Death, Extended, and Death, Interrupted.

In the 3 or so months I've been working at the GreatRep, 4 of my residents have died. Since I'm pretty new there, I haven't had a chance to form the long-term bonds with them that some of my coworkers have, so it hasn't affected me as deeply as it has for some of them.

This most recent one, Mr. 4, was the hardest for me personally. Partly because he and his wife were new to our facility and got there around the same time as I did. Partly because he went from being fine, to having a major health event and being sent out to the hospital, to coming home to us already on comfort care and ready to die. His family was pretty amazing; one of their adult children spent the night in the room with the parents the entire time. Mrs.4 really appreciated that, and I think it eased a lot of the burden on her. Mr.4 hung on for several days despite being NPO (nothing by mouth, including food or water). We turned him every 2 hours, kept him clean and comfortable, and his family watched him go through the whole process. Not just their children, but nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, the whole gang was there.

Providing care to someone who's dying takes on a whole new dimension when their family is there, watching you, sometimes crying, sometimes joking, just trying to maintain some kind of life during that limbo. It really drives home how your patient had a whole entire life and millions of experiences before this one, and it makes it sad that they have to end this way, with a slow dragging towards death.

Mr. 4 passed peacefully, and before he went I promised him we would take good care of his wife. It's hard to know what to say to someone who's just been widowed. Mrs. 4 knows what happened, her memory is still fairly intact. It's hard to force myself to reach out to her when I'm afraid that saying Mr. 4's name will make her sad. But she's already sad, and she knows we all cared for him before he went. So I keep making myself check in on her, ask how she's feeling, and so on.

I thought dealing with the dying people would be the hard part, but it's their families that I ultimately feel sad for.

So it made it all the sweeter when I went to Jimmy's wife's birthday party today and found out that she is no longer on hospice care! Mrs. Jimmy has held on so much longer and stronger than anyone anticipated, and I'm so glad that Jimmy won't have to face that loss in the immediate future after all. I got to tell him jokes and give him hugs and kisses and watch him hold his grandkids while his wife opened her gifts and ate her cake. Pretty nice to see death get interrupted.

(for newer readers, I wrote about Jimmy back when I first started this blog, here: http://scrubsandcrocs.blogspot.com/2010/07/authenticity.html ; I don't work at his facility or care for him through HomeCare anymore, but I'm in touch with his family so they invited me and my husband to the party today - yay!)

Ma'am, I Am Tonight

A fair amount of my old folks are pretty religious. I've got one who talks about Jesus like they're locker room buddies ("I told Jesus he's gotta help the Mariners tonight, because that new manager is from the minor leagues!") as well as one who used to be a pastor. I've got many who have paintings of Jesus up in their apartments, or rosaries around their necks, or crosses above their doors. The very religious aren't shy about sharing it, and in general I find it pretty charming. They found a faith that works for them and makes them happy, and I'm glad for them.

The difference between old folks and younger Christians seems to be that the elderly ones assume that anyone who is kind to them, and helps them, and cares about them (all of which I try to do every day) must also share their faith. And the thing is, I don't. At all. I'm an atheist. A big old nonbeliever.

You can probably imagine that this causes some problems. And you're right.

I think of myself as pretty tolerant, and also pretty practical. So when my Most Confused Woman Ever was alone while her husband was in the hospital, I hunted around her house until I found something with the address of her baptist church on it. And I took her there. And I grabbed her minister so that he could get his flock on board with visiting this woman, bringing her groceries, and visiting her husband. Because they needed community and support, and if that meant I had to sit through a hateful gay-bashing sermon to get it for them, then that was a tradeoff I'm willing to make. It doesn't mean I enjoyed it, but I did it. And then I never went back. But it improved my old peoples' quality of life, which was my goal.

And my octogenarian who talks about Jesus like they're pals who like the same sports teams and would be great fishing buddies? When he tells me he prays for me every night, I thank him and give him a hug. Because he's thinking of me, and wants my life to be good, because, as he tells me, I'm a "nice nurse and a sweet girl". I'm not going to tell him to quit praying for me, or point out that his God is probably sick of hearing about me and wishes he'd pray for someone more worthy. I may be imagining God rolling his eyes and saying "Ugh, not that dumbass Polly again!", but my old man is sharing his heart with me that way and so I like it.

But it starts getting sticky when, like my ex-pastor, my residents ask me directly where I stand on all this. The other night as I was laying out clean clothes for that man to wear the next day and helping him get ready for bed, he said "You are so gentle and kind to an old man like me. I know that Jesus Christ must have touched your heart to make you this way. Do you believe in God?".

Eeek.

Lucky for me, this man has memory loss, so I've gotten to try out two approaches with him: honesty and lying.

Honesty was: "No, I don't believe in God and I'm not Christian. Thank you for saying you think Jesus has touched my heart and that I'm kind to you, because I know that is a big compliment from you and I'm grateful that you like having me around". Unfortunately, that led to him wanting to minister to me, which made me late for giving out snacks to the diabetics, which isn't good for them, and then also late for giving a bedtime shower which meant that lady had to stay up really late, and I got off work late as well. All in all, not practical, and not useful. I'm still not converted, and Mr. Pastor isn't any happier than he was when we started.

Which led me to lying. Just saying "Yes" when he asked me again, and "Good night and God bless". He went to bed happy, and I got to give care to everyone else on my list in a timely manner.

I think you can probably guess which approach I'll be sticking with from now on.

And if their God gets mad at me for being a faux-believer when I'm on shift, then I hope he reads this: God, sorry I lied about believing in you. But while you're busy taking care of those people's souls, I was busy brushing their teeth, bathing them, feeding them, and kissing them goodnight. You can understand that, can't you? They need that stuff too. So don't be mad. I'm just doing the best I can. And so are they. And according to them, so are you. So let's be friends, and I'll see you at Monday night football.

Maybe I should double-check with some of my old folks about whether or not God can read blogs. And whether or not caring for the sick and elderly makes me exempt from wrath or not. I'll figure it does until otherwise notified.

(Temporarily) Hanging up my Stethoscope

Nursing Assistants are held to different standards of education and certification from state to state. Where I live, one can be a Nursing Assistant Registered (which I am) with very little classroom education. All of the practical skills I've learned, from taking vitals to transferring to catheter care, have been through on-the-job training and experience. If I were to become a Nursing Assistant Certified (which is my next goal) I'll re-learn a lot of those skills in a classroom environment combined with "clinical hours" at a participating facility. 75 hours worth of education, to be exact.

In order to be employed at an Assisted Living facility as an NAR (that's me!) I have to take this shorter, simplified training that is intended to cover all the basic caregiving skills. When I got hired at my current facility, the woman who hired me told me they'd be giving me that basic caregiver training. This is pretty standard for old folks' facilities in my state.

Now that the due date for that training is approaching, the woman that hired me has taken that promise back. She told me that I must pay for the training myself, and also that the facility won't pay for any of my training time. With the cost of the course plus lost hours & wages I'd be losing a full week's pay. A fourth of my monthly budget.
Nice, huh?

I went through all the channels, talked to the Nursing Director, and to Labor and Industries. Turns out this is a legal demand for them to make.

Which leaves me with just one option: quitting.

I turn in my notice tomorrow, and by the end of September, I won't work there anymore. No more Lanie disassembling her air conditioner, no more coworkers asking God "Where's my husband? I need someone to bang!" during dinner break. No more "flight risk" posters, or shift reports about someone's "butt cheeks". Sad!

And since my other job is as a private (nonmedical) caregiver, I'll be hanging up my stethoscope until I can find a replacement job.

The bright side is that by not wasting my education budget on a caregiving course, I will keep saving up for the Nursing Assistant course I really want to take. That'll open a lot more doors for me in terms of being employable not just in Assisted Living, but also in Skilled Nursing facilities or hospitals.

But until then, I'm frustrated and angry.

Aides and Caregivers are the ones who spend the most time with our elderly. We're the ones who know their quirks and personalities, the ones who are most likely to catch symptoms and advocate for treatments before a condition gets out of hand. We work incredibly hard for very low pay. And unfortunately, the management at this facility isn't at all unusual; a lot of times they suck. Being a Nursing Assistant means having to be vigilant to ensure you're actually paid for all the time that you work, and trying to avoid being put in impossible situations by management.

When I come up with a good solution for this dynamic, I'll be sure to let you all know. Obviously, the system isn't working right for the workers or the elderly. I know my residents will miss me, and I'll be worried about some of them. There are one or two right now that seem to only cooperate in getting bathed and dental care when I am doing it. Hopefully they'll form good relationships with whoever replaces me, and not refuse cares. But I'd rather be there doing it, and I'd guess their families would rather I was too. Something needs to change, here.

I just don't know how to do it.

Shift Reports

One of my absolute favorite parts of my job at the facility is coming in and catching up on the week's shift reports. Each shift (day, evening, noc/overnight) the aides and nurses write down anything notable that applies to our residents. That way, each shift, as they come on, gets a verbal report where we hit the highlights (Mr. Smith needs to catch the bus to go to the bank, Mrs. Jones fell earlier, Mr. Brown is drunk again) and then can read in the shift report for any further details.

Generally what makes the reports funny is what our residents have been up to. This week, for instance included the following gems:

Noc shift "Mr. X paged at 4am. When I responded to his call light, he asked where his daughters are. I told him they had gone home two days ago and would be back to visit again soon. Resident was confused, asked, 'Well ain't I in heaven?'. Told him he's still alive and was probably dreaming. He said 'ok' and went back to sleep."

Apparently heaven is a giant nursing home where we all have page buttons to ask the big questions in life, or get our briefs changed. Who knew?

I also liked: Noc shift "Went in at 3am for location verification check on flight-risk resident in apt. 123. She woke and started screaming for me to 'Get the hell out'. Resident was in correct location, as expected."

Then there are the ones that are funny because of typos or spelling errors that the staff has made. I was signing off on all our new care plans for our new residents yesterday, and saw that apparently one old man is "ablaze to get in and out of bed unassisted". Damn, he must be motivated!

I also like ones along the lines of "resident has a bruise on butt cheek" or "small sores on both sides of the crack". Descriptive and clear, just not professional. Same with "Evening shift please remember to take out so-and-so's bathroom trash before she goes to bed. No one can stand the stench".

My final favorite things to see in the shift reports are about our residents who hide the stuff they don't like. Don't think that TED hose (tight socks for diabetics) are comfortable? Hide them. Dislike your dentures? Stash them somewhere weird. I love seeing "Housekeeping found TED hose under bed. Told resident if he keeps hiding them his daughters will have his doctor prescribe another pair at his expense. States he doesn't care and will never wear them. TED hose missing again". And "upper dentures found wedged in easy chair cushions. Removed and cleaned, put in soaking cup with polident. AM shift, please encourage resident to wear them tomorrow".

Shift report logs = comedy gold, don't you think?

Bitsy

Bitsy is a homecare client that I had a few months back, who holds two special honors:
1. She is the MOST positive, optimistic person I have ever met.
2. She's the one that kindled my newfound love of football.

Bitsy is in her late seventies, but looks a little older than that because she has Parkinson's which causes her a lot of stiffness and difficulty walking or moving. She also has a few little spasms and tics, which, this being Bitsy we're talking about, are completely adorable; a prissy little head shake, ramrod posture, and a tiptoed gait.

Bitsy was living with one of her daughters when I began taking care of her, and her boundless bright-sideyness is even more striking considering that before she came to live with her daughter, she spent a few months in an adult family home where she was neglected. That neglect came at a time when Bitsy was recovering from a broken knee, and nearly permanently cost her the ability to walk. If you're curious about adult family homes or what's being done to rectify that type of situation, there's a great series called Seniors for Sale that covers the main points. And if you're thinking "no way in hell am I clicking on something that depressing" then that's just fine too. No judgement here; it really is sad.

By the time I got to know Bitsy she was regaining her ability to walk using a walker as long as someone was there to hold onto her gait belt just to be safe. She said the first time she was able to walk outside after moving in with her daughter, she was so happy she cried with joy. Bitsy is so funny and adorable, I think the best way to describe her is by sharing some of her quotes:

"That lemon-lime sports drink is delicious, but it's so rich! I'm as full as can be!"

"We went to Kmart the other day to find some cute pants for these long legs of mine, and did you know they had a wheelchair there for just anyone to use? It was the best thing! I was getting too tired with my walker but they let me use that wheelchair, and I got to see all the clothes there. Kathy Ireland has clothes there! And it's air conditioned! And it's so big, and so organized. It's really just beautiful. And we stayed so long with that wheelchair of theirs, it really felt like I was on a vacation!"

After watching a Christian stand-up comedienne DVD, Bitsy laughed and clapped at how "She talks about regular everyday things like going to the grocery store but she makes it SO FUNNY!"

Bitsy regularly marveled over the deliciousness of jello, how delightful it is to watch baseball games on television, how well the "little fellow over at the church" rings the bells every Sunday, and how funny the nurse that helped deliver her youngest child was all those years ago.

Looking at things the way Bitsy does is pretty great. And if you want to feel like you're right there with her, here's a clip of one of her favorite groups singing one of her favorite songs. Watch it and imagine a prim, idiosyncratic lady with giant knitting needles sitting next to you and singing along.
The Cathedrals "Movin' up to Gloryland" on YouTube

Lanie

Lanie is a very determined, frequently confused lady who lives at the facility I work at. Up until recently, Lanie lived in our locked memory care unit. This is something that most bigger places offer, because think about it: people with memory loss tend to wander, but don't have the skills they need to keep safe while they wander around. They might be trying to get back to a house they lived in 40 years ago, and not realize that they need to watch out for cars when they're trying to cross the street. So a locked unit may sound harsher than it really is. At my facility, it's not even physically locked; you enter a key code to enter or exit. If you fail to enter it right, it sets off an alarm and one of the aides from that unit comes to see what's up. If you're an old person escaping, they talk you into coming back. If you're a new employee that forgot to enter the code, they laugh and turn off the alarm. Even if you did the same thing earlier that day. Oops.

But back to Lanie. Lanie is a skinny little old lady who walks with a walker and whose apartment is sparsely decorated. It features Jesus and Baby Dolls prominently. Lanie is generally content to just sit in her living room, looking out the window, or maybe flipping through a magazine or catalogue. When it's time to eat, one of us gets her and walks her to the dining room, seats her, and orders whatever we discussed with her earlier, since she'll blank out when it's time to tell the server what she wants.

Occasionally, Lanie gets hungry a little earlier than normal and stalks the halls crankily, complaining about how they moved the elevator again and she can't find the dining room in a crazy place like this.

One of my job duties is to take turns with the other aides passing out evening snacks for the diabetics after the nurse has done blood sugars and insulin injections. This keeps anyone from bottoming out overnight (hopefully) and is usually a pretty fun little chore, especially if I've managed to snag anything unusual from the kitchen to make it more exciting. The night they gave us Activia instead of Yoplait yogurt was a big one, let me tell you! Although we staff were all a little worried we'd be up to our elbows in poop the next morning.

Lately, the last few times I've been wheeling that snack cart up and down the hallways around 8pm, Lanie has popped out of her room looking for all the world like a geriatric CIA agent in some combination of a nightie and another garment. One night she had jeans aka "dungarees" on under her nightgown. My favorite was when she had on her pink trench coat over it, collar popped and chin low.



Lanie summons me with a loud "PSSST!" on these occasions, gesturing impatiently for me to come huddle in her doorway with her. I abandon my snack cart mid-pass, and walk over quickly to her. What Lanie has to say on these occasions is usually some variation on how "That room is a mess and I'm LOCKED IN there, and I can't get it straightened out!" Never mind that she's out in the hallway and therefore not locked in anywhere. Lanie's got something in mind and she wants it done now.

I usually start troubleshooting with "Do you need to go to the bathroom?" followed by closing her blinds (always a big relief) and pulling back her covers (usually gets me a "THAT's the stuff! Good girl!"). If Lanie is still feeling locked in, I check to make sure things aren't in unusual places. The other night, she'd partially disassembled her air conditioner. Not because she was too hot or too cold, just to unlock herself, you see. So I put it back together, which earned me a hug and the privilege of hanging up her pink trench coat.

I don't know much about Lanie or what she did with her life, but I like to imagine that maybe she was a great chess player, a spy, or someone who worked underground in tunnels. She's got a low-pitched gravelly voice and intense eyes. I can see her formulating strategies and melting around corners and into shadows. Lanie may just be getting unlocked in her apartment now, but I bet she could crack safes before. Maybe that's why Lanie's not in the memory care unit anymore; those doors couldn't hold her.

Dignity

There are different buzzwords that you hear a lot when you start learning about the world of senior care. "Aging in place" refers to someone staying in their own home. "Cognitive impairment" is the newer polite alternative to saying someone is confused, demented, brain-damaged by stroke, or senile. And any discussion about where/how/who will care for old people is bound to include opinions about how to "preserve dignity."

It's an emotional topic for families. They are used to seeing Grandma or Mom as a capable woman, and know that she worked for years as a nurse, or teacher, or Air Force pilot, or whatever it is she did. And even though she may not really be that same woman anymore in many ways, they want to have the stage set as if she still is the same as ever, as much as possible. Some families are against the use of mechanical lifts for that reason, because they think they are "dehumanizing." Some dislike certain terms; I have one client whose daughter doesn't like me to call myself her father's Caregiver. She prefers the term "escort" which I hate because my job is this:

and is NOT:


All in all, I'm not very sensitive about dignity. The truth is, getting old isn't a dignified experience. You lose abilities you used to have, and rely on others more. Your body is deteriorating. But you know what? It happens to EVERYONE who lives long enough. So there's no point being embarrassed about it. I think we may as well just be practical and do things the way that's the easiest for the old person. It's more comfortable and safer for them to be transferred with a mechanical lift? Use one. They need to be wearing diapers/briefs? Get some. The dickering about what to call someone's caregiver or whether or not Grandpa should wear a life alert pendant is more about the families than the person, lots of times.

But this week, at my job, I turned into the one saying "That's not dignified!" And it surprised me. What finally pushed me into that camp?

My facility's new policy that when we change someone's disposable brief, we must write the date, time, and our name ON THEIR ACTUAL BRIEF. Now that's impractical enough, but add to that the fact that if I check their brief, and it's clean, I must cross out the previous time and add the new one. Seriously. Which means that instead of a 2 minute trip to the bathroom to check, I need to decide if I want to be the jerk that writes on someone's butt while they're wearing the brief, the jerk that makes them take it off so I can write on it and put it back on, or the jerk who avoids the first two options by throwing away a perfectly fine one so that I can write on a new one in the other room where they aren't watching me autograph their underwear and then put that one on them.

Ugh.

I agree that not changing people when you're supposed to is horrible and can lead to health problems. But a small chart in their bathroom for staff to initial? Dignified. Writing on someone's underwear every 2 hours? Not.

Oh, Gross!

When I tell people what I do for a living now, a lot of them get hung up on the fact that I wipe butts and change adult diapers. I get asked "Do you have a really strong stomach?" (answer: no) and "Is that the worst part?" (again: no). It's just like anything else; you get used to it. It's just another task that needs to be done, and it's one that has a pretty obvious correlation to whether my patient is comfortable and healthy or not. Would you be feeling good sitting in a soaking wet diaper? Would it be fun for you to no longer be able to get up and go to the bathroom when you need to? Of course not. So by handling those things promptly, I improve someone's quality of life instantly. Not bad, really.

Besides, I'm a blood phobic, so anything involving blood is approximately 8,000,000times worse in my mind than any poop, vomit or urine could be. Blood makes me faint, usually. I mean really faint. Out cold, hitting my head on the way down type of fainting. Yikes.

So you can imagine how anxious I was when one of my clients had to have his toenail removed recently. Completely gone. Double yikes.

He got home with a sheet of instructions that read "soak foot for 10 min daily, loosely apply bandaid, can use small amount of antiobiotic ointment if needed". Wow, thanks for the hints about what I'm going to see under the weird blue gauze you packed him in, doc. Scribbled on a prescription notepad was the additional "for first treatment, remove bandage first. If dressing sticks, use peroxide to loosen."

Oh. Okay. Bandage sticking to never before exposed skin?? That can't be fun.

I got my client settled, got all my supplies lined up, and gloved up. Oh my lord, how I love disposable gloves. I cannot imagine doing this job without them. The first nurses were SAINTS to do what they did, and to do it bare-handed.

I gently began removing the dressing from this poor man's foot, and blood really started flowing. Like dripping-onto-the-carpet flowing. Crap! I got that bandaging off as fast as I could and dunked his foot into the little basin of water, which immediately began looking as if a shark attack had taken place. My client was woozy at this point, and shut his eyes, claiming to be too much of a "sissy" to look. Me too, buddy. Me too.

Luckily the bleeding stopped after a few minutes in the water, and after a very messy dry-off, the beast was safely bandaged up again. Ew.

I left that apartment a little woozy myself, and vowing to inspect my own feet every night for the rest of my life so I never, EVER have to have that done on myself. But you know what? I did it! I dealt with a bleeding wound without fainting, vomiting, or freezing up. I'm awesome! I'm brave! I'm a nursing assistant rockstar!

I'd also still prefer a diaper to that, no contest. Especially one as aptly named as this ...



That's right, buddies, me and the disposable briefs? We'll prevail!

I walk you, too. I mean, like.

Sometimes, communicating with my clients is like interpreting someone who's just learning to speak English. The sentiments are often clear, but the words themselves are odd. Whether they're officially diagnosed with dementia, Alzheimer's, stroke, or aphasia doesn't really matter. You've just got to try to listen hard and when all else fails, pantomime. Which is extra fun when what you're trying to communicate is "I'm going to wash your genitals now". It makes pantomiming brushing teeth or sitting down just delightful. Sometimes, though, once you get to know someone's particular brand of language-slips, the pantomimes become unnecessary.

Take the lady in my assisted living facility who has a fairly complicated getting-ready-for-bed routine. Not only do she and her husband BOTH SPEAK AT TOP VOLUME ALL THE TIME, but the words that substitute in her brain are often just barely related to what she means. She'll gesture at the door, telling me to leave the wicker a little bit open. She'll ask me to bring her wire, pantomiming holding a walker in front of her. She'll tell me she'd like a drink of can. But once you get used to her, it's fairly easy to tell what she wants.

At the other end of the spectrum, I have a homecare client whom I bathe 2x/week. Originally from Japan, and currently on pain mends that increase her confusion, her conversation tends to be a mix of Japanese and English that's largely unrelated to what's happening around her. Luckily, she's a friendly and easygoing type, and that is making her life much easier now that she's got others doing things for (and to) her all the time. My favorite is when I ask her "are you cold, or ok?" and she'll gaze around the room slowly, then finally make eye contact with me. I can see she's hearing and understanding me, and I'm pleased we're communicating. And then, impossibly slowly, she'll ask "Are ... you ... talking ... to ... me?". I smile and say yes, waiting for an answer about her comfort level. And instead I'm rewarded with a smile back and an "Oh ... thank you!".

Both of those pale in comparison to my now-foulmouthed ex-Navy fella, Jimmy. Jimmy has Alzheimer's, and is just getting to the stage where he begins to substitute inappropriate words for appropriate ones. The best part about Jimmy is that when he says something shocking, and I say "Jimmy! You said you wouldn't talk to a lady like that!" he is genuinely contrite. Not because one shouldn't ask "Does she like to f**k?" about someone he's never met, or talk about whores in a doctor's waiting room. Nah, Jimmy is just surprised and sorry that apparently those things have just recently become "not nice things to say".

I love all my goofball clients. They may not have words or manners, but they make themselves understood and I can tell that they walk me too. I mean like. They like me too.

And just to show you I didn't make all this up:

(thanks, wikipedia!)
and to help you understand that brain picture:
"Why Swearing?" by dementia expert Teepa Snow

First Day

Although I'm a nursing aide now, I consider my first day in the medical world to be my first day as a caregiver for elderly folks. At the time, working at CareCo* was just an in-between job, to hold me over until I found something better in social services. After all, I'd taken care of my own grandparents, and one set of dentures is the same as another, right?

After a short training video and a background check, I was on my way to the Golden Gables* retirement campus to meet my first clients, a couple in their 80's named Ginny and Peter Smith **. My Brand New Boss Betty was to meet me there and introduce me to the Smiths, then I would come in and keep them company, maybe tidy up the house a bit, prepare some supper, see them safely into bed, and be on my way. Sounds simple, right?

Only when I pulled into the driveway of their Golden Gables Duplex, Betty hopped out and said "Mr. Smith had a fall, you know how to get to Sacred Heart's ER*, right?". When I shook my head no, startled, she hopped back into her car, calling "Follow me!". Shortly, there I was in an ER exam room with Betty and the Smiths, both of whom looked impossibly skinny, wrinkled, and helpless. Betty handed me the client book with all their info in it, said "Good Luck! Stay with Mr. Smith until he's either sent home or admitted, and then take Mrs. Smith home. She has dementia, so be sure you remember how to get there, because she won't be able to tell you. I'll talk to you tomorrow to figure out your schedule for the week." and walked out the door.

I faced the two people I was now responsible for, wondering what the hell I was supposed to be doing. Over the next few hours, I tried to make polite conversation with Ginny, and keep her and Peter from bothering the nursing staff too much. I tried to distract Ginny to keep her away from Peter long enough that he could have a bowel movement in private in the exam room, in some toilet contraption I'd never seen one of before. And finally, when Peter was admitted, I took Ginny home to her Golden Gardens Duplex that was anything but golden inside; they had a small dog, a cat, and a bird, all of which defecated EVERYWHERE due to neglect. Overwhelmed, I picked up the worst of the poop with my CareCo provided disposable gloves, and sat on the couch with Ginny watching television until the poor woman who was taking over for me arrived.

And astonishingly enough, I went back the next day, and the next. And now, almost a year later, I not only know that toilet contraption is a bedside commode, but how to get someone on and off of one, and how to clean it out when they're done. Without even gagging.



Until next time,
Pollyanna


*not the real name
**also not their real names. Nothing in here will be named by real names, so I'll quit it with the footnotes from here on out.
*** okay, one more, I couldn't resist - who else is a Scrubs fan here?