The tall male nurse bounces into the room buoyant and upbeat, tying bibs around the patients necks. Another aide tosses a carton of milk into the air and catches it athletically setting it on the table in front of the patient. It is dinner time.
Joleen, who appears to have severe cerebral palsy spasms as she drinks from her sippy-cups. One for milk, and another for her strawberry milk shake. George across the horse shoe shaped table has oxygen tubes in his nose and develops a serious coughing attack while trying to swallow his pizza. Melba sits with her eyes closed and looks as though she is blind, waiting quietly, patiently for the aid to feed her while the super that is sitting in front of her is getting cold. This is meal time at the convalescent hospital. My dad appears to be the most cognitive one there.
I look at each of these people wondering what sorts of lives they once lived. I would guess that Joleen has had cerebral palsy all or most of her life and is used to institutional living. She wears a constant smile and tries to communicate. I can't understand her.
George, big and burly, has large hands like someone who was used to manual labor. Perhaps he held down a variety of blue collar jobs, a one time mechanic who chatted freely with his customers, barking at those who irritated him. Or perhaps a truck driver maneuvering large 18 wheelers over treacherous highways and mountain roads.
Melba could have been any ones mother. I wonder how many children she has? Or had she been a nurse tending the needs of others, now on the receiving end?
My husband leans over to me and says, "Did you hear what that old guy across the room just said?" No I didn't so my husband reiterated to me, "I'm going to stand up and poop in my pants and I'm not going to clean it up," were the exact words. We cringe but can't help but laugh!
Pop turns to me several times throughout his meal and cheerfully asks me the same question, "Are you going to eat, too?" Looking at his portion I think to myself how glad I am that I am not. Always the first to finish his meal he puts down his cloth napkin and indicates that he is ready to leave his left overs behind. He's not even interested in taking the tea with him. I unlock the breaks on his wheel chair and attempt to maneuver him around the rest of the diners also in their rolling chairs.
My husband and I comment on how stuffy it is. My dad comments on how cold he is. I retrieve his signature cardigan and help him pull it on over his boney, protruding shoulders. "I'm tired," he says. We roll him back to his room. Help him into bed. Tell him good night and that we'll be back tomorrow.
My husband and I find the experience shocking. My dad doesn't seem to notice.
Friday, December 10, 2010
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Two years ago, this coming Monday, 12/13, my father died - right here in town, but without me by his side. Due to some very ugly and unfortunate step-family dynamics happening at the time, I was kept from seeing him during his last 8 months battling, and finally succombing to, cancer. It was only by a chance Facebook conversation between two of his grandchildren that I knew when it was over and other family members were threatened to be ousted as well if they told me where the service was going to be. I miss him so much, but at the same time, I cannot help but feel relief that I didn't have to go through what you're experiencing now. Our fathers are strong, proud men who raised us well. I think they've earned the blessing that allows them to "not seem to notice" what's happening to them now. I pray every day that my father didn't fully know what was going on around him and I especially hope with all my heart that he didn't notice my absence.
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