Break dancing for Thanksgiving? I don’t see why not: I mean, we all must be thankful for the ability to dance, are we not?
It was not the first time I have attempted this variety of dance. It was, however, the first time I have done so in front of many people . . . I think it may have also been the first time I have unabashedly done it in front of adults [rather than just children, since the last time I remember busting a move was with my students, as a home schooling teacher].
And I know for a fact that it was the first time that it has been a part of my Thanksgiving celebration.
This morning, before my family gathering, a friend and I attended the community meal—this year a rather chilly affair, at the outdoor pavilion. There turned out to be a wonderful abundance of volunteer help, so all were well-fed and [hopefully] well entertained. I add that small clarification as I must admit to being a part of the entertainment:
My planned participation was simply vocal, chiming in with a few Thanksgiving-appropriate tribal songs I picked up in Zambia. But as I do when I sing, I had to dance a bit as I clapped; and I explained that one of the songs was much better when it included a chorus line of dancing vocalists.
So it seemed fitting that the next performing group was a quartet of break dancers. And I was simply one of several who, when given a good beat, simply cannot help but dance—especially when watching skilled folks who are already doing so . . .
And so we danced.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sunday drive
The time I get to spend with the Burundi refugees is all too short lately. But I am grateful for the time I had, pre-job, for daily visits that built a foundation allowing for easier relationship building even when so limited in quantity. So as time passes, and we grow more comfortable with each other, it seems that this comfort lends itself towards more frequent moments of spontaneious laughter. This afternoon I drove them home from Church, now that they have been placed in local subsidized housing units. My poor little Pearl didn’t know what to think with four extra bodies piled into her . . . I don’t think I imagined the extra creaks and groans mixed in with her usual gear shifts and clutch adjustments. But she carried us safely—and happily—to their home. It being my first time there, I relied upon Petronie's unique brand of direction-giving: a mixture of wildly waving gestures and blurted orders of “Stop!” “Go!,” “Here!” and “No!” Considering it all, we managed the journey surprisingly smoothly.
Once parked in front of their apartment, as the rest of the crew bounded towards the door, the elderly Evode stopped and looked back at me in the car. He said something and then walked back to me. I expected him to give another goodbye handshake, as I have grown fondly accustomed to his hearty and repetitive greetings and goodbyes. But I realized he was saying something else, trying to tell me something specific. I was afraid something was wrong: were they locked out? But no: I saw that Faransine was already traipsing in the door, dancing as she sang the refrain from one of the day’s songs.
And besides, Evode was smiling awfully broadly as he gestured . . . I rolled my window down and listened as he beamingly gestured towards their apartment door. “Numba!” he said, pointing to the sign. “Numba!,” he repeated. Then it hit me. He was proud of his progress in the language, and was simply showing me his newest word: “Number.” I laughed and shook his hand “Goodbye” again.
The drive home was a happy one; I was energized by the vibrant love these friends so freely offer me. And I was honored that Evode—a man whom I suspect to be a deep well of experience and wisdom—was so set on sharing his small victory of learning with me before I left them for the day.
Once parked in front of their apartment, as the rest of the crew bounded towards the door, the elderly Evode stopped and looked back at me in the car. He said something and then walked back to me. I expected him to give another goodbye handshake, as I have grown fondly accustomed to his hearty and repetitive greetings and goodbyes. But I realized he was saying something else, trying to tell me something specific. I was afraid something was wrong: were they locked out? But no: I saw that Faransine was already traipsing in the door, dancing as she sang the refrain from one of the day’s songs.
And besides, Evode was smiling awfully broadly as he gestured . . . I rolled my window down and listened as he beamingly gestured towards their apartment door. “Numba!” he said, pointing to the sign. “Numba!,” he repeated. Then it hit me. He was proud of his progress in the language, and was simply showing me his newest word: “Number.” I laughed and shook his hand “Goodbye” again.
The drive home was a happy one; I was energized by the vibrant love these friends so freely offer me. And I was honored that Evode—a man whom I suspect to be a deep well of experience and wisdom—was so set on sharing his small victory of learning with me before I left them for the day.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
facing a fear
It was odd to discover that I still cannot bring myself to look at a dead body. For as long as I can remember, I have had this fear—rather inexplicably considering my usually abnormal lack of fear in normal fear-provoking circumstances.
Losing out first resident—in my tenure on the job—I found myself deliberately avoiding a direct look at the frail body lying on the bed. Mr. C had died rather suddenly, having been vibrant up to this point. He was known as “the screamer” thanks to his habit of shouting at the top of his lungs [literally] even if you were standing within a foot of him. His deafness coming late in life, he had never quite grasped the reality of what his own hard of hearing meant: so he did what came naturally and spoke at an all-out shout: it’s actually a wonder he could maintain the roaring decibel level he seemed to consistently manage. So I had grown accustomed to bracing myself each time I approached him, prepared to be blasted by a bellow of a request to call his brother, or to get him a cup of coffee. But Mr. C’s apparent liveliness hid from many of us the truth that he was in the latter stages of prostate cancer; so his abrupt death was no surprise to his family.
When I entered the bedroom to discuss logistics with his case worker, it caught me off guard to feel my heart beat more rapidly and my breathing become shallow. I was instantly afraid: a sudden and illogical fear of looking at his dead body.
It’s not as if I have some scarring memory of seeing death in my past; I never saw my father’s body. And when my Opa died, his expression was utterly peaceful. He wore such a normal expression that Oma had even kissed him before realizing that he was gone.
But for all the funerals I can remember, I have tried desperately to avoid the viewing parade. Granted, I also find it a rather disturbing practice in general; but I can understand how some bereaved people find it comforting. I simply am afraid of seeing death face-to-face like that, so on the occasions when I could not slip unnoticed out of the viewing line, I simply averted my eyes discreetly so that I made every semblance of going along with the flow without actually looking . . .
I suppose it should come as no great surprise to realize that it is a strange thing to be faced with our fears in life.
Losing out first resident—in my tenure on the job—I found myself deliberately avoiding a direct look at the frail body lying on the bed. Mr. C had died rather suddenly, having been vibrant up to this point. He was known as “the screamer” thanks to his habit of shouting at the top of his lungs [literally] even if you were standing within a foot of him. His deafness coming late in life, he had never quite grasped the reality of what his own hard of hearing meant: so he did what came naturally and spoke at an all-out shout: it’s actually a wonder he could maintain the roaring decibel level he seemed to consistently manage. So I had grown accustomed to bracing myself each time I approached him, prepared to be blasted by a bellow of a request to call his brother, or to get him a cup of coffee. But Mr. C’s apparent liveliness hid from many of us the truth that he was in the latter stages of prostate cancer; so his abrupt death was no surprise to his family.
When I entered the bedroom to discuss logistics with his case worker, it caught me off guard to feel my heart beat more rapidly and my breathing become shallow. I was instantly afraid: a sudden and illogical fear of looking at his dead body.
It’s not as if I have some scarring memory of seeing death in my past; I never saw my father’s body. And when my Opa died, his expression was utterly peaceful. He wore such a normal expression that Oma had even kissed him before realizing that he was gone.
But for all the funerals I can remember, I have tried desperately to avoid the viewing parade. Granted, I also find it a rather disturbing practice in general; but I can understand how some bereaved people find it comforting. I simply am afraid of seeing death face-to-face like that, so on the occasions when I could not slip unnoticed out of the viewing line, I simply averted my eyes discreetly so that I made every semblance of going along with the flow without actually looking . . .
I suppose it should come as no great surprise to realize that it is a strange thing to be faced with our fears in life.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
"drive" safely
1. Drive at a slow speed. Faster speeds are for outdoors only.
2. Always yield the right of way to pedestrians. Remember, neither of you know what the other is going to do.
3. Make eye contact with pedestrians and speak your intentions such as, “Passing on your left” or “Passing on your right.”
4. Keep a space cushion of at least three feet around you at all times.
5. Slow and stop sooner than you think necessary.
6. Back up only when absolutely necessary and always look behind you first.
7. Keep your hands, arms, and feet inside the chair when in motion.
8. Never try to crowd inside an elevator with others. Politely ask them to step out to allow you to enter safely, or wait for the next empty elevator.
9. Always wear your seat belt on ramps and outdoors.
10. Travel up and down on slopes, not sideways.
11. Avoid holes and drop-offs.
12. Never attempt to drive over any obstacles over 2 inches high.
Today I learned that driving a POV is a lot harder than you’d think—it also, coincidentally, is a whole lot of fun. I was quite bad at it, veering wildly in my efforts to steer. And I was worthless in the Obstacle Course, demolishing the walls of the pretend elevator, and knocking down all the cones. But all in all, it was definitely a successful afternoon of Motorized Driver Safety class. I think my personal lack of skill provided some amusement to the residents ☺
And in case you needed to know for future reference, I thought I’d provide the cardinal laws of driver safety—that is the list posted above. A couple other topics that came up were “keep your batteries charged” and “don’t drink and drive.” In fact, we were all seriously warned, a “motorist” was recently issued a DUI for wheelchair-operating under the influence!
2. Always yield the right of way to pedestrians. Remember, neither of you know what the other is going to do.
3. Make eye contact with pedestrians and speak your intentions such as, “Passing on your left” or “Passing on your right.”
4. Keep a space cushion of at least three feet around you at all times.
5. Slow and stop sooner than you think necessary.
6. Back up only when absolutely necessary and always look behind you first.
7. Keep your hands, arms, and feet inside the chair when in motion.
8. Never try to crowd inside an elevator with others. Politely ask them to step out to allow you to enter safely, or wait for the next empty elevator.
9. Always wear your seat belt on ramps and outdoors.
10. Travel up and down on slopes, not sideways.
11. Avoid holes and drop-offs.
12. Never attempt to drive over any obstacles over 2 inches high.
Today I learned that driving a POV is a lot harder than you’d think—it also, coincidentally, is a whole lot of fun. I was quite bad at it, veering wildly in my efforts to steer. And I was worthless in the Obstacle Course, demolishing the walls of the pretend elevator, and knocking down all the cones. But all in all, it was definitely a successful afternoon of Motorized Driver Safety class. I think my personal lack of skill provided some amusement to the residents ☺
And in case you needed to know for future reference, I thought I’d provide the cardinal laws of driver safety—that is the list posted above. A couple other topics that came up were “keep your batteries charged” and “don’t drink and drive.” In fact, we were all seriously warned, a “motorist” was recently issued a DUI for wheelchair-operating under the influence!
Saturday, November 03, 2007
speaking of names
Due to the nature of my past work and life experiences, I am accustomed to being given nicknames. Some come as a result of memory lapses, some come from teasing, and some from sweet, and greatly appreciated, affection [this I can attribute to the loving side of children's inherent openness].
My most recent work has offered several new ones, some of which I know the root of and some I do not. All I enjoy . . . so far!
Here are a few of them, along with the best elaboration I can offer:
"Little Miss Africa" -- The first newsletter I distributed included I section in which I introduced myself as the "new face" around the facility. I also gave a shortlist of the places I had lived before now. In a low-income residential facility, deep in the Heartland, the mention of Zambia, Africa rather understandably stuck out to some of the residents . . . to those who are literate, mind you!
"Miss Bonjour" -- For a reason unbeknownst to me, one lady mistook my name for "Bonjour" when she was using the telephone in my office and needed to give the name of her social worker to the Department of Human Services. She asked me, a moment later, if that was how I said my name. I corrected her, but the actual pronounciation did not stick in her memory. Since then, each time she needs to say my name, she calls me "Miss Bonjour." This has become so natural to her that she simply does not think to question any more if it is indeed my name. What I find ironic about it all is that she has no way of knowing that French is one of the languages I know: the one I know best. So I figure it is a nickname I was destined to have :-)
"Tulip Toes" -- I haven't the slightest idea where this came from, but yesterday I arrived at work to find Jo waiting for me to arrive. And as I approached the office she smiled and waved from down the hall: "Well there she is--hey, Miss Tulip Toes!" I waved back, shrugged, and laughed to myself, figuring I would just leave that one be :-)
My most recent work has offered several new ones, some of which I know the root of and some I do not. All I enjoy . . . so far!
Here are a few of them, along with the best elaboration I can offer:
"Little Miss Africa" -- The first newsletter I distributed included I section in which I introduced myself as the "new face" around the facility. I also gave a shortlist of the places I had lived before now. In a low-income residential facility, deep in the Heartland, the mention of Zambia, Africa rather understandably stuck out to some of the residents . . . to those who are literate, mind you!
"Miss Bonjour" -- For a reason unbeknownst to me, one lady mistook my name for "Bonjour" when she was using the telephone in my office and needed to give the name of her social worker to the Department of Human Services. She asked me, a moment later, if that was how I said my name. I corrected her, but the actual pronounciation did not stick in her memory. Since then, each time she needs to say my name, she calls me "Miss Bonjour." This has become so natural to her that she simply does not think to question any more if it is indeed my name. What I find ironic about it all is that she has no way of knowing that French is one of the languages I know: the one I know best. So I figure it is a nickname I was destined to have :-)
"Tulip Toes" -- I haven't the slightest idea where this came from, but yesterday I arrived at work to find Jo waiting for me to arrive. And as I approached the office she smiled and waved from down the hall: "Well there she is--hey, Miss Tulip Toes!" I waved back, shrugged, and laughed to myself, figuring I would just leave that one be :-)
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
just another work day
As I vented about the day over dinner this evening, it occurred to me while speaking that my workplace sometimes feels surreal even to me. It is my real, every day life, and yet the daily reality of it is certainly beyond any daily-ness I have ever experienced before . . .
Since my last post a certain resident [about whom I have written, if you are a regular reader] has had a warrant put out for his arrest. So when I saw him the next day, I did my citizenly duty and called the police [mind you, the words I just used to describe the action do little to convey agitated, nerve-wracked state of mind I was in at the time].
The next day I arrived at the office and was relieved to discover that he was incarcerated. This news encouraged me greatly, as I assumed this would be the end of it, for a little while at least.
But today he was back, roaming the halls as usual; I was told that his mother had bailed him out.
Oh, and I got another call from the DA's office, requesting contact information for one of our residents. When I realized it was the individual's mother he was asking about, I assumed it pertained to our resident sex offender. But the officer knew nothing about that turns out he was calling about her: she is now being investigated for using a fraudulent check to post bail . . .
Since my last post a certain resident [about whom I have written, if you are a regular reader] has had a warrant put out for his arrest. So when I saw him the next day, I did my citizenly duty and called the police [mind you, the words I just used to describe the action do little to convey agitated, nerve-wracked state of mind I was in at the time].
The next day I arrived at the office and was relieved to discover that he was incarcerated. This news encouraged me greatly, as I assumed this would be the end of it, for a little while at least.
But today he was back, roaming the halls as usual; I was told that his mother had bailed him out.
Oh, and I got another call from the DA's office, requesting contact information for one of our residents. When I realized it was the individual's mother he was asking about, I assumed it pertained to our resident sex offender. But the officer knew nothing about that turns out he was calling about her: she is now being investigated for using a fraudulent check to post bail . . .
Thursday, October 25, 2007
all in a name
It is a delight to watch a five year old burst into peals of loud laughter at the image conjured up by the words of a fairy tale; it can also be an amusing surprise to see the source of that laughter. Carson's laughter last night over the rhymes of Dr. Seuss was easy to understand, but tonight it caught me a bit off guard. We had settled on the story of "Lazy Jack" from my Child's Book of fairy Tales, in which little Jack has a series of amusingly confused efforts to heed his mother's advice. Carson was understandably tickled at the idea of Jack carrying a donkey upside down on his shoulders. But he also literally rolled on the floor when I told how Jack had carried meat home from the butcher by dragging it behind him with a rope--now what Carson laughed so hard about, though, was not the image itself but the word used . . . for some reason, he found the word "mutton" to be the most hilarious thing he had apparently heard in quite some time!
Monday, October 22, 2007
job description, schmob description
Today I cut Miss Mary's hair. My intent in going up to her apartment was to have her fill out an application, as she was one of the residents with some mobility issues whom I knew would struggle to come down to sign up for the annual "commodities." When I got up there, however, she mentioned that she was bothered by the way her hair always fluttered into her eyes. She wanted to get it cut but wondered at the cost of having someone make a house call to do that: or at least that's what she replied when I asked if she wanted it cut.
So I said that I could actually do it for her, if she wanted, having spent my college years as a bit of a word-of-mouth hairdresser for all my housemates and friends. I started to feel guilty about offering to do something that I am technically not supposed to do [it falls under to social worker-speak term of "direct service" that I am meant to provide help acquiring but not do myself]. But then I thought more about it and realized I did not in fact feel it was wrong for me to do in this case. As it was, Mary had an immediate need that I could provide quite readily, in very little time. She is planning to move out soon, and as she is one of my favorite residents I am anxious to make the most of what time there is left. And frankly--more selfishly, as far as reasons go--there was nothing I would rather have done with a portion of this day.
It was one of those sweet moments in life when time slows to a blessed stand still. Combing the wisps of baby-fine hair as I knelt beside Mary, I marveled at her beauty, and told her as much. As I am always a bit nervous when I cut someone's hair, I was relieved to see that the result was quite lovely. And I was thrilled at her ready smile when I held up the hand mirror to show her the end result . . .
No, I definitely have no qualms about the non-working time I spent while at work today :-)
So I said that I could actually do it for her, if she wanted, having spent my college years as a bit of a word-of-mouth hairdresser for all my housemates and friends. I started to feel guilty about offering to do something that I am technically not supposed to do [it falls under to social worker-speak term of "direct service" that I am meant to provide help acquiring but not do myself]. But then I thought more about it and realized I did not in fact feel it was wrong for me to do in this case. As it was, Mary had an immediate need that I could provide quite readily, in very little time. She is planning to move out soon, and as she is one of my favorite residents I am anxious to make the most of what time there is left. And frankly--more selfishly, as far as reasons go--there was nothing I would rather have done with a portion of this day.
It was one of those sweet moments in life when time slows to a blessed stand still. Combing the wisps of baby-fine hair as I knelt beside Mary, I marveled at her beauty, and told her as much. As I am always a bit nervous when I cut someone's hair, I was relieved to see that the result was quite lovely. And I was thrilled at her ready smile when I held up the hand mirror to show her the end result . . .
No, I definitely have no qualms about the non-working time I spent while at work today :-)
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
lest i forget
I was growing increasingly frustrated today as I spoke with Miss Charlotte’s sister today. It began as what I assumed would be a straightforward conversation. After visiting Charlotte for a check-up last week, I had nearly keeled over as I walked in. Her apartment was filthy with a build-up of human waste and insects, and the odor completely overpowering. And she had no idea. She was even soiled herself, yet she spoke with me in a relatively coherent conversation, chattering on in a blissful oblivion to her surroundings.
As we have volunteer student nurses who come periodically, I made sure she had a visit the next day and I spoke with the nurses afterwards. They told me what I suspected they would: that she could not take care of herself any longer. Up to now, Miss Charlotte has been headstrong in her independence, so I was relieved to hear the report that she had also admitted to them that she knew she needed to move out of her own place . . . “It’s definitely time for her to go to a nursing home,” they concluded as the nurses left my office.
The first step in this move is to contact the family, so I made a few phone calls to her relatives and was referred to her main caretaker—her sister. Each day I had left a message for her, since that day, explaining the situation, telling her it was up to her now to make the decision, and asking for her to call me back. But I still had not heard from her today; I was thrilled, then, to hear her answer the phone this time.
My excitement promptly turned into frustration. She almost brushed me off immediately, saying she was tired today and would call me later. Not trusting a return call, and anxious to get something moving, I quickly explained to her my reason for calling [she had told me she did not check her messages so had not gotten any of my prior ones]. My assumption was that she would immediately realize the urgency of the situation and respond accordingly. Instead, she told me that nursing homes “didn’t take care of anyone,” and their food was awful. She said she’d just try to find someone who would come and help Charlotte in her apartment.
I tried to explain to her that the waiting list for in-home care was a year and a half long at this point, and that Charlotte was really needing more than that anyway. She repeated her feeling about nursing homes, citing her bad experience with one in particular, and rushed off the phone. Before she hung up, I convinced her to promise to call me back as soon as she heard back about the in-home care; she clearly was not going to consider a nursing home.
What was so distressing to me was that she was not truly concerned about the needs of her sister; all she cared about was her own idea about nursing homes. Had she had the financial resources to afford top-notch in-home care, that would be one thing. But this was a lady who occasionally came to visit her sister, and who had refused to help financially [when I called to tell her that her sister did not have a mattress—hers being soiled beyond use—she had told me she couldn’t afford one, and couldn’t do anything about it at the time. I had been left to scramble with a hunt at all the donation locations to try to locate a mattress by the time she was ready for bed that evening].
In short, I was left with the unmistakable impression that Miss Charlotte’s sister simply did not care enough to do what needed to be done.
The normal procedure in this case is to let the family make the decision, which means taking the individual to the hospital. The hospital then refers them to a nursing home, so that Medicare has the “official” word to cover the costs.
In this case, I need to decide how long to wait for Charlotte’s sister to respond. If she does not, I’m afraid I will need to have Adult Protective Services intervene, in lieu of Charlotte’s family. It is distressing to think of having the state do what the family should be doing for her. But the alternative is worse: the idea that no one cares enough to make sure that she is not left alone in her increasing senility and infirmity.
I left work today saddened at the lack of care that is so prevalent in this world. And then I reminded myself that I probably need to be faced with such blatant selfishness in order to take care to guard against my own such tendencies. I pray that I can spend a lifetime cultivating a heart that is willing to break over all that is heartbreaking in life as we know it.
As we have volunteer student nurses who come periodically, I made sure she had a visit the next day and I spoke with the nurses afterwards. They told me what I suspected they would: that she could not take care of herself any longer. Up to now, Miss Charlotte has been headstrong in her independence, so I was relieved to hear the report that she had also admitted to them that she knew she needed to move out of her own place . . . “It’s definitely time for her to go to a nursing home,” they concluded as the nurses left my office.
The first step in this move is to contact the family, so I made a few phone calls to her relatives and was referred to her main caretaker—her sister. Each day I had left a message for her, since that day, explaining the situation, telling her it was up to her now to make the decision, and asking for her to call me back. But I still had not heard from her today; I was thrilled, then, to hear her answer the phone this time.
My excitement promptly turned into frustration. She almost brushed me off immediately, saying she was tired today and would call me later. Not trusting a return call, and anxious to get something moving, I quickly explained to her my reason for calling [she had told me she did not check her messages so had not gotten any of my prior ones]. My assumption was that she would immediately realize the urgency of the situation and respond accordingly. Instead, she told me that nursing homes “didn’t take care of anyone,” and their food was awful. She said she’d just try to find someone who would come and help Charlotte in her apartment.
I tried to explain to her that the waiting list for in-home care was a year and a half long at this point, and that Charlotte was really needing more than that anyway. She repeated her feeling about nursing homes, citing her bad experience with one in particular, and rushed off the phone. Before she hung up, I convinced her to promise to call me back as soon as she heard back about the in-home care; she clearly was not going to consider a nursing home.
What was so distressing to me was that she was not truly concerned about the needs of her sister; all she cared about was her own idea about nursing homes. Had she had the financial resources to afford top-notch in-home care, that would be one thing. But this was a lady who occasionally came to visit her sister, and who had refused to help financially [when I called to tell her that her sister did not have a mattress—hers being soiled beyond use—she had told me she couldn’t afford one, and couldn’t do anything about it at the time. I had been left to scramble with a hunt at all the donation locations to try to locate a mattress by the time she was ready for bed that evening].
In short, I was left with the unmistakable impression that Miss Charlotte’s sister simply did not care enough to do what needed to be done.
The normal procedure in this case is to let the family make the decision, which means taking the individual to the hospital. The hospital then refers them to a nursing home, so that Medicare has the “official” word to cover the costs.
In this case, I need to decide how long to wait for Charlotte’s sister to respond. If she does not, I’m afraid I will need to have Adult Protective Services intervene, in lieu of Charlotte’s family. It is distressing to think of having the state do what the family should be doing for her. But the alternative is worse: the idea that no one cares enough to make sure that she is not left alone in her increasing senility and infirmity.
I left work today saddened at the lack of care that is so prevalent in this world. And then I reminded myself that I probably need to be faced with such blatant selfishness in order to take care to guard against my own such tendencies. I pray that I can spend a lifetime cultivating a heart that is willing to break over all that is heartbreaking in life as we know it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
p diddy's got nothing on ms. b
Thank you, Hon--You just saved my butt . . . and you know it's a big butt!
She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to tell someone, and I guess I deserved it, having just followed her instructions to help her precarious position in her wheelchair: I braced myself behind her, grasped the elastic waistband of her pants, and hoisted her up to shift her into a better position. My coworker later berated me for attempting such a thing, as the last time she had done it, she had enlisted the aid of a male nurse. Ah well--it seemed to work alright this time!
She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to tell someone, and I guess I deserved it, having just followed her instructions to help her precarious position in her wheelchair: I braced myself behind her, grasped the elastic waistband of her pants, and hoisted her up to shift her into a better position. My coworker later berated me for attempting such a thing, as the last time she had done it, she had enlisted the aid of a male nurse. Ah well--it seemed to work alright this time!
Sunday, October 07, 2007
why not eat salsa with a fork?
Once church was over and my laundry finished today, I decided to squeeze in a late afternoon trip to the museum: I hadn't yet seen the temporary Moser exhibit and am always eager for the chance to take flash my membership card :-)
So while walking downtown I passed a man sitting outside, talking. He sounded just like any weekend leisurer until I realized he was not holding a cell phone [is that a sign of the times, that his lack of a cell phone rather than the fact that he was alone is what struck me as odd?]. I soon recognized him as one of our local not-quite-sane city dwellers, so it wasn't a terribly surprising sight as far as daily encounters go.
It was, however, an uplifting one. At the time I was rather weary of dealing with landlady issues, as my household is currently in transition. And I was extremely weary of the work issues, Friday being another day of experiencing the vibes of pure hatred I can do nothing about. I cannot tell the residents the truth of the situation, so for all they know, I am a meddling newbie who came in and started a wild rumor about that nice man who stays with his mother. He has now been told he has to leave the building and, if he has any questions, should direct them towards his parole officer . . .
But what I was going to say [when truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact about the ice storm] was that seeing this eccentric man today lifted my spirits unexpectedly. He sat there contentedly talking to his "friend," while sipping a corona and eating forkfuls of salsa from the jar.
So as I continued on my way I grinned at the refreshing thought that we all have a bit of a "crazy" in us. And, sometimes, I think it is the craziness that keeps us sane.
So while walking downtown I passed a man sitting outside, talking. He sounded just like any weekend leisurer until I realized he was not holding a cell phone [is that a sign of the times, that his lack of a cell phone rather than the fact that he was alone is what struck me as odd?]. I soon recognized him as one of our local not-quite-sane city dwellers, so it wasn't a terribly surprising sight as far as daily encounters go.
It was, however, an uplifting one. At the time I was rather weary of dealing with landlady issues, as my household is currently in transition. And I was extremely weary of the work issues, Friday being another day of experiencing the vibes of pure hatred I can do nothing about. I cannot tell the residents the truth of the situation, so for all they know, I am a meddling newbie who came in and started a wild rumor about that nice man who stays with his mother. He has now been told he has to leave the building and, if he has any questions, should direct them towards his parole officer . . .
But what I was going to say [when truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact about the ice storm] was that seeing this eccentric man today lifted my spirits unexpectedly. He sat there contentedly talking to his "friend," while sipping a corona and eating forkfuls of salsa from the jar.
So as I continued on my way I grinned at the refreshing thought that we all have a bit of a "crazy" in us. And, sometimes, I think it is the craziness that keeps us sane.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Feliz Dia, ANNA
HAppy birthday! I hope you had a great one- would love to see pics of the party...if you take some!! SO you;re working at a nursing home? How´s your readjustment been to life in the States?
Love susan
Abrazos
Love susan
Abrazos
Monday, October 01, 2007
if you've ever wondered . . .
. . . what folks who spend their days working with the elderly do when they are gathered together for a nationwide conference: in this particular case, I can vouch for one group who holds serious health care, mental support, and caregiving sessions during the day. But by night, you can find us singing "everybody dance now," dancing with our heads while our bodies morph into digitally mastered dancing genii. Or at least that's what three of us did just now--and I have [safely held hostage] a video to prove it :-)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
in all seriousness
I am beginning to realize that sometimes, when life is full of too much harsh reality, the only way to stay sane is to keep a sense of humor. Oddly, it is now, in the midst of extreme stresses at work, that I am making time to laugh at the antics of the crazy dog I am caring for. Being of a rather serious nature, I initially thought that the combination of evils I'm confronted with each work day should make it somehow wrong to be able to laugh; but this is not the case. Life is full of all manner of experiences, and an overload of one does not preclude the presence of another. So today, emerging from a heart-racing day of confronting evil and discovering what it feels like to be someone's enemy, I come home and laugh heartily at this slobbery mutt as he eats, poops, and snores . . . more or less in that routine order.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
about those parts . . .
Arriving home from Church this afternoon I couldn't help but notice the way Dozer was gently, gingerly, lowering himself each time he sat down. So a few trains of thought later I was selecting my tools from the medicine cabinet.
I found what I was looking for: one infection ointment and one pain/itch cream. Dabbing a good-sized dollop of each onto two fingers I walked over to the seated bulldog as he watched me. Since he is not a particularly young, or agile, creature, I hoisted him up rather than wait to coax him. Then, thankful for his perplexed lack of reactive-ness, I smeared first the infection cream, then the pain cream, directly onto his afflicted rear.
It was, I can sincerely avow, the first time I have wiped a doggie's bottom.
I found what I was looking for: one infection ointment and one pain/itch cream. Dabbing a good-sized dollop of each onto two fingers I walked over to the seated bulldog as he watched me. Since he is not a particularly young, or agile, creature, I hoisted him up rather than wait to coax him. Then, thankful for his perplexed lack of reactive-ness, I smeared first the infection cream, then the pain cream, directly onto his afflicted rear.
It was, I can sincerely avow, the first time I have wiped a doggie's bottom.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
all 2000 of them . . .
I had to laugh. Tonight I came home to a mid-bathing extravaganza. I am house-sitting for a family whose secretary enjoys taking the bulldog on photographed adventures whenever they go out of town. So she had checked with me about doing one of her events again, and planned to start tomorrow. First, however, she asked how he smelled. I looked at Dozer as I talked to her and said, “Well, he reeks. So much so that I have taken to washing the furniture slipcovers neurotically, in a vain effort to rid the house of his odor.”
She replied that she suspected as much, and that she had noticed the last time she was here that he was in desperate need of a bath. So she asked if she could come tonight to bathe him before she does his “photo shoot” tomorrow. “Well, by all means!” I assured her, and added that we would all be happier for it.
So tonight she gave him a bath. And then realizing he still smelled, she gave him a double bath. Being somewhat of an expert in canine matters, she informed me afterwards that he had a bit of a sore on his backside that may be contributing to his odor. We looked around the house for some suitable ointment and, finding none, she said she would bring her own dogs’ cream when she came yesterday.
Butt cream, I thought.
Then I laughed out loud and asked if I could tell her why it was highly ironic that we were having this conversation:
One of the day’s crises involved a phone call from Ms. Melinda. As soon as I picked up the phone she began to tell me about the nurses who had just been up to see her [today was the day the volunteer nursing students come, so we had sent a couple of them up to take care of Melinda’s hygiene needs]. She began by telling me about this cream she had that was stolen. “The nurses stole your cream?” I interjected, perplexed for a moment. “Oh no, honey!” she exclaimed. But she said that she did in fact have some cream stolen from her a while back . . . she did not tell anyone about that, though—not until now, as she was telling me. But that’s not why she was calling me; she was calling to tell me how pleased she was with the nurses who had come today. See, they knew just what she needed, and they gave her some. And what was it that she was needing? What other than butt cream, as she proudly, and loudly, proclaimed.
I guess there is no shortage of needy body parts in the world . . .
She replied that she suspected as much, and that she had noticed the last time she was here that he was in desperate need of a bath. So she asked if she could come tonight to bathe him before she does his “photo shoot” tomorrow. “Well, by all means!” I assured her, and added that we would all be happier for it.
So tonight she gave him a bath. And then realizing he still smelled, she gave him a double bath. Being somewhat of an expert in canine matters, she informed me afterwards that he had a bit of a sore on his backside that may be contributing to his odor. We looked around the house for some suitable ointment and, finding none, she said she would bring her own dogs’ cream when she came yesterday.
Butt cream, I thought.
Then I laughed out loud and asked if I could tell her why it was highly ironic that we were having this conversation:
One of the day’s crises involved a phone call from Ms. Melinda. As soon as I picked up the phone she began to tell me about the nurses who had just been up to see her [today was the day the volunteer nursing students come, so we had sent a couple of them up to take care of Melinda’s hygiene needs]. She began by telling me about this cream she had that was stolen. “The nurses stole your cream?” I interjected, perplexed for a moment. “Oh no, honey!” she exclaimed. But she said that she did in fact have some cream stolen from her a while back . . . she did not tell anyone about that, though—not until now, as she was telling me. But that’s not why she was calling me; she was calling to tell me how pleased she was with the nurses who had come today. See, they knew just what she needed, and they gave her some. And what was it that she was needing? What other than butt cream, as she proudly, and loudly, proclaimed.
I guess there is no shortage of needy body parts in the world . . .
Monday, September 17, 2007
no, this isn't spam mail
Having not had my usual internet access lately, my computer time has been too limited for me to do justice to the most recent work tales [though I have had no shortage of snippets to be mentally filed away in my to-write-about storage space].
But this is a tale about a tail that was passed along my another children's literature fan--and I do hope you agree with me that it is well worth the re-telling . . .
The father was on duty for the morning, taking his 4-year-old to preschool. He noticed the boy's attire and decided to make some clothing-related smalltalk. "You know, son, I like that Tigger t-shirt you have on today. Do you think you can jump as high as Tigger can?"
The boy looked at his dad and, after a moment of thoughtful quiet said "No, daddy--I don't think my penis is long enough."
But this is a tale about a tail that was passed along my another children's literature fan--and I do hope you agree with me that it is well worth the re-telling . . .
The father was on duty for the morning, taking his 4-year-old to preschool. He noticed the boy's attire and decided to make some clothing-related smalltalk. "You know, son, I like that Tigger t-shirt you have on today. Do you think you can jump as high as Tigger can?"
The boy looked at his dad and, after a moment of thoughtful quiet said "No, daddy--I don't think my penis is long enough."
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
qualified nuttiness
Just another day in the land of nutty old folks and nutty not-so-old ones. To illustrate, let me give you one snippet from the day:
Two gentlemen came this afternoon to tell me about the coming opening of a new Counseling Center for geriatric patients--it's the only area center of licensed counselors and therapists that will accept Medicaid and offer the type of services they provide, so they're trying to make folks like me aware of it, so we can refer our residents to them. At one point, one of them asked me how many people I could think of right off the bat who would qualify for psychiatric services, if assessed by a professional. A quick train of thought went something like this: Hmmm . . . we have about 158 residents at the moment. There are about 6 of us here who work directly with the residents . . . Then I responded out loud, “Well, I can think of about 164 off the top of my head who would most likely qualify for psychiatric services at the moment.”
Two gentlemen came this afternoon to tell me about the coming opening of a new Counseling Center for geriatric patients--it's the only area center of licensed counselors and therapists that will accept Medicaid and offer the type of services they provide, so they're trying to make folks like me aware of it, so we can refer our residents to them. At one point, one of them asked me how many people I could think of right off the bat who would qualify for psychiatric services, if assessed by a professional. A quick train of thought went something like this: Hmmm . . . we have about 158 residents at the moment. There are about 6 of us here who work directly with the residents . . . Then I responded out loud, “Well, I can think of about 164 off the top of my head who would most likely qualify for psychiatric services at the moment.”
Thursday, September 06, 2007
armed, and dangerous?
I didn't have to ask who she was when she interrupted my routinely official phone greeting with an insistent, "Honey, can you come up here for a minute." Wondering what the crisis of the day was, I grabbed my keys and headed up to the 11th floor. The door was cracked and she hollered for me to come on in when I knocked.
Miss B, do you know you left a note up on the door, saying you're changing and to come back in 30 minutes? "Oh yes, I know," she replied. "Soon as you leave, I will--so I wanted that note up now."
Oh, of course . . . so how are you today?
"I dropped Hospice," she began, as I sat down across from her at the dinette. "They just weren't any good. So I got me a real doctor. Her name's over there on the fridge. She has a nurse too but, shit, I can't remember that nurse's name . . ."
I started to get up to write down the Doctor's name but sat back down when she leaned over conspiratorily and said, "But that's not what I wanted to tell you today." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Now I don't want you to tell anybody about this, but you need to know what's going on . . ."
I sat back in my chair and listened as she told me the "real story." It turns out Miss B has had a scare. She had someone break in her door last night. Well, not quite: they almost broke in . . . just loudly enough to wake her up. So she decided to take action. Next time, she'll be ready for the potential intruder . . .
She stopped her story and began rifling through her purse. "I got this a while back; when I got it he told me it was good forever. And not just in this state--it's good anywhere . . . there it is!"
And she handed me a certifiably official Georgia Firearm Licence, stamped with her name and thumbprint.
"Next time my Social Security check comes, I'm going to get me a gun. Not a big one--just a little one. So when he comes back, I'll be ready. It won't be loaded, mind you, but I'll keep the shells by my bed. So if he comes back, by the time he gets from the door to my bed, I'll be ready for him. Now I don't want to kill anybody--'Thou shalt not kill' . . . but I can make sure he crawls out of here if he tries to hurt me. I'll shoot him in the foot!"
As she said this she gestured to my feet, and I widened my eyes as I nodded with her.
She lowered her voice again and came closer to me. "I want you to know this, but I don't want you to tell anyone. You know how word gets around here. But if I die, I want you to destroy all my papers--and destroy my gun! I'm going to keep it in my pillowcase, so you'll know to look for it there."
Her day's task apparently completed, Miss B then wheeled away from the table and thanked me for being "so helpful" all the time.
"Alright honey--you have a good day. And just make sure you latch that door behind you as you go!"
Miss B's secret is safe with me--at least now that I have checked the building policies. The manager assured me that they were not allowed to look for contraband materials inside resident apartments, even if "heresay" suggested the existence of the same . . .
Miss B, do you know you left a note up on the door, saying you're changing and to come back in 30 minutes? "Oh yes, I know," she replied. "Soon as you leave, I will--so I wanted that note up now."
Oh, of course . . . so how are you today?
"I dropped Hospice," she began, as I sat down across from her at the dinette. "They just weren't any good. So I got me a real doctor. Her name's over there on the fridge. She has a nurse too but, shit, I can't remember that nurse's name . . ."
I started to get up to write down the Doctor's name but sat back down when she leaned over conspiratorily and said, "But that's not what I wanted to tell you today." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Now I don't want you to tell anybody about this, but you need to know what's going on . . ."
I sat back in my chair and listened as she told me the "real story." It turns out Miss B has had a scare. She had someone break in her door last night. Well, not quite: they almost broke in . . . just loudly enough to wake her up. So she decided to take action. Next time, she'll be ready for the potential intruder . . .
She stopped her story and began rifling through her purse. "I got this a while back; when I got it he told me it was good forever. And not just in this state--it's good anywhere . . . there it is!"
And she handed me a certifiably official Georgia Firearm Licence, stamped with her name and thumbprint.
"Next time my Social Security check comes, I'm going to get me a gun. Not a big one--just a little one. So when he comes back, I'll be ready. It won't be loaded, mind you, but I'll keep the shells by my bed. So if he comes back, by the time he gets from the door to my bed, I'll be ready for him. Now I don't want to kill anybody--'Thou shalt not kill' . . . but I can make sure he crawls out of here if he tries to hurt me. I'll shoot him in the foot!"
As she said this she gestured to my feet, and I widened my eyes as I nodded with her.
She lowered her voice again and came closer to me. "I want you to know this, but I don't want you to tell anyone. You know how word gets around here. But if I die, I want you to destroy all my papers--and destroy my gun! I'm going to keep it in my pillowcase, so you'll know to look for it there."
Her day's task apparently completed, Miss B then wheeled away from the table and thanked me for being "so helpful" all the time.
"Alright honey--you have a good day. And just make sure you latch that door behind you as you go!"
Miss B's secret is safe with me--at least now that I have checked the building policies. The manager assured me that they were not allowed to look for contraband materials inside resident apartments, even if "heresay" suggested the existence of the same . . .
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