Old Friends

They come and they go, these old people of mine.  Some move on to other "homes" or facilities.  Some fall and injure themselves to the extent that under our licensing, we can no longer provide proper care.  These folks generally end up in a SNF, skilled nursing facility, aka a nursing home (a label which had been gradually phased out over the years in our society due to poor connotation, I think).  Placement in one of these establishments is a guarantee that life will be very different; even fewer choices will be available and less time for help and care will be allotted.  This is the fault of the current system, not the facilities in question.

Such a move is occurring right now and it involves a resident who has been nearest and dearest to my heart for many years.  I appear stoic on the outside.  I am greiving on the inside.  The lady in this instance is someone I've cared for these past six or so years.  She has had the dubious distinction for many years of being our oldest resident at almost 102.  This is someone I've helped out of bed, showered twice a week, gotten washed up and dressed and escorted to the dining room, walking alongside her walker, for breakfast and lunch for all these years. 

I have been watching the gradual decline of my friend over the years, fully expecting (and half hoping) that one morning I'd go into her room to awaken her only to discover she'd slipped away peacefully in her sleep.  This is my hope for all these folks and for me and mine as well.

My friend, my "old-mate", had failing vision and hearing and was often confused.  Like so many, she was living in another time of her college days, working days, life with her Naval-career husband during WWII and she could be amazingly clear about the details of those days.  She graduated from Berkely College and had a career as a lab technician.  You could tell she'd been a bright, intelligent, vigorous woman with an eye for a good time.  She loved parties and dancing and would talk about those good times with such a twinkle in her beautiful blue eyes.  Oh, how I wish I could've known her in her younger days.

I suppose it was inevitable that one day I'd come to work and be told, "Lorena fell and was taken to the E.R.".  A bad fall (is there a good one?) is very often the kiss of death for these frail old ones.  That day came for Lorena about a week ago.  The good news was that she hadn't broken a hip (a miracle).  The bad news was that she tore a ligament in her shoulder and plummeted into a very rapid state of further deline.  What can one expect of or hope for a soon to be 102 year old, after all?

Lorena and I shared the same birthday which served as a very special bond between us.  Sharing a birthday with someone you meet is to know instantly there's something special about them.  In all the years I took care of her, she never knew (or would remember) my name.  However, she knew my voice, my touch and that I lived in the same town where she grew up.  She would always be asking me if I knew so and so, people who were long since dead and how would I possibly know them having lived in this place for only 23 years or so.  I would stifle many a laugh for her sake.  She'd always inquire about "the river" which had been known to flood occasionally.  I would always reassure her that all was calm and safe riverwise.

I miss her.  I'm a bit off balance and my work day is most definitely out of sync.  Yet, I will not go visit her in her new place.  I could not bear it and would prefer to remember her as I last saw her.  I don't want to remember a resident near death or dead if I can help it.  In addition to constantly catering to these seniors' needs, I need to recognize and tend to my own so that I can continue to return to work for yet another day to....care.