She calls me "Irish." She knows I'm Irish, she says, by my long, curly locks. She tells me she's Scottish, and therein lies our kinship; two Celts, broad-sword wielding, Amazonion Bravehearts, in her mind.
On her wall is a large poster of "The Highlander," which was the character and title of an old tv series. She tells me the Highlander, or the character who plays him, is her son. "Isn't he handsome?" she asks. I assure her that the man on the picture is indeed a looker. On the wall beside the poster, is a black-and-white framed photograph of: "My husband," she says. The man in the photograph is another gentleman, in a naval officer uniform, and close perusal of both pictures reveal a remarkable family resemblance between the two. A later Google search reveals that they are in fact, one and the same; British actor, Adrian Paul played both the Highlander and a naval officer in an earlier tv series.
My friend, an eighty-plus year old resident in the nursing facility where I am employed as a nurse's aide is, of course...highly delusional. Round and thick as a Sequoia stump, with a pumpkin-head and page-boy haircut, it is hard to imagine she might ever have attracted the attention of so dapper, and darkly handsome a hunk as Adrian Paul. But because her delusion allows her some fantasical relief from the tedium of living in her little room, confined to either bed or wheelchair, myself and the other aides all go along with the ruse.
Before I became a full-time aide on her unit, she was widely known in our facility as an irascible old hag who was quick to anger and even quicker to accuse and report anyone who came into her room as guilty of stealing the few dollars in cash she frequently lost between pillows, under her bed, or amidst the clutter of magazines, letters, food wrappers, and other detritus that was always spilling over her tray-table. Most aides tried to avoid going into her room at all if they could, and often responded to her vitriol and bitterness with either frustration or impatient consternation of their own. You can imagine how this approach went over with her.
Compounding the situation was the grumpy woman's roommate. Restless, agitated, and a mind befuddled with dementia, the roommate would babble all through the night in non-sensical discourse with imagined companions, keeping "grumpy" from achieving any sort of restful slumber.
Over the course of the last year since I became assigned to the unit however, the woman and I became slow friends. Perhaps she appreciated the patience and tenderness I provided her, even when she was being ornery with me. I never snap back impatiently at my residents, or overtly let them know they're being a pain-in-the-ass. Kill 'em with kindness is my approach I guess. All I really know is that I have empathy for anyone who is stuck in the situation they are. Grumpiness, depression, and miserableness are to be expected. Besides, I had a grumpy, irascible father, who underneath the crust, had a soft warm heart that he was often embarassed for us to know he possessed. Crust don't bother me; crust is something I know how to look past.
Even though most of the residents will often gripe and mutter about their roommates, when one of them takes sick, the other will often ask and worry for them. So when my friend's roomie went off to the hospital, then returned a few days later and was put on "care-and-comfort" status, meaning we basically just try to keep them comfortable while they move through the dying process, it did not surprise me when my friend would frequently ask: "How's she doing?" Nor did it surprise me in the days following the roommate's passing that she seemed more lonely and needy, often ringing her call bell just so I would come in and talk to her. Over the course of the past year, as she would suffer from physical and emotional pains, she would cry out to me, "I just wish I would, die!" Sometimes I would make a joke of it: "Not on my watch." Or, "Not tonite, please," I might say. But sometimes, when I sensed she was not in a mood for my humor, I would just hug her or hold her hand. It got to be a regular thing with us, before I could leave the room she would hold out her hand to me and we would squeeze each other's grip before I would be off to tend to other duties.
The other night her call bell rang. I went into the room, shut off the bell and asked, "What can I do for you?" She motioned for me to come close, so I sat on the edge of her roommate's empty bed and leaned in close to her, my face maybe a foot from hers. "What's up?" She had to stifle a coughing fit first; I propped her up a bit and gave her some sips from her ever present orange juice. But when she was able to speak she peered hard into my eyes and said: "I wanna know...how much money would it take to make you happy?"
My heart softened, my shoulders slumped and I replied: "Oh, it doesn't take money to make me happy...I'm already happy!"
She shook her head and said: "Yes, but if you had to say how much, how much would it be..."
I smiled wryly and told her that while I appreciated the sentiment, I couldn't take her money (I didn't bother to tell her it is expressly verboten given the codes of my profession)...
She cut me off and said: "Cuz I have billions coming to me!"
I smiled again, thinking, well, now, wouldn't that be something if she actually was a rich old miser who was willing to shower me with all her fortune when she passed? But the fact that she'd said "billions" rather than "millions" or "thousands" only reinforced the reality that she's...well, a delusional old woman!
On my way out of the room, before I left, I reached out my hand to her and we squeezed each others grip for a moment...before I was off to other duties...
No comments:
Post a Comment