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on 01-08-2002 21:19
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By Chonny
We didn’t have long. In fact, we had very little time indeed. Scuttling nervously downstairs, we entered the ward and filed down the corridor. We were duly informed that we stood in the C wing. The scent of stale urine accosted my nostrils. The sound of wailing drifted over to me. A hushed atmosphere enfolded me – this was, after all, where people came to die.
I had been exuberantly happy that day. My anticipation had slowly been escalating over the past few days. I was finally to put weeks of nursing theory into practice. I had often said to myself ‘hope for the best but expect the worst’. I’m not sure what I was expecting but it certainly wasn’t this.
Just minutes ago, we had been given a brief guided tour of the nursing home – the dining room, synagogue, and exercise area. We had been informed in depth about the facility’s Kasher Ruth observance and were given a lecture about pride and respect, about the feelings of the ‘residents’, about where we could and couldn’t smoke – a lecture that for once dragged on and on. All I wanted to do was to have a nice little chat with a lovely old lady.
It turns out that I, along with six other nursing students, were assigned to the third floor, a floor where the residents had severe dementia, the last stages of Alzheimer’s Disease, diabetes or perhaps a combination of all these and more.
My spanking new gym shoes pulled away from the well worn floors with a sticky, slapping sound every time I took a step. I followed the group closely which had quietened considerably from their usually bubbly selves. The atmosphere was stiflingly hot as we drifted to the end of the ward.
The corridor widened into a lobby where the resident’s rooms lined the walls. Before me was a plastic covered sofa, an armchair or two, and a television which blared a replay of some chat show.
There were no lovely ladies to have a cup of tea and a chat with. There was no laughter. There was no life.
Five residents sat in various positions before me. They didn’t stand or walk. Why? Because they couldn’t. Perhaps they didn’t have the strength or perhaps they had simply forgotten how to.
A moan escaped from the gaping mouth of a plastery, white, grey haired lady. It was soon followed by deep, guttural coughing which shook her tiny frame. Tears filled and threatened to spill out of my eyes as I saw the way in which her arms had contracted and her legs, crossed at the ankles, were bare and looked thinner than my wrist. Her eyes had a glazed look as though she were far, far away – perhaps in her youth where she could laugh and talk. The only feeling they registered now were fear, pain and resignation.
The voice of my instructor cut through to me. Sylvie had been living here for over fifteen years.
And my thoughts wandered again…
How would it feel to be cooped up for fifteen years without feeling the warmth of the sun shining down upon me? How would I feel if someone had to bathe me, if I had to wear a diaper, if I couldn’t walk, if I had to be lifted in and out of bed using a machine, if I couldn’t even turn onto my side into a more comfortable position in bed.
How would I feel?
How would I feel if I were trapped in my body, if I couldn’t recognise my own face staring back at me in a mirror? How would I feel if I couldn’t remember my daughter or son or what I did two minutes ago.
This facility is against the use of restraints – of what could be classified as involuntarily physical imprisonment, but who would like to be trapped, imprisoned and tied within your own mind where the only company you have are you memories – memories which are slowly fading themselves. Grab and clutch as you may, they fall and slip through your fingers as would sand with no hope of gathering them once more, no chance at all.
That was my first day and I hoped, along with everyone else that is would get better – could it get any worse?
Time passed and each day we entered that building with a feeling of dread, with a tightness in our throats which clenched as a vice, strangling and suffocating. Each day we left, glad that we could step out and feel the gentle autumn breeze carry away the stench that clung to our otherwise pristine uniforms.
Each day we left them all behind.
We learnt to ‘care’ for people. It was part of our class. It was the science of how to bathe, shave, feed, transfer residents, and how to make people comfortable.
Ann, my classmate, was a perfectionist indeed. Not a single wrinkle was to be found when she made a bed – they were tight, neat, and brilliantly white. When she found a resident to be in pain, it was as if Ann herself were in pain and you could see it reflected in her wide light blue eyes. So she strived to make that resident as comfortable as possible.
Dorothy was one such lady. She lay each day, stiff and immovable – unable to care for herself, a responsibility now assigned to Ann. Gently, with much tenderness and affection, Ann undertook the task of bathing her, dressing her, making a pristine bed, and feeding Dorothy her pureed breakfast.
Dorothy as everyone knew, spoke perhaps a word a week and ate but a spoonful of breakfast. That day however, she achingly enunciated word after word for Ann and slurped on her breakfast. The muscles of her face were even more tested when she managed a toothless, withered smile. Had Dorothy been made of metal, I’m sure you would have heard the clanking and grinding – noises borne of disuse.
It was gratifying to see that you could make a difference – how ever small. I could see a happy melancholy in Ann’s eyes as I watched her sitting beside Dorothy, holding her hand.
The next morning I entered the building and trudged up to the unit only to find our usually jolly instructor wearing a sombre face.
Last night, Dorothy had died. She had slipped away in her sleep – her spirit free to float, to prance and dance as her heart desired and as her decrepit body hadn’t allowed in years.
“It’s a blessing.” So we were told. She was no longer in pain, no longer suffering, no longer alone or a burden to anyone. The vice tightened all the more around our throats, pushing tears higher and higher until they cascaded from each and everyone one of us. I looked to Ann and saw the despair and disbelief on her face. She turned, sobbing and covering her face. Was it a blessing?
It occurred to me that although we may try to empathise with those around us constantly, we never really can feel or experience any given situation in exactly the same way. We draw our own conclusions, we fill in our own blanks.
Dorothy was silent, stoic and immobile. Such a shame, such a pity – I don’t think I could ever live like that. I would rather die – but would I really?
Do we say ‘It’s a blessing’ merely because it calms our own fears? Do we say it because it brings peace to us, the onlookers? I wonder, I really do. Was Dorothy suffering? Was she in pain? Did she wish she were dead? Or was she perfectly content to live in her cocoon of a body; her mind and thoughts all her own? Was the pain and desolation detected in her eyes merely something we conjured up? Questions.
After that, it was business as usual. Her room of many years would be stripped of her youthful photographs and few personal possessions and someone would replace her before the week was out.
Callous? Yes, but life goes on and after all, it was a blessing.
Last update : 01-08-2002 21:19
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