be living there. That's good he went home, he was a sharp tack."
I knew he was talking about Harvey. The description fit him to a T. But I didn't have the heart to tell him what I already knew. This man thought Harvey was home and healthy, but I knew he was lying in bed, probably in his last days, maybe even moments.
Sure enough, Harvey passed away a few days later. I wish I had been wrong, I really do.
I hate to be such a Debbie Downer in this post, especially right before Christmas (I promise I'm not a Scrooge!). But the main reason I write this blog is to share my experiences with other people who may not ever find themselves in an environment where these life lessons are so prevalent. If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm positively convinced that the world would be a better place (pardon the cliche phrase) if we would take seriously the experiences of our elders. As G.K. Chesterton said, "“I believe what really happens in history is this: the old man is always wrong; and the young people are always wrong about what is wrong with him. The practical form it takes is this: that, while the old man may stand by some stupid custom, the young man always attacks it with some theory that turns out to be equally stupid.” I think a good start to ending that cycle would be to put more weight in the stories of the generations outside of our own, whether older or younger. I digress...
I guess the moral of this post would be to not take your loved ones for granted (there's a nice Christmas message, eh?). We hear it all the time, "life is short" - and it really is. But I'm learning now that even more so, the life of a loved one can be even shorter. Maybe I should credit it to my "post-college, the-world-is bigger-than-me, time-to-become-an-adult-and-think-about-others-instead-of-yourself awakening," but you really never know how long someone will be in your life.
I know Christmas is a time that we make an effort to appreciate our loved ones anyway, but maybe this year it can be more than just "appreciating" them. Instead of just giving them a thoughtful gift or sentimental card (which is wonderful, don't get me wrong), try making an effort to really know them. Ask to hear a story they've never told you. Seek out an interest you have in common and enjoy the experience together. Share something personal and get their advice on the issue. Those are the things you'll remember if, heaven forbid, that person is suddenly not in your life someday. The thoughtful gifts can bring joy for a moment, but those memories are what you will cherish (and grow from) for a lifetime.
Monday, November 28, 2011
I'm Going to End Global Warming!
I asked a group of residents one day, "If you could change one thing in the world, what would it be?" I got a few of the typical responses - the weather, end hunger, to go home - but one in particular stood out.
Dottie replied by saying, "I'd change myself. You know, the way I live. Nothing else is ever going to change unless I do." I instantly thought of Ghandi's words, "be the change you want to see in the world." I've been thinking a lot lately about how it's the little things that mean the most. Sure, we'd all love to go out and solve world hunger or end global warming, but if those are our goals (noble as they may be), we might get so discouraged in the process that we stop doing the little things. I'm starting to think that a million feasible (but unnecessary) acts of kindess would leave a bigger impact on this world than ending global warming ever could. And who knows, maybe the extra kind word you say to someone will be just the inspiration they needed to go on and end global warming someday.
This hits close to home for me right now. I'm caught in the horrible yet exciting place of deciding whether to go into more debt for a masters degree or keep working to pay off the debt I already have (because Lord knows no one in the healthcare or religious fields are going to pay for a masters for me). But it's more than the money. I could go on, suck up the debt, and get all kinds of degrees to do all sorts of research and try to cure Alzheimer's someday. Or, I could stay in Smalltown, USA working as an activities technician making just over minimum wage but (hopefully) leaving a mark on the hearts of 50 beautiful individuals who, if I didn't come in, might not have one meaningful conversation with a single human being that day.
I think both roles are equally valuable. Somebody needs to be doing that research. But am I the one that's cut out for it? Just because I want a cure for Alzheimer's more than anything in the world doesn't necessarily mean I'm the best person to find it. Maybe I'm more well-suited for the small-scale stuff. Somebody's got to take care of those 50 wonderful people while the research is taking place.
I'll stop casting my personal dilemnas on you now. But I do think they testify to the truth in Dottie's statement. Whether I'm singing "Bicycle Built for Two" at the top of my lungs, terribly off-key (so that 30 wheel-chair ridden people can hear me over the hustle and bustle of a chaotic nurses' station) or sitting in a lab until 10:00 at night staring at brain scans and family history statistics, I'm not going to be doing anyone any good if I'm not finding a way to impress kindness on everyone I meet. For one, it will probably burn me out if I lose sight of the beauty in the little things in life. I think joyful connections with the people around us are vital to life. We are relational creatures (you'll have to excuse the theology major in me coming out...).
While it is good to have goals for the big picture, I think society as a whole will be a lot closer to achieving them if we learn to interact in a more healthy manner with one another. If I do end up sitting in that lab someday, I think I'll be a lot more productive (and less likely to give up) if the person I bought my coffee from that morning had a genuine smile on their face. Call me crazy, but at least for now, my contribution to finding a cure for Alzheimer's (heck, even for ending global warming) is to be kinder to every. single. person I encounter.
You may think I'm copping out. That's fine. But I know I could be a lot kinder to most of the people I come into contact with. It certainly won't hurt anything, so I think for Dottie's sake I'm going to give it a try. At least I know that this is an achievable goal; the rest will come with time.
Dottie replied by saying, "I'd change myself. You know, the way I live. Nothing else is ever going to change unless I do." I instantly thought of Ghandi's words, "be the change you want to see in the world." I've been thinking a lot lately about how it's the little things that mean the most. Sure, we'd all love to go out and solve world hunger or end global warming, but if those are our goals (noble as they may be), we might get so discouraged in the process that we stop doing the little things. I'm starting to think that a million feasible (but unnecessary) acts of kindess would leave a bigger impact on this world than ending global warming ever could. And who knows, maybe the extra kind word you say to someone will be just the inspiration they needed to go on and end global warming someday.
This hits close to home for me right now. I'm caught in the horrible yet exciting place of deciding whether to go into more debt for a masters degree or keep working to pay off the debt I already have (because Lord knows no one in the healthcare or religious fields are going to pay for a masters for me). But it's more than the money. I could go on, suck up the debt, and get all kinds of degrees to do all sorts of research and try to cure Alzheimer's someday. Or, I could stay in Smalltown, USA working as an activities technician making just over minimum wage but (hopefully) leaving a mark on the hearts of 50 beautiful individuals who, if I didn't come in, might not have one meaningful conversation with a single human being that day.
I think both roles are equally valuable. Somebody needs to be doing that research. But am I the one that's cut out for it? Just because I want a cure for Alzheimer's more than anything in the world doesn't necessarily mean I'm the best person to find it. Maybe I'm more well-suited for the small-scale stuff. Somebody's got to take care of those 50 wonderful people while the research is taking place.
I'll stop casting my personal dilemnas on you now. But I do think they testify to the truth in Dottie's statement. Whether I'm singing "Bicycle Built for Two" at the top of my lungs, terribly off-key (so that 30 wheel-chair ridden people can hear me over the hustle and bustle of a chaotic nurses' station) or sitting in a lab until 10:00 at night staring at brain scans and family history statistics, I'm not going to be doing anyone any good if I'm not finding a way to impress kindness on everyone I meet. For one, it will probably burn me out if I lose sight of the beauty in the little things in life. I think joyful connections with the people around us are vital to life. We are relational creatures (you'll have to excuse the theology major in me coming out...).
While it is good to have goals for the big picture, I think society as a whole will be a lot closer to achieving them if we learn to interact in a more healthy manner with one another. If I do end up sitting in that lab someday, I think I'll be a lot more productive (and less likely to give up) if the person I bought my coffee from that morning had a genuine smile on their face. Call me crazy, but at least for now, my contribution to finding a cure for Alzheimer's (heck, even for ending global warming) is to be kinder to every. single. person I encounter.
You may think I'm copping out. That's fine. But I know I could be a lot kinder to most of the people I come into contact with. It certainly won't hurt anything, so I think for Dottie's sake I'm going to give it a try. At least I know that this is an achievable goal; the rest will come with time.
Sitting Here Is No Good
I thought this post might be fitting for this time of year. In working two jobs, I have heard more than enough stress and babble about scheduling and making sure well-deserved time off is actually awarded. Since one job is at a hospital and the other at a nursing home, both require shifts to be covered 24/7, even on the holidays. So someone is always bound to get the short end of the deal and miss holiday time with loved ones to cover time at work (although hopefully an increased pay rate those days will help soften the blow).
In the midst of all this angst, it is easy to lose sight of why we do these jobs in the first place. I'll be the first to admit that I did not want to be sitting behind a switchboard on Thanksgiving Day while all my family and friends were gathered 'round the dinner table, preparing to take an epic nap in front of a football game playing on TV.
It probably sounds like I'm building up to go on a "somebody has to do it - if people have to be sick on the holidays, how dare you complain about having to care for them?" rant. But I'd like to take it one step further, thanks to a conversation I had with a resident, Betsy, a couple weeks ago. I went in to visit her in her room after one of the aides was done helping Betsy with dinner. As soon as she left, Betsy told me, "That girl came in here and was complaining about being at work. Boy, I wish I could be working. I'd much rather do that than...this. Sitting here is no good. Let me tell you, I loved my work. Find work you love to do and don't ever complain about it."
While I don't think Betsy would say to be a workaholic and sacrifice time with your family in an unreasonable manner, I do think she has a point worth sharing. Most of us tend to look at our "work" as something "to get through," a necessary evil to pay the bills. We dread waking up on the weekdays and constantly count down towards the weekend. To a certain extent, this is natural and fine, but it would be a shame to see it go too far. I know we can't all make a living doing a job we absolutely love and find joy in, but if we could at least learn to appreciate our work I think it might do wonders for our spirit, especially around this time of year when the last thing we want to do is go to the office.
Betsy is 100 years old and sits in a recliner all day looking out a window (if her aide even bothers to pull her chair up far enough so she can actually see out the window that day). She would trade anything in the world to be able to get up and clean a toilet, or file some papers. She'll tell you that anything is better than just sitting. But her hands have shriveled and her eyesight is failing her. She feels useless. While we do our best to find activities she is capable of doing that can give her a sense of purpose, we will never be able to protect her from the fact that she can't work like she used to.
I kind of feel like a brat for preaching about this, especially during a holiday season when it is natural to want time off from work. Heck, it's even healthy. But Betsy's words were a slap in the face that I know I needed to hear, so I thought they might somehow, ironically, lift your spirits if you find yourself stuck at work feeling like the holiday cheer is moving on without you. Try to be thankful that you have a job, a purpose, and that someone, somewhere appreciates what you do, even if you don't see it.
***
Funny Quote of the Day:
Me: Finish this phrase - "Mary had a little lamb..."
George: And the doctor died!
Me: Umm, I don't think we're talking about the same song, George...
George: You think that if Mary had a little lamb the doctor wouldn't drop down dead??
The man has a point.
In the midst of all this angst, it is easy to lose sight of why we do these jobs in the first place. I'll be the first to admit that I did not want to be sitting behind a switchboard on Thanksgiving Day while all my family and friends were gathered 'round the dinner table, preparing to take an epic nap in front of a football game playing on TV.
It probably sounds like I'm building up to go on a "somebody has to do it - if people have to be sick on the holidays, how dare you complain about having to care for them?" rant. But I'd like to take it one step further, thanks to a conversation I had with a resident, Betsy, a couple weeks ago. I went in to visit her in her room after one of the aides was done helping Betsy with dinner. As soon as she left, Betsy told me, "That girl came in here and was complaining about being at work. Boy, I wish I could be working. I'd much rather do that than...this. Sitting here is no good. Let me tell you, I loved my work. Find work you love to do and don't ever complain about it."
While I don't think Betsy would say to be a workaholic and sacrifice time with your family in an unreasonable manner, I do think she has a point worth sharing. Most of us tend to look at our "work" as something "to get through," a necessary evil to pay the bills. We dread waking up on the weekdays and constantly count down towards the weekend. To a certain extent, this is natural and fine, but it would be a shame to see it go too far. I know we can't all make a living doing a job we absolutely love and find joy in, but if we could at least learn to appreciate our work I think it might do wonders for our spirit, especially around this time of year when the last thing we want to do is go to the office.
Betsy is 100 years old and sits in a recliner all day looking out a window (if her aide even bothers to pull her chair up far enough so she can actually see out the window that day). She would trade anything in the world to be able to get up and clean a toilet, or file some papers. She'll tell you that anything is better than just sitting. But her hands have shriveled and her eyesight is failing her. She feels useless. While we do our best to find activities she is capable of doing that can give her a sense of purpose, we will never be able to protect her from the fact that she can't work like she used to.
I kind of feel like a brat for preaching about this, especially during a holiday season when it is natural to want time off from work. Heck, it's even healthy. But Betsy's words were a slap in the face that I know I needed to hear, so I thought they might somehow, ironically, lift your spirits if you find yourself stuck at work feeling like the holiday cheer is moving on without you. Try to be thankful that you have a job, a purpose, and that someone, somewhere appreciates what you do, even if you don't see it.
***
Funny Quote of the Day:
Me: Finish this phrase - "Mary had a little lamb..."
George: And the doctor died!
Me: Umm, I don't think we're talking about the same song, George...
George: You think that if Mary had a little lamb the doctor wouldn't drop down dead??
The man has a point.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
They Were Going to Burn Me to Death.
We have a new resident - let's call her Dee. She is always smiling and always...moving. She'll sit in her wheelchair for hours doing all sorts of exercises and dancing to whatever song is playing, either in the room or in her head. I believe this energy is a direct reflection of the energy in her heart. I am aware of how cheesy that statement sounds, but if you met Dee, you would realize that it is not an exaggeration in the slightest. After having an abnormal number of deaths on our floor this month, her spirit is certainly a refreshing one.
Prepare yourself for a classic "Don't judge a book by its cover" story. One night I knelt down to say hello to Dee, and this is what happened:
"Hi Dee, how ya doin'?"
"Oh I'm doing just fine!"
"Anything exciting happen today?"
"Well, you know, I'm just thankful to be alive! You know, they were gonna burn me to death, but I prayed and God was with me, so here I am!"
Whoa. Did not see that one coming.
She then proceeded to tell me "her story." As with any story you might hear from a person with dementia, you can never quite be sure how much of the tale is true. But I would not doubt that even if the story is not entirely factual, it is somehow still a reflection of the person's character and history. So I will tell this story as Dee told it to me, recognizing that, because she believes it to be entirely true, we should consider it as such - because she is living day to day as if this is where she has come from. And once you hear where she believes she has come from, it starts to seem pretty remarkable that she has such a persistant smile on her face and song in her heart.
When Dee was in her early 20s, she told all her friends she'd never get married. But of course, there was a man who liked her. He chased after her for 5 years, then went off to war. He came home, chased for two more years, then finally said, "Dee, please marry me. I'd love to have some children and start a family with you." So she gave in. They spent every minute together after that. But she told him she didn't want to have kids for 2 years; that way there would be no doubt that she was an honest, christian woman. They eventually were blessed with 3 kids: two boys, one girl, each four years apart. He said he'd be with her forever. They were married for 60 years before he got sick and died. Before he died, he told her, "Now, Dee, I want you to know you're the only woman I ever loved. You gave me three beautiful children and made me a very happy man. And you're going to be just fine."
The church wanted to take up an offering to help her out financially after he passed away. Well, one man had put a substantial amount of money in the plate. Afterwards, however, somebody told him that Dee didn't really need the money. He angrily confronted her and asked for his money back. She told him she didn't have it, never touched it. He said "You give me back my money or I'm going to kill you." But she didn't have the money. So he went and got two men and had them track her down, and sure enough they caught her. They were going to burn her to death. She was terrified, but she kept praying, "God, I'll do it. If this is what I need to do, I'll do it. But please forgive these men for what they're doing. Let them see someday that there is a God and He is good." She told the men she was praying for them, and just then the cops came in and saved her. But as she would put it, God saved her.
That wasn't the first time He saved her. Dee said she has always had health issues. For example, when she was born they said she wouldn't live to age 4. She had great difficulty with childbirth, among other illnesses. But lo and behold, here she is, by the grace of God, 88 years old and the proud mother of 3 healthy children.
Dee's story is not the first that I've heard of such extremity. I wish dearly that I could just as easily say about all of them, "Oh, there's no way that really happened. They're just confused and coming up with tales." But unfortunately I know that some of them are actually true. Most of our residents (all senior citizens actually...heck, everyone) have all of these intense, deep backgrounds, some very painful, and we just greet them nonchalantly, as if having this incredible life survivor sitting before us is no big deal.
Yet I can say that for every single one of these people, you'd never know it for their smile. They have all come through some sort of life tragedy, if not more than one, but they all found a way to keep living, to keep thriving. It really is remarkable. And yet I still catch myself frowning over the dumbest things. It seems that smiling in the midst of adversity is a skill learned with age. Maybe if we start recognizing the stories of our elders, really hearing the incredible histories that have shaped them, we can start to learn that skill a little faster.
***
On a lighter note, in case you thought people over the age of 80 are entirely wholesome and prude, think again. Just whip out a picture of Frank Sinatra and say "Isn't he handsome?" to a group of elderly women (one of my first rookie mistakes)...you'd never believe what they would do to that man if they only had one night (their words, not mine). I'll spare you the details.
I've learned that it is possible to be, dare I say, candidly crude with senior citizens every now and then. They were 20-something once too, after all. And they are certainly not made of glass. "There's nothing new under the sun," right? Forgive me if this is at all inappropriate, but sometimes these jaw-dropping moments are worth sharing just to remind us how, well, human they are. And funny...downright funny.
During trivia one night:
Me: "Does an octopus give birth to live babies or lay eggs?"
Residents: "Lay eggs!"
Me: "Yep, octopuss...octopi...octopuses....what in the world is the plural of octopus? Octopuses?"
Resident #1: "Hahahaha - you said pusses!"
Resident #2: "It's octopi."
Me: "Okay, whew. I'd rather have pie than pusses anyway." *under my breath: "I'm gonna get fired."
Turns out they're both grammatically acceptable (thanks, Google). But after that conversation, I'd probably argue that one is more socially acceptable than the other. Although if there's one thing that I've learned from my residents, it's that the most "socially acceptable" choice is not always the most fun. And sometimes, you just need to have some fun...and that's okay.
Prepare yourself for a classic "Don't judge a book by its cover" story. One night I knelt down to say hello to Dee, and this is what happened:
"Hi Dee, how ya doin'?"
"Oh I'm doing just fine!"
"Anything exciting happen today?"
"Well, you know, I'm just thankful to be alive! You know, they were gonna burn me to death, but I prayed and God was with me, so here I am!"
Whoa. Did not see that one coming.
She then proceeded to tell me "her story." As with any story you might hear from a person with dementia, you can never quite be sure how much of the tale is true. But I would not doubt that even if the story is not entirely factual, it is somehow still a reflection of the person's character and history. So I will tell this story as Dee told it to me, recognizing that, because she believes it to be entirely true, we should consider it as such - because she is living day to day as if this is where she has come from. And once you hear where she believes she has come from, it starts to seem pretty remarkable that she has such a persistant smile on her face and song in her heart.
When Dee was in her early 20s, she told all her friends she'd never get married. But of course, there was a man who liked her. He chased after her for 5 years, then went off to war. He came home, chased for two more years, then finally said, "Dee, please marry me. I'd love to have some children and start a family with you." So she gave in. They spent every minute together after that. But she told him she didn't want to have kids for 2 years; that way there would be no doubt that she was an honest, christian woman. They eventually were blessed with 3 kids: two boys, one girl, each four years apart. He said he'd be with her forever. They were married for 60 years before he got sick and died. Before he died, he told her, "Now, Dee, I want you to know you're the only woman I ever loved. You gave me three beautiful children and made me a very happy man. And you're going to be just fine."
The church wanted to take up an offering to help her out financially after he passed away. Well, one man had put a substantial amount of money in the plate. Afterwards, however, somebody told him that Dee didn't really need the money. He angrily confronted her and asked for his money back. She told him she didn't have it, never touched it. He said "You give me back my money or I'm going to kill you." But she didn't have the money. So he went and got two men and had them track her down, and sure enough they caught her. They were going to burn her to death. She was terrified, but she kept praying, "God, I'll do it. If this is what I need to do, I'll do it. But please forgive these men for what they're doing. Let them see someday that there is a God and He is good." She told the men she was praying for them, and just then the cops came in and saved her. But as she would put it, God saved her.
That wasn't the first time He saved her. Dee said she has always had health issues. For example, when she was born they said she wouldn't live to age 4. She had great difficulty with childbirth, among other illnesses. But lo and behold, here she is, by the grace of God, 88 years old and the proud mother of 3 healthy children.
Dee's story is not the first that I've heard of such extremity. I wish dearly that I could just as easily say about all of them, "Oh, there's no way that really happened. They're just confused and coming up with tales." But unfortunately I know that some of them are actually true. Most of our residents (all senior citizens actually...heck, everyone) have all of these intense, deep backgrounds, some very painful, and we just greet them nonchalantly, as if having this incredible life survivor sitting before us is no big deal.
- One of our women saw her husband drown in a lake after only a couple years of being married.
- I've been told another resident has a very painful, touching story - so much so that I haven't had the heart to ask her or her family what it is for fear of upsetting them.
- Another female resident has a masters degree in theology, but now is so trapped by the inability to form words that she probably has all sorts of theological concerns/questions rattling around in her head with no way to sort through them.
- I don't even need to mention the number of war veterans in that generation.
- Another woman kept and raised a daughter with a severe mental illness (this was unheard of at that time - most babies of that nature were "discarded" in the 1930s, sometimes without the mother ever even knowing what really happened). Oh, and she did it all within a loveless marriage. I'll tell more of her story in another post...
Yet I can say that for every single one of these people, you'd never know it for their smile. They have all come through some sort of life tragedy, if not more than one, but they all found a way to keep living, to keep thriving. It really is remarkable. And yet I still catch myself frowning over the dumbest things. It seems that smiling in the midst of adversity is a skill learned with age. Maybe if we start recognizing the stories of our elders, really hearing the incredible histories that have shaped them, we can start to learn that skill a little faster.
***
On a lighter note, in case you thought people over the age of 80 are entirely wholesome and prude, think again. Just whip out a picture of Frank Sinatra and say "Isn't he handsome?" to a group of elderly women (one of my first rookie mistakes)...you'd never believe what they would do to that man if they only had one night (their words, not mine). I'll spare you the details.
I've learned that it is possible to be, dare I say, candidly crude with senior citizens every now and then. They were 20-something once too, after all. And they are certainly not made of glass. "There's nothing new under the sun," right? Forgive me if this is at all inappropriate, but sometimes these jaw-dropping moments are worth sharing just to remind us how, well, human they are. And funny...downright funny.
During trivia one night:
Me: "Does an octopus give birth to live babies or lay eggs?"
Residents: "Lay eggs!"
Me: "Yep, octopuss...octopi...octopuses....what in the world is the plural of octopus? Octopuses?"
Resident #1: "Hahahaha - you said pusses!"
Resident #2: "It's octopi."
Me: "Okay, whew. I'd rather have pie than pusses anyway." *under my breath: "I'm gonna get fired."
Turns out they're both grammatically acceptable (thanks, Google). But after that conversation, I'd probably argue that one is more socially acceptable than the other. Although if there's one thing that I've learned from my residents, it's that the most "socially acceptable" choice is not always the most fun. And sometimes, you just need to have some fun...and that's okay.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
I haven't forgotten...
I should probably take a moment to mention that I have not abandoned this blog, but you might not believe me since my last post was a month ago. I think that warrants my first strike as a blogger. Forgive me?
Truth be told, I have five different posts saved in my "drafts" right this very second. But I haven't found the time (lamest excuse ever) to polish them with the attention they deserve. I suppose I'm the kind of writer that would rather something not be said at all than be said insufficiently. That might explain why I'm using three paragraphs to explain that I simply fell behind in my posts.
As my residents would say, "If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well." So I will consider myself inspired and hope to pay some attention to those drafts; the goal is to get them all posted in the next week or so. That should give you just enough notice to make time to curl up with a cup of hot tea and brace yourself for some more timeless wisdom. If I don't follow through, I'll willingly take strike two (whatever that means).
Stick with me - I promise there's some good stuff coming your way!
Truth be told, I have five different posts saved in my "drafts" right this very second. But I haven't found the time (lamest excuse ever) to polish them with the attention they deserve. I suppose I'm the kind of writer that would rather something not be said at all than be said insufficiently. That might explain why I'm using three paragraphs to explain that I simply fell behind in my posts.
As my residents would say, "If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well." So I will consider myself inspired and hope to pay some attention to those drafts; the goal is to get them all posted in the next week or so. That should give you just enough notice to make time to curl up with a cup of hot tea and brace yourself for some more timeless wisdom. If I don't follow through, I'll willingly take strike two (whatever that means).
Stick with me - I promise there's some good stuff coming your way!
Thursday, October 20, 2011
What's Your Smile-Trigger?
I got to spend a significant amount of one-on-one time with two of our female residents last week. Both visits were those sort of "slap in the face" kind. You know, the ones that make you realize how little the issues in your life are compared to the grand scheme of things? Yeah, I have those moments a lot here.
***
The first resident was essentially reliving the death of her son. We'll call her Jane. Because of Jane's dementia, she was caught up in a moment of belief that he had just passed away a few days ago, when in reality it has been many years since his death. She told me, "You know, this week started out really rough when I found out about Ron, but it's turning out to be okay. I just keep praying." From a picture she showed me, I'm guessing he was in his 40s when he passed away. She mentioned that it was from some sort of disease, but she didn't go into specifics. Eventually, she asked me to put his picture back in the drawer and said, "We better stop talking about it," but she kept mentioning how prayer was what kept her going.
She continued to tell me how she prays for all of her children, because that is the best thing a mother can do for them. Her children are obviously very dear to her (you can tell from the way she talks about them), so I can't imagine how strong of a woman she must be to have gone through the loss her son. She told me about how she always wanted children so badly but had trouble getting pregnant at first, so (you guessed it!) she prayed about it. She ended up with four kids, one of them adopted. She is still praying every day to thank God for them.
Any time I mention a concern or desire to Jane, she tells me to pray about it. As she puts it, "God answers prayers. It's not always 1, 2, 3, done - but He always answers." I learned two things from Jane that day:
1. Pray about everything that is dear to your heart, both in joy and in sorrow.
2. How to clip a flower in my hair. It's nice knowing people who used to be beauticians!
***
We'll call the second resident Georgina. Georgina is one of those people that just oozes friendliness and faith. You know, the kind you see at church camp every year who is genuinely thrilled to see each person as if it has been years since the last visit, even though it only may have been last week?
I already knew Georgina was especially fond of singing church hymns. She must know every single word in the entire hymnal. So when her condition started to decline, I went in to sit at her bedside one night and sing a couple songs with her. She barely had a voice left, but the minute I named a song she started singing it. I wish I could somehow explain how the smile on her face looked as we sang. It grew even bigger as I read her some Psalms. She asked me to read them more than once and to mark them down for her so she could read them again later (even though I knew that she would be incapable of reading them herself).
When I say her "condition started to decline," I should probably elaborate a little bit to show just how remarkable Georgina's smile in this moment really was. She is a tiny woman to begin with, and she is now in the stage where meal time means being spoon-fed some sort of apricot/honey mixture - one of the most vulnerable points we can come to in life (or should I say return to). She lays quietly and no longer carries on a conversation very well, becoming quickly confused. Her smile has always been infectious, but I cannot begin to explain how much more intoxicating it was coming from such a feeble, helpless body. To get to that point in life and have a faith so strong it still gives you a reason to smile? That's something.
Her favorite verse that night was Psalm 116:8 - "For You have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from falling." When I finished reading it, she told me, "I liked that one very much."
Then we sang "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" three or four times in a row:
What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Ev'rything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit,
Oh, what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry
Ev'rything to God in prayer.
I think each of us should have something in our life that means as much to us as these hymns mean to Georgina. I know if I ever find myself in such a tragically deteriorated condition, I would want there to be that one thing that could still bring a smile to my face. In a time when everyone else would expect that mysterious apricot/honey mixture to suck all the joy right out of you, it'd be nice to prove them wrong. Do you have that one thing that will bring you immeasurable joy up to the very end? What's your smile-trigger?
***
The first resident was essentially reliving the death of her son. We'll call her Jane. Because of Jane's dementia, she was caught up in a moment of belief that he had just passed away a few days ago, when in reality it has been many years since his death. She told me, "You know, this week started out really rough when I found out about Ron, but it's turning out to be okay. I just keep praying." From a picture she showed me, I'm guessing he was in his 40s when he passed away. She mentioned that it was from some sort of disease, but she didn't go into specifics. Eventually, she asked me to put his picture back in the drawer and said, "We better stop talking about it," but she kept mentioning how prayer was what kept her going.
She continued to tell me how she prays for all of her children, because that is the best thing a mother can do for them. Her children are obviously very dear to her (you can tell from the way she talks about them), so I can't imagine how strong of a woman she must be to have gone through the loss her son. She told me about how she always wanted children so badly but had trouble getting pregnant at first, so (you guessed it!) she prayed about it. She ended up with four kids, one of them adopted. She is still praying every day to thank God for them.
Any time I mention a concern or desire to Jane, she tells me to pray about it. As she puts it, "God answers prayers. It's not always 1, 2, 3, done - but He always answers." I learned two things from Jane that day:
1. Pray about everything that is dear to your heart, both in joy and in sorrow.
2. How to clip a flower in my hair. It's nice knowing people who used to be beauticians!
***
We'll call the second resident Georgina. Georgina is one of those people that just oozes friendliness and faith. You know, the kind you see at church camp every year who is genuinely thrilled to see each person as if it has been years since the last visit, even though it only may have been last week?
I already knew Georgina was especially fond of singing church hymns. She must know every single word in the entire hymnal. So when her condition started to decline, I went in to sit at her bedside one night and sing a couple songs with her. She barely had a voice left, but the minute I named a song she started singing it. I wish I could somehow explain how the smile on her face looked as we sang. It grew even bigger as I read her some Psalms. She asked me to read them more than once and to mark them down for her so she could read them again later (even though I knew that she would be incapable of reading them herself).
When I say her "condition started to decline," I should probably elaborate a little bit to show just how remarkable Georgina's smile in this moment really was. She is a tiny woman to begin with, and she is now in the stage where meal time means being spoon-fed some sort of apricot/honey mixture - one of the most vulnerable points we can come to in life (or should I say return to). She lays quietly and no longer carries on a conversation very well, becoming quickly confused. Her smile has always been infectious, but I cannot begin to explain how much more intoxicating it was coming from such a feeble, helpless body. To get to that point in life and have a faith so strong it still gives you a reason to smile? That's something.
Her favorite verse that night was Psalm 116:8 - "For You have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from falling." When I finished reading it, she told me, "I liked that one very much."
Then we sang "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" three or four times in a row:
What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Ev'rything to God in prayer!
Oh, what peace we often forfeit,
Oh, what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry
Ev'rything to God in prayer.
I think each of us should have something in our life that means as much to us as these hymns mean to Georgina. I know if I ever find myself in such a tragically deteriorated condition, I would want there to be that one thing that could still bring a smile to my face. In a time when everyone else would expect that mysterious apricot/honey mixture to suck all the joy right out of you, it'd be nice to prove them wrong. Do you have that one thing that will bring you immeasurable joy up to the very end? What's your smile-trigger?
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Now That I'm a Lady
Today my residents informed me that since I'm 21, I'm now officially a lady. I asked them what that entails, and these are the guidelines they gave me:
1) Give up smoking (they were pleased to hear that I never started, so I can skip this step).
2) When you leave for work every morning, kiss your Momma goodbye.
*3) Find a really handsome man.
He should also be:
-Polite
-Willing to help with the housework (find this out by asking if he knows how to dust)
-Willing to help raise the kids (find this out by noticing if he even likes kids)
4) Wedding dresses are hard to find (good ones at least), so start looking now for a man and a dress.
4) Have 3-4 kids (at least more than 2, because kids are great, so more is better).
5) Write out these rules 3 times every night.
6) "Marriage is an important step, so you really have to think think think."
7) Stop reaching across people. This one may or may not have been added after I, uh, reached across someone. Sorry, Mom.
*Extra advice given for accomplishing #3:
-"Be kind to children when they come to visit you, so that the man will see that and want to marry you."
-In response to the classic, "How do you know if he's the one?"
-If you get very happy when you see him. And if your heart flutters, too? Oh boy!
-Talk to your mother. She knows what type of man is right for you. She just knows.
-Keep your heart open.
-He should have brothers for the residents to marry. They said they'll take the "really, really handsome ones," and I can have the "sorta handsome" ones. Aren't they sweet?
-Pray that God will help you find a man and find him soon.
I'm starting to think this is a blog more about relationship advice than general wisdom and humor. Don't worry, I've got some stuff brewing for the next post that is more "touching," if you will. Check back soon!
1) Give up smoking (they were pleased to hear that I never started, so I can skip this step).
2) When you leave for work every morning, kiss your Momma goodbye.
*3) Find a really handsome man.
He should also be:
-Polite
-Willing to help with the housework (find this out by asking if he knows how to dust)
-Willing to help raise the kids (find this out by noticing if he even likes kids)
4) Wedding dresses are hard to find (good ones at least), so start looking now for a man and a dress.
4) Have 3-4 kids (at least more than 2, because kids are great, so more is better).
5) Write out these rules 3 times every night.
6) "Marriage is an important step, so you really have to think think think."
7) Stop reaching across people. This one may or may not have been added after I, uh, reached across someone. Sorry, Mom.
*Extra advice given for accomplishing #3:
-"Be kind to children when they come to visit you, so that the man will see that and want to marry you."
-In response to the classic, "How do you know if he's the one?"
-If you get very happy when you see him. And if your heart flutters, too? Oh boy!
-Talk to your mother. She knows what type of man is right for you. She just knows.
-Keep your heart open.
-He should have brothers for the residents to marry. They said they'll take the "really, really handsome ones," and I can have the "sorta handsome" ones. Aren't they sweet?
-Pray that God will help you find a man and find him soon.
I'm starting to think this is a blog more about relationship advice than general wisdom and humor. Don't worry, I've got some stuff brewing for the next post that is more "touching," if you will. Check back soon!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Squawking.
Most of the time I love going to work. I know most people can't say that. But I do. Most of the time. But every once in a while I have a day, like today, where it's just really hard to find the energy in the morning. The strange thing about this place, though, is that most of the time, even when that happens, I find it after I get here. I know most people can't say that either. I hope I never forget how much of a blessing it is to come to a job that, 9 times out of 10, has me leaving in a better mood than the one I came in with.
But like I said, today started off a little rough. For one thing, I must've been still half asleep when I got dressed this morning, because after being at work for a couple hours, I started to realize that my outfit was, well, not as cute as I originally thought. I pretty much looked like Nanny McPhee. But you know, I think I got more compliments from the residents today than I ever have before. I don't know if they could tell I was feeling self-conscious, or if they could somehow understand what bizarre fashion rules I was trying to apply in my half wakened state at 6:00 in the morning, but go figure, they liked it. They're pretty cool like that.
***
Now on to the serious stuff. I find myself being given a great deal of relationship advice in this place. Something about being a single, 21-year-old woman makes them think I need to get the ball rollin' on this whole "finding a man" business - so they love to offer their wisdom. Actually, they would probably offer it whether I was single or not, but that's okay. Most of it isn't half bad:
"Don't be too smart, don't be too dumb. Just be nice. Be his friend. You know, my husband was never the type to let his hands wander all over me. He was nice. He was quiet. He let me speak first. If you need to, kick him in the ass and say goodbye. But if you're gonna marry him, wrap that chain around him and hold on tight; don't let go. But if he's not it, wait till you find someone who is. And in the meantime just behave as if you were an old woman. Don't stress about it. You've got enough spunk to entertain yourself for a time."
Easier said than done, I'm afraid. But sound advice none the less.
***
One of our residents is 100. I would say she's one of the ones who seems like she's reached that point where she feels that she's lived as long as she needs to. It's not that she wants to die, but she's ready to. She is really quiet and just likes to sit in her room and look out the window. But she does love visitors. She'll talk to you like she's known you for years even if it's the first time you've ever walked through her door. She's one of those ladies that feels like she could be a grandmother to the entire world. Here's something she told me today:
"Isn't it funny how the smallest moments are the ones you remember? The things you don't think much of at the time are the ones you look back on and smile over. When I was a girl, I would look at the chickens and the geese on the farm. They would squawk back and forth at each other. I remember I asked my mother one day, 'Do you think they understand each other?' 'Oh yes,' she said, 'they're speaking their own language.' I always wandered what it was they had so much to say about."
I thought it was funny that I was actually thinking the same thing the other day. Not about the chickens and geese, but about how the small, obscure memories are the ones that mean the most. For me, it wasn't secret bird languages. It was the way my dad taught me to make brownies when I was a little girl. Sure, it's technically as simple as reading the directions on the box (I hope you didn't think I was referring to homemade brownies. Do people actually do that??). But the way he taught me to shoot the metal things from the mixer into the sink, or to crack the eggs, how to measure accurately, etc. It was never about the finished product. It's the time I spent in the kitchen helping my Dad. That's what I look back on and smile about. And, if I do say so myself, I make a pretty good brownie.
But like I said, today started off a little rough. For one thing, I must've been still half asleep when I got dressed this morning, because after being at work for a couple hours, I started to realize that my outfit was, well, not as cute as I originally thought. I pretty much looked like Nanny McPhee. But you know, I think I got more compliments from the residents today than I ever have before. I don't know if they could tell I was feeling self-conscious, or if they could somehow understand what bizarre fashion rules I was trying to apply in my half wakened state at 6:00 in the morning, but go figure, they liked it. They're pretty cool like that.
***
Now on to the serious stuff. I find myself being given a great deal of relationship advice in this place. Something about being a single, 21-year-old woman makes them think I need to get the ball rollin' on this whole "finding a man" business - so they love to offer their wisdom. Actually, they would probably offer it whether I was single or not, but that's okay. Most of it isn't half bad:
"Don't be too smart, don't be too dumb. Just be nice. Be his friend. You know, my husband was never the type to let his hands wander all over me. He was nice. He was quiet. He let me speak first. If you need to, kick him in the ass and say goodbye. But if you're gonna marry him, wrap that chain around him and hold on tight; don't let go. But if he's not it, wait till you find someone who is. And in the meantime just behave as if you were an old woman. Don't stress about it. You've got enough spunk to entertain yourself for a time."
Easier said than done, I'm afraid. But sound advice none the less.
***
One of our residents is 100. I would say she's one of the ones who seems like she's reached that point where she feels that she's lived as long as she needs to. It's not that she wants to die, but she's ready to. She is really quiet and just likes to sit in her room and look out the window. But she does love visitors. She'll talk to you like she's known you for years even if it's the first time you've ever walked through her door. She's one of those ladies that feels like she could be a grandmother to the entire world. Here's something she told me today:
"Isn't it funny how the smallest moments are the ones you remember? The things you don't think much of at the time are the ones you look back on and smile over. When I was a girl, I would look at the chickens and the geese on the farm. They would squawk back and forth at each other. I remember I asked my mother one day, 'Do you think they understand each other?' 'Oh yes,' she said, 'they're speaking their own language.' I always wandered what it was they had so much to say about."
I thought it was funny that I was actually thinking the same thing the other day. Not about the chickens and geese, but about how the small, obscure memories are the ones that mean the most. For me, it wasn't secret bird languages. It was the way my dad taught me to make brownies when I was a little girl. Sure, it's technically as simple as reading the directions on the box (I hope you didn't think I was referring to homemade brownies. Do people actually do that??). But the way he taught me to shoot the metal things from the mixer into the sink, or to crack the eggs, how to measure accurately, etc. It was never about the finished product. It's the time I spent in the kitchen helping my Dad. That's what I look back on and smile about. And, if I do say so myself, I make a pretty good brownie.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Love.
Drew this today from this picture: http://www.flickr.com/photos/henny77/358121267/
I wanted to find a perfect quote to post with it. I'm torn between these three:
"If you would be loved, love and be lovable." -- Benjamin Franklin
From this picture, it's hard to tell which person is more in love. And in seeing that, you realize how lovable they each must really be. Sometimes the residents tell me, "Oh you're so sweet," and I always say something like, "Well that's just because you're easy to be sweet to!" To me, that's just a fallback phrase to take the attention off of me, but I think there is actually a lot of truth in that. If we really desire to be loved, we should probably start by looking inward.
"The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost." -- G. K. Chesterton
One of the most heart-wrenching parts of my job is seeing the spouses of the residents come in and sit faithfully by their side, even though the most response they might get is a twitch of the finger. Some of them come every single day just to sit and hold their loved one's hand, even though in many respects they have already said goodbye. Unfortunately most of these love stories don't end like they do in "The Notebook." Sooner or later most loves will end with a goodbye (at least from this world), and the sooner we can realize that, the more passionately we will love in the meantime.
"Where there is love there is life." -- Gandhi
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Our residents are easily some of the most "full-of-life" people I have ever met. They are rejected, alone, and afraid, yet most of them still find a reason to smile. As long as their hearts are beating, there is still a person there to be loved. Our measure of life is not lost with years gone by. It is not a matter of time or frailty, but a matter of love. And that is something that ought to be growing stronger every single day we live. It may sound impossible in such a heartless world, but I know it's possible. I see it in my residents' eyes every day.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Simple, Yet Profound.
Some responses from a discussion-starter game called "What would you do.." that we played today:
"If you could break a record for anything in the world, what would it be?" Kindness.
"If you found out two of your best friends went to the movies and didn't invite you, what would you do?" Well if they were truly my best friends they would've invited me!
"If you could be any animal, what would you be and why?" A dog! Because they're loved by everybody. I like to be loved. And they can be helpful. I would want to be a helpful animal. A seeing eye dog, maybe.
I also received some relationship advice today:
"People are too picky these days. You have a good thing, then you go and throw it out because you've convinced yourselves there is something more perfect out there. Stop configuring your own ideal of what is best. Instead, seek out the best in what is already around you. If you truly have a good thing, believe me, there will be plenty to appreciate. That way, over time, it will start to become even better as you appreciate it more. And in doing so, you'll improve your own character too."
(Please, nobody stay in an unhealthy relationship because of that. You do deserve the best. Take it with a grain of salt :) Thanks.)
And finally, a quote one of my former philosophy professors shared with me:
From Plato: "I enjoy talking to the elderly, for we should ask them, as we might ask those who have travelled a road that we too will probably have to follow, what kind of road it is, whether rough and difficult or smooth and easy." - Socrates (Republic, Book 1).
Sunday, September 25, 2011
From What I've Seen of Harold...
One of our residents is named Harold. When I started working there in July, he was already one of our most severe dementia cases. At that time, he was essentially unable to communicate verbally, so when he needed something or was frustrated he would grip the nearest person's arm with a white-knuckle grip. Unfortunately, this came across as being fairly aggressive so most people were afraid of him and would dismiss him right away (I suppose I can't really blame them; his grip was really strong).
I quickly learned, however, that behind Harold's desperate grip, was an incredibly gentle, loving man. Every once in a while this was shown in spurts when he would, instead of firmly gripping someone's forearm, delicately grasp and kiss the hand of a nearby lady. More than that, however, I discovered his gentle spirit in his eyes. Somewhere in there I could tell that this was not an aggressive man. He was simply frightened by his sudden inability to form words and communicate. When I take a minute to think about how legitimately terrifying that feeling would be, I am surprised Harold was still caring enough to give anyone a kiss on the hand at all. My suspicions about Harold inward gentleness were confirmed when I met his wife for the first time, and she herself is an incredibly gentle, kind woman.
About a month later, Harold's dementia was worsening and he no longer initiated interaction or moved himself with his wheelchair. One day the nurse aides brought him in during one of our activities, "Familiar Stories from Sunday School," and sat him in the back of the room. I was a little nervous, worried that his anxiety might be a disruption to the other residents (shame on me, right?). After finishing the story of "Jonah and the Whale," he started to get a little worked up and I thought "Oh boy, here we go.." (again, shame on me). I could tell he was trying to say something so I asked if he needed anything and he simply said, "Thank you. I really enjoyed that." I was shocked that he was even able to say a full sentence, let alone one that made sense. Later at lunch when he saw me I could tell he was trying to say something again, so I asked if he enjoyed the Bible stories that morning, and he said, as clear as day, "I enjoyed that." Afterwards I heard some of the aides talking about how something had changed today and he seemed much more calm than usual.
Later that day, his wife came in and I was eager to tell her what had happened. She, knowing his true character much better than I do, was not as surprised. She said "Well of course! That's something that has always been very important to Harold. I'm just so glad he was able to express that to you." She then told me a story of when Harold was in the service back in the day. In the midst of some threatening situation during one of the wars (I regret that I don't remember those details), Harold was in a plane/submarine/tank (again, I need to write these details down before I forget them...). While they were under attack, the rest of the crew was all saying to him, "Harold, go get your beads!" (referring to his rosary beads). They all knew how strong his faith was and desperately wanted him to pray to ease their fears. Just the glisten in his wife's eyes as she told me this story was enough to convince me of how deep her love and respect is for him.
I regret to say that as I write this, Harold is lying in his bed, virtually unresponsive, hooked up to the type of machines that we all pray we'll never see our loved ones attached to. I'm told it won't be long, and every day I see his wife come in and sit with him, probably wondering if this is perhaps the last time she will get to hold his hand. My heart aches for her, and I am inspired by her strength and persistent smile in this tough time.
Through Harold's story, I have seen firsthand a testimony of bravery and gentleness. I despise the idea that his wife will soon be in mourning, but I know that the same faith that brought him through those terrifying war scenes will also bring her through this trial. And I believe she knows it too. I am grateful to have known them both and consider myself blessed to have had the chance to get to know the real Harold, even as he was trapped in what initially appeared to be a violent, incommunicable body.
May I never look solely upon outward appearance, but always seek after the heart.
I quickly learned, however, that behind Harold's desperate grip, was an incredibly gentle, loving man. Every once in a while this was shown in spurts when he would, instead of firmly gripping someone's forearm, delicately grasp and kiss the hand of a nearby lady. More than that, however, I discovered his gentle spirit in his eyes. Somewhere in there I could tell that this was not an aggressive man. He was simply frightened by his sudden inability to form words and communicate. When I take a minute to think about how legitimately terrifying that feeling would be, I am surprised Harold was still caring enough to give anyone a kiss on the hand at all. My suspicions about Harold inward gentleness were confirmed when I met his wife for the first time, and she herself is an incredibly gentle, kind woman.
About a month later, Harold's dementia was worsening and he no longer initiated interaction or moved himself with his wheelchair. One day the nurse aides brought him in during one of our activities, "Familiar Stories from Sunday School," and sat him in the back of the room. I was a little nervous, worried that his anxiety might be a disruption to the other residents (shame on me, right?). After finishing the story of "Jonah and the Whale," he started to get a little worked up and I thought "Oh boy, here we go.." (again, shame on me). I could tell he was trying to say something so I asked if he needed anything and he simply said, "Thank you. I really enjoyed that." I was shocked that he was even able to say a full sentence, let alone one that made sense. Later at lunch when he saw me I could tell he was trying to say something again, so I asked if he enjoyed the Bible stories that morning, and he said, as clear as day, "I enjoyed that." Afterwards I heard some of the aides talking about how something had changed today and he seemed much more calm than usual.
Later that day, his wife came in and I was eager to tell her what had happened. She, knowing his true character much better than I do, was not as surprised. She said "Well of course! That's something that has always been very important to Harold. I'm just so glad he was able to express that to you." She then told me a story of when Harold was in the service back in the day. In the midst of some threatening situation during one of the wars (I regret that I don't remember those details), Harold was in a plane/submarine/tank (again, I need to write these details down before I forget them...). While they were under attack, the rest of the crew was all saying to him, "Harold, go get your beads!" (referring to his rosary beads). They all knew how strong his faith was and desperately wanted him to pray to ease their fears. Just the glisten in his wife's eyes as she told me this story was enough to convince me of how deep her love and respect is for him.
I regret to say that as I write this, Harold is lying in his bed, virtually unresponsive, hooked up to the type of machines that we all pray we'll never see our loved ones attached to. I'm told it won't be long, and every day I see his wife come in and sit with him, probably wondering if this is perhaps the last time she will get to hold his hand. My heart aches for her, and I am inspired by her strength and persistent smile in this tough time.
Through Harold's story, I have seen firsthand a testimony of bravery and gentleness. I despise the idea that his wife will soon be in mourning, but I know that the same faith that brought him through those terrifying war scenes will also bring her through this trial. And I believe she knows it too. I am grateful to have known them both and consider myself blessed to have had the chance to get to know the real Harold, even as he was trapped in what initially appeared to be a violent, incommunicable body.
May I never look solely upon outward appearance, but always seek after the heart.
Friday, September 23, 2011
This Started As a Facebook Note...
A few weeks ago I started posting some "notes" on facebook to share inspiring stories from work with friends and family that have an interest in my passion for working with the elderly (or at least feign interest and offer an encouraging smile when I go on and on with funny stories, rants about the injustices in society against senior citizens, and complaints about the callouses I'm getting on my hands from pushing wheelchairs...) I called the notes Aging Anecdotes. After the fifth post, I decided I might as well make an official blog. It finally happened. I am a blogger.
Here's a copy of everything I started out with in those five notes:
Here's a copy of everything I started out with in those five notes:
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