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After visiting Thelma in the nursing home, my husband and I have been having a lot of talks lately about our health, aging, and where we could find ourselves, you know, at the end. It has changed how we treat each other while we’re still continent.
I never thought a nursing home would be all that bad until I visited one. I used to fantasize about sharing my own little room with my pet, and meals prepared for me. Tennis in the afternoon with people who can still get around. Water aerobics in the morning. I was picturing the Four Seasons with a bunch of Jack LaLannes.
It never entered my mind that a I could wind up in a holding tank for people who have lost control of their bodily functions and their minds. Hey! I am sometimes very forgetful and I have been known to wet my pants a little when I laugh too hard!
I escorted Thelma to the bathroom and stood with her while she used the john because we had broken a rule that was very clearly explained to me. Only family and hospital staff can move Thelma out of her chair. If she gets up from her wheelchair an alarm will sound and staff will come running.
I tried to make the noise stop with the weight of my coat and a Kleenex box, the only things within reach, while I supported Thelma with my other arm. Once she steadied herself on the toilet, I ran out to the chair to find the switch to turn off the alarm to no avail.
I helped Thelma pull up her adult diaper while making a mental note to begin doing kegels every day. I asked if she wanted me to change it. She said it was fine. It didn’t look fine. Ten repetitions of one hundred kegels. Starting tomorrow.
The alarm in her wheelchair buzzed continuously while she was in the bathroom. I tried to hurry her so we wouldn’t get in trouble but it was too late. If she hadn’t insisted on washing her hands I could have returned her to her chair without her daughter-in-law barging in and scolding us. Later, when I wheeled her down the hallway for something to do, all the aides shook their heads at me. Bad, Amy! Bad!
Shiny waxed linoleum floors that echo. Nagging fluorescent lights. People in wheelchairs, asleep in the hallway. The horrible beeping and buzzing sound of alarms meant to protect everyone’s ass. This is not how I plan to live out my life.
My friend, Nancy, is an emergency room nurse at a busy hospital on Long Island. She told me the story of having to juggle three patients. First, she had to put an IV in an 85-year old woman’s arm. Then she had to check on a bleeding patient’s stitches in the next room. Third, she had to cast a broken leg.
She finally found a vein in the 85-year old, and ran to help the other two patients. When she returned to transfer the 85-year old to a floor, she found that the old woman had pulled out her IV.
“What did you do that for?!!” Nancy scolded her.
“If you were 85 you’d pull it out, too,” she said in a rusty, tired voice.
“That’s just it! I’m not going to be 85!” Nancy spat back, exacerbated.
The old woman pointed a crooked, wrinkled hand at Nancy and croaked, “Sometiiiiimes….you don’t have