My Son

Think about it…living in a Nursing Home. The very word is restrictive. Like a restraint. It exudes a lack of freedom, a helplessness, an abdication to all things…life.

There are times when I walk along the hallways and peek in on the Residents. Some are engaged in an activity, most are blankly watching a TV screen. I feel…guilty for the life that I have. The fact that at the end of my workday I can leave, and drive into my suburban neighborhood…watch the kids run down the street, people waving at me from their golf carts…sprinklers softly misting the lawns. I can enjoy that, while Ms Mary has already sat in her wheelchair for seven hours, because the nightshift got her up at 4am. I walk down the hallways in my neatly pressed slacks and my freshly ironed blouse…while Mr John is wearing Mr Spencers shirt because the night aide couldn’t find his shirt. I do my rounds, because one of my job duties is to says I round…to, “check on the Resident’s and staff, get a pulse of the building”.

This morning I go into The Williams’ room. I have 7 minutes, I am planning to check into 2 more Resident’s. It will be quick, Mr William has fairly advanced dementia, but Mrs William has the clear and sharp mind of a 22 year old. I expect it will not take long, a few pleasantries, and I can make my other two stops.

“Good Morning Mrs Williams”, I say, smiling brightly, my voice exuding warmth. I quickly glance around the room, Mr Williams is asleep in his wheelchair, sitting at the table where Mrs Williams is doing her crossword puzzle. “Why, Hello!”, she beams, looking up at me, taking off her glasses. She has a what looks like a fresh stack of crossword books and the widest array of colored pencils. “How was your weekend?” I ask politely, expecting the usual “It was Ok”, or “fairly meddlin’ " or, “Same ol’ same ol”. But, no. “Oh! My Son came to see us this weekend”, she said. “It was wonderful”. Something in her voice, and the glistening of her dark blue eyes made me pause. “He did?” I asked, curious. “Yes”, she replied, “and he took me out”, she whispered the last part with pride, mixed with adoration. “Tell me what you did” I asked, leaning slightly forward, wanting to know. “He took me to the Goodwill, and he said, Mama, choose whatever you want”. She pointed at the blouse she was wearing. “So I got this, and another one”, she said, her face beaming. “I got some new pants. And I picked some clothes out for Ralph” she said, stroking her husbands hands affectionately. “We then went to the Olive Garden”, she said, her voice almost breaking”. It was delicious”. I could see the pride in her face, feel the joy in the room. Mrs Williams was radiating happiness and it could be felt.

I didn’t even want her to ask me what I did. I actually couldn’t remember in that moment what we did this weekend. I just joined in with Mrs Williams in her moment, basking in her joy, in her gratefulness. All because her Son had stopped by for a few hours on one sunny summers’ day. And for a moment, I didn’t feel guilty. I looked at my watch as I stood there and watched her face. I looked at her wide array of colored pencils. She followed my gaze, and gleefully said “And he bought me these”. I nodded and said, “You have every color under the sun”. She looked at me, and said “Yes, yes I do”. We looked at each other and smiled.

Sometimes a visit from My Son is all it takes to let the joy come in.

Empathy

It was another day in the Long Term Care Facility. I just got done with two meetings. I was going to eat my Ceasar Salad Wrap and drink some Sprite in solitude, when there was a gente knock on the door. “Come in,” I said cheerily, attempting to infuse my voice with a little light heartedness and mask some of my annoyance. It was Mr C, an older Gentleman, handsome, tall and well spoken, thin and a little frail. He was pushing his walker gently, peering behind the slightly open door. I waved him to come in completely, pushing my Ceasar wrap aside. My forehead wrinkled as I tried to recall Mr C…Mr C never complained, never came to my office, always waved tiredly at me whenever I left for the day. He had something to say, and whatever it was, I knew I had to give him my full attention.

Miz Anke,” he said, squezzing the brakes of his rolling walker. “I just wanted to speak up for some of the others”. I motioned for him to sit down in one of my oversized sofa-chairs. He waved both aside and sat down in the seat of his rolling walker. “I know they won’t come and speak with you,” he said softly; “because they can’t.” I swiveled my chair to face him. “But this here-” he waved his long thin arm up and out- “is all we have. This is home”. I didnt feel it was my time to speak yet, so I squezzed my lips tight, indicating my silence. He continued “some of the workers here-not all, some-act like they are in it just for the money”. He looked intently at me, pausing, waiting to see if I would feed him some line, explain things away, give some glib excuse. I leaned back in my chair and folded my hands in my lap. “The way they talk, the way they rush through here, the tone of their voice”, he stated. “Some talk to us loudly, slowly, like we are deaf”, he pointed at his ear. “Treating us like children-talking down to us, mouthing out the words”. I nodded for him to go on. “I’ve heard them speak out here in the common area of what they are going to do for one of us, loudly, for everyone to hear”. I lowered my eyes as he leaned forward and quietly said “Speaking of how it stank, to use the air freshener.” I met his gaze as he steadily looked at me “can you believe it?” he asked, leaning back.

And yes, I could. For what was for him and the other Residents a home, was just another day at the office for us. What was a private space, reall was just another assignment. What should be only known to the Resident, usually became public knowledge, something we discussed in Morning Meeting: How much they weighed, the color of their urine, how brown and big-or small-a bowel movement was. How senile they were, whose kids visited, who they showed alove interest in. My heart sank.

“Miz Anke”, he said, measuring his words. I leaned forward, “Can you believe that yesterday when I asked for my pills because they were over 2 hours late, I got told to go back to my room?” I was increadulous, “What?” I snapped. Who would tell a grown man to ‘go to his room’? I couldn’t believe it-who would say such a thing? My emotions were probably on full display on my face, because Mr C slowly got up from the seat of his walker and held onto his breaks, hesitating to release them. He looked at me, “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble” he said earnestly “but I’ve got to say: most of these workers lack empathy”. He released his breaks and slowly began to head toward the door. “Mr C, I called out behind him, standing up from my plush high backed leather chair”. He stopped, slowly turned around to look at me, a questioning look on his face. “I hear you, you are right” I said softly. “We must do better. When we started it was because in our hearts we wanted to help. We wanted to make a difference. We wanted to make a difficult and sad situation less so…and somehow we ended up…here”. Mr C nodded, and smiled. “We will see, Miz Anke, we will see.”

It cannot just be a job. Everyday I, and everyone I work with, need to strive to make a difference

Blog Post Title Three

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Four

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.