The summer before I started veterinary school was my last chance to be free before my ‘marriage’ to the veterinary profession. It was 2003, and I was probably experiencing the equivalent of cold feet before a wedding. So for that final summer, I had a version of a bachelorette party — wild and crazy for me — I chose to do something I might never get a chance to do again, once I have the ball-and-chain of a profession attached to me, I thought. Have one last hurrah. Learn some compassion. Take care of people. I chose to work at a nursing home.
There were a lot of Marjories, Helens, and Bettys. Also many Dorothys and Ednas, Silvias and Roses. When I was first starting at the home, I would go around and refresh the drinking water for the residents, essentially their sippy cups. Some residents with esophageal dysfunction had ‘water’ that was thickened to minimize the risk of choking or aspirating. I wheeled people to bingo on Tuesday nights. I sometimes painted ladies’ nails. One of my favorites (I’ll call her Lottie here) celebrated her 102nd birthday during my first weeks on the job. I came to see her in her room after I punched in, and exclaimed “Happy 102nd birthday, Lottie!” I was met with a half-stern, half-joking glance and remark “why Jessica, don’t say my age so loud! You’re supposed to tell me I don’t look a day over 82!” Lottie told me very few stories of her youth, though in retrospect now I wish I had asked for more. She liked holding my hand. She told me I had a warm hand. We spent most of my spare moments with my hand clasped in both of hers, just sitting quietly, side by side.
Everyone would get dressed for dinner; ladies would don pretty blouses and skirts or dresses, put on lipstick and earrings. I would take drink orders and serve them during meals. There were two Ednas who always sat together in one of the tables by the window. One of the Ednas ordered tomato juice almost every night. The other Edna wanted so badly tomato juice every night too, however she was on strict low-sodium orders from her doctor and was not allowed. Every so often, I would see Edna 1 stealthily allow Edna 2 a quick sip of her tomato juice when the nurses weren’t looking — I never told anyone, maybe I should have.
I would wheel people back to their rooms following dinner. At least once a week, someone would sneak a paper napkin-wrapped biscuit or dinner roll into my scrub top pocket, with a wink. Many of these people survived the Great Depression and knew what it was like to go hungry. They knew real scarcity, and I never had. Even though I was paid to help take care of them and I had never wanted for anything, they didn’t go to bed without seeing to it that I, as a young person, had enough to eat too.
Once the administrators in the home came to realize I wasn’t just a flaky undergrad and that I was dependable and trustworthy, I was transferred to help the nurses in the dementia unit. My main function in the dementia unit was to accompany one lady whom I’ll call Vera. I say accompany because Vera, from dawn to dusk, would simply pace continuously up and down each hallway of the unit. I didn’t know how old she was at the time, however despite her tiny frail frame and dowager hump, she was quite spry! She didn’t talk much at all, except to shout obscenities at other residents who happened to amble into her path, and she would sometimes strike other residents. My job was to keep pace with her and to help steer her away from other residents to mitigate any potential strikes while she was on her patrol. She liked to hold my hand too.
There was a Marjorie in the dementia unit. She did not like to go to bed. She would have the same argument every night with the nurses, eventually acquiescing while sputtering about having to call her husband to tell him she was staying the night there (her husband had passed ten years prior). While most of the time I spent with Vera, one of the nurses told me one time she was happy whenever I was there. The nurse told me that on the nights that I was there, Marjorie would still sputter that she would have to call that she was spending the night, however it was her parents she wanted to call.
There were very few men in the home, maybe three out of the hundred or so residents. There was one man in the dementia unit; I’ll call him Eugene. I wasn’t privy to everyone’s history, however it seemed to me that Eugene had been some kind of craftsman or handyman in his younger working years. At dinner time, Eugene would often become distressed; he would reach into his pocket and pull out his wallet, and upon finding it empty, would refuse to eat, as if he felt he could not pay for it. Despite daily reassurances from the nurses and staff that the meal was in fact paid for, he often would eat only very little or refuse completely. One night, during his nightly distress over his empty wallet, I observed one of the nurses come up to him and exclaim “Now Eugene, listen here; you did such great work for us today and we appreciate it so much that tonight, dinner is on the house! And if you come back here tomorrow for breakfast we’ll take care of you then too!” The look on Eugene’s face was just priceless — the furrowed brow and distress melted away. He ate everything on his plate that night, beaming ear to ear. I’ll never forget the lesson I learned from the nurse that day — a kind word takes almost no effort, costs nothing, and yet can mean everything to someone, even if that someone might only remember it for the next 10 minutes. What kind word can I say to someone today?
