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I still remember my first patient. I’ll call her Marjorie. I was a
senior in nursing school and the registered nurse I shadowed assigned
me to her regularly.
It was around this time that nursing students began focusing on an
area of specialty. Without a doubt, I already knew what areas
interested me: geriatrics and neonatology. Not sure why, but I found
the polar ends of the spectrum fascinating. And after meeting
Marjorie, I discovered part of the reason why.
The routine was same every morning inside the assisted living
facility. I gave her a warm greeting at her door. Performed a quick
run through check of her heart and lung sounds, and took her blood
pressure. And by then she would already begin to run her thin, frail
fingers through her silver hair and ask, “Can you wash my hair? My son
is coming to visit me today.”
“Of course.” I replied.
I always happily obliged. Marjorie was a tiny, sweet 87-year old
woman who, although she was once a blonde, reminded me so much of my
own grandmother. It was something in her smile. Perhaps it was the
false teeth. Or quite possibly that no one could ever help but to
return a smile back at them.
“Ah, the water feels great,” she said as I rinsed the bubbly shampoo from her hair.
“Make sure you help me pick out something special to wear today, okay?”
After transferring her back into a wheelchair, she pointed out which
bra she wanted to wear. I found it funny she always knew which bra she
wanted to wear, but never which outfit. Years ago she had a mastectomy
on one side, so I had to remember to place her prosthetic breast
inside. Surely she felt a little self-conscious while exposed as I
helped dress her, so I made it a point to never stare or ask
questions. As I hooked the back straps, she would reach over into a
drawer to pull out an old photograph.
“That was me,” she’d say proudly. Pointing her finger at the faded,
black and white photograph of a slender ballerina. She wore a flowing,
pale cupped-sleeved dress. Her face angled to the side so her eyes
looked away. She was a gorgeous.
The next hour or so comprised of stories from her past. Continuous
stories. Playing in a loop like a CD, with an occasional shuffle. But
the stories were always the same, just retold with minor tweaks in the
details. Tales from when she was dancing on stage, when she first met
her husband, or how beautiful her son was as a baby.
“How about this one?” I cut in, while holding up 1 of 3 outfits hanging in her closet. “You can wear it to lunch.”
“Okay” she said nodding.
Outside of her door was a long hallway that led to the main sitting
and dining area. It reeked of urine, and the walkway was riddled with
elderly men and women parked in wheelchairs, nearly all of them
sleeping. This was the toughest part of the day. Making it down that
hall, swallowing deep, and fighting back tears.
“This needs more salt!” She’d proclaim at our table for two.
I couldn’t help but laugh. Everything in this cafeteria needed more
salt. Every meat, every vegetable, and maybe even bread in the joint
was boiled to death in plain water. Since most of the population had
false teeth and/or blood pressure issues, the food was always bland. My
guess is that prison cuisine reigned supreme in comparison.
Marjorie looked up at me laughing, and grinned back with boiled green beans between her dentured teeth.
It only lasted a moment, but right then, for a split second, I saw
Marjorie. The real Marjorie. A carefree spirit who once danced in the
flowing dress, and rocked her newborn son in her arms.
Unfortunately it never lasted. As noon drew near, a look always
washed over her face. A blank, emotionless stare. She fell into a flat
affect as if someone just turned off a switch.
“Uh, nurse? Hi, can you take me to my room? My son is coming to
visit me today, so make sure you help me pick out something special to
wear, okay?”
I always wonder if Marjorie is still there in the facility. Part of
me hopes not. It took my hopeful heart several visits to figure out
that her son never did come to visit her. It would tear me up inside if
she were still wandering those depressing halls, just waiting.
It seems too unfair.
So whenever I feel as if I am stuck in life. As though I’ve hit a
brick wall. Much like how I’ve felt recently with my infertility. I
think of Marjorie, and I am reminded of how fleeting life really is.
She reminds me that living life, means living it now, and not in the
past.
It was
