Shema Koleinu

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  • September 20, 2010 1:21 am at 1:21 am #592394
    I can only try
    Member

    While this is a bakasha we ask of H-shem, it can also be applied to our elderly parents, grandparents, relatives and acquaintances.

    =================================

    My World Now

    Life in a nursing home, from the inside

    by Anna Mae Halgrim Seaver

    “This is my world now. It’s all I have left. You see, I’m old. And I’m not as healthy as I used to be. I’m not necessarily happy with it but I accept it. Occasionally, a member of my family will stop in to see me. He or she will bring me some flowers or a little present, maybe a set of slippers – I’ve got 8 pair. We’ll visit for awhile and then they will return to the outside world and I’ll be alone again.

    Oh, there are other people here in the nursing home. Residents, we’re called. The majority are about my age. I’m 84. Many are in wheelchairs. The lucky ones are passing through – a broken hip, a diseased heart, something has brought them here for rehabilitation. When they’re well they’ll be going home.

    Most of us are aware of our plight – some are not. Varying stages of Alzheimer’s have robbed several of their mental capacities. We listen to endlessly repeated stories and questions. We meet them anew daily, hourly or more often. We smile and nod gracefully each time we hear a retelling. They seldom listen to my stories, so I’ve stopped trying.

    The help here is basically good, although there is a large turnover. Just when I get comfortable with someone he or she moves on to another job. I understand that. This in not the best job to have .

    I don’t much like some of the physical things that happen to us. I don’t care much for a diaper. I seem to have lost the control so diligently acquired as a child. The difference is that I am aware and embarrassed but I can’t do anything about it. I’ve had 3 children and I know it isn’t pleasant to clean another’s diaper. My husband used to wear a gas mask when he changed the kids. I wish I had one now.

    Why do you think the staff insists on talking baby talk when speaking to me? I understand English. I have a degree in music and am a certified teacher. Now I hear a lot of words that end in “y”. Is this how my kids felt? My hearing aid works fine. There is little need for anyone to position their face directly in front of mine and raise their voice with those “y” words. Sometimes it takes longer for a meaning to sink in; sometimes my wanders when I am bored. But there is no need to shout.

    I tried once or twice to make my feelings known. I even shouted once. That gained me the reputation of being “crotchety.” Imagine me, crotchety. My children never heard me raise my voice. I surprised myself. After I’ve asked for help more than a dozen times and received nothing more than a dozen condescending smiles and a “Yes, deary, I’m working on it,” something begins to break. That time I wanted to be taken to the bathroom.

    I’d love to go out for a meal, to travel again. I’d love to go to my own church, sing with my own choir. I’d love to visit my friends. Most of them are gone now or else they are in different “homes” of their children’s choosing. I’d love to play a good game of bridge but no one here seems to concentrate very well.

    My children put me here for my own good. The said they would be able to visit me frequently. But they have their own lives to lead. That sounds normal. I don’t want to be a burden. They know that. But I would like to see them more often. One of them is here in town. He visits as much as he can.

    Something else I’ve learned to accept is my loss of privacy. Quite often I’ll close my door when my roommate – imagine having a roommate at my age – is in the TV room. I do appreciate some time to myself and believe that I have earned at least that courtesy. As I sit thinking or writing, one of the aides invariable opens the door unannounced and walks in as if I’m not there. Sometimes she even opens my drawers and beings rummaging around. Am I invisible? Have I lost my right to respect and dignity? What would happen if the roles were reversed? I am still a human being. I would like to be treated like one.

    The meals are not what I would choose for myself. We get variety but we don’t get a choice. I am one of the more fortunate ones who can still handle utensils. I remember eating of such cheap utensils in the Great Depression. I worked hard so I would not ever have to use them again. But here I am.

    Did you ever sit in a wheelchair over an extended period of time? It’s not comfortable. The seat squeezes you in the middle and applies constant pressure to your hips. The armrests are too narrow and my arms slip off. I am luckier than some. Others are strapped into their chairs and abandoned in front of the TV. Captive prisoners of daytime soap opera, talk shows and commercials.

    One of the residents died today. He was a loner who, at one time, started a business and developed a multimillion-dollar company. His children moved him here when he could no longer control his bowels. He didn’t talk to most of us. He often snapped at the aides as if they were his employees. But he just gave up; willed his own demise. The staff has made up his room and another man has moved in.

    A typical day. Awakened by the woman in the next bed wheezing – a former chain smoker with asthma. Call an aide to wash me and place me in my wheelchair to wait for breakfast. Only 67 minutes until breakfast. I’ll wait. Breakfast in the dining area. Most of the residents are in wheelchairs. Others use canes or walkers. Some sit and wonder what they are waiting for. First meal of the day. Only 3 hours and 28 minutes until lunch. Maybe I’ll sit around and wait for it. What is today? One day blends into the next until day and date mean nothing.

    Let’s watch a little TV. Oprah and Phil and Geraldo and who cares if some transvestite is having trouble picking a color-coordinated wardrobe from his husband’s girlfriend’s mother’s collection. Lunch. Can’t wait. Dried something with pureed peas and coconut pudding. No wonder I’m losing weight.

    Back to my semiprivate room for a little semiprivacy or a nap. I do need my beauty rest, company may come today. What is today, again? The afternoon drags into early evening. The used to be my favorite time of the day. Things would wind down. I would kick off my shoes. Put my feet up on the coffee table. Pop open a bottle of Chablis and enjoy the fruits of my day’s labor with my husband. He’s gone. So is my health. This is my world.

    SEAVER, who lived in Wauwatosa, Wis., died in March (1994). Her son found these notes in her room after her death.

    This article was originally published in Newsweek, June 27, 1994

    September 20, 2010 1:27 am at 1:27 am #696934
    I can only try
    Member

    Here is another memorable column on the subject, written by well-known opinion columnist George F. Will following his mother’s death. It appeared in the Washington Post on Thursday, July 13, 2006

    A Mother’s Love, Clarified

    NEWPORT BEACH, Calif. — The long dying of Louise Will ended here recently. It was time. At 98, her body was exhausted by disease and strokes. Dementia, that stealthy thief of identity, had bleached her vibrant self almost to indistinctness, like a photograph long exposed to sunlight.

    It is said that God gave us memory so we could have roses in winter. Dementia is an ever-deepening advance of wintry whiteness, a protracted paring away of personality. It inflicts on victims the terror of attenuated personhood, challenging philosophic and theological attempts to make death a clean, intelligible and bearable demarcation.

    Is death the soul taking flight after the body has failed? That sequence — the physical extinguished, the spiritual not — serves our notion of human dignity. However, mental disintegration mocks that comforting schema by taking the spirit first.

    In the very elderly the mind can come and go, a wanderer in time, and a disintegrating personality can acquire angers and jagged edges that are, perhaps, protests against a growing lightness of being. No one has come back from deep in that foreign country to report on life there. However, it must be unbearably frightening to feel one’s self become light as a feather, with inner gales rising.

    Dementia slowly loosens the sufferer’s grip on those unique tokens of humanity, words. An early sign is a forgetfulness that results in repetitiveness, and fixation on the distant past.

    For a while, one of Louise’s insistently recurring memories was of spring 1918, a war year, and eastbound troop trains passing through Greenville, Pa. When the trains stopped, residents offered candy and magazines to the soldiers — but not to black units. That infuriated Louise’s father, whose fury was a fine memory for Louise to have among those of a father who died at age 44.

    To the end, even when virtually without speech, Louise could recognize her children, could enjoy music and being read to from love letters written 75 years ago by Fred, her future husband. She could even laugh, in spite of the tormenting chasm between her remaining cognition and the prison of her vanished ability to articulate.

    In 1951, in Champaign, Ill., for her 10-year-old son, she made a mother’s sacrifice: She became a White Sox fan so she could converse with the argumentative Cubs fan who each evening dried the dishes as she washed. Even after much of her stock of memories had been depleted, she dimly knew that the name Nellie Fox (a second baseman) once meant something playful.

    The aging that conquered Louise was, like war, a mighty scourge, and, like war, elicited nobility from those near its vortex. The nearest was Fred Will, who died eight years ago, at the end of his ninth decade.

    A few years before his death, Fred, a reticent romantic, whose reticence may have been an effect of his tinge of melancholy, shared with his children some poetry he had written for Louise, including this from 1933:

    The warm sun

    Beams through the clear air

    Upon glistening leaves.

    And the birds

    Sweep in long arcs

    Over the green grass.

    They seem to say,

    “This might last forever!”

    But it doesn’t.

    But it lasted more than six decades, which is forever, as foreverness is allotted to us.

    A retired professor of philosophy, Fred probably knew what Montaigne, quoting Cicero, meant when he said that to study philosophy is to prepare to die. Fred was, strictly speaking, philosophic about his wife’s affliction. A common connotation of “philosophic” is placid acceptance of what can be comprehended but not altered. However, Fred’s philosophic response to the theft of his wife by aging was much richer than mere stoicism grounded in fatalism. It was a heroic act of will, arising from clearsightedness about the long trajectory of Louise’s life.

    He understood this stern paradox: Families seared by a loved one’s dementia face the challenge of forgetting. They must choose to achieve what dementia inflicts on its victims — short-term memory loss. They must restore to the foreground of remembrance the older memories of vivacity and wit.

    “All that we can know about those we have loved and lost,” Thornton Wilder wrote, “is that they would wish us to remember them with a more intensified realization of their reality. What is essential does not die but clarifies. The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.” Louise, released from the toils of old age and modern medicine, is restored to clarity.

    September 20, 2010 1:42 am at 1:42 am #696935
    I can only try
    Member

    Thanks to “Dr. Pepper”, who reminded me of the above two articles with this post:

    http://www.theyeshivaworld.com/coffeeroom/topic/feel-good/page/2#post-147547

    September 20, 2010 7:29 pm at 7:29 pm #696936
    oomis
    Participant

    WOW! I have nothing to say, and that’s a first.

    September 20, 2010 8:30 pm at 8:30 pm #696937
    blinky
    Participant

    ICOT- thank you, its really s/t to think about.

    September 21, 2010 4:13 am at 4:13 am #696938
    I can only try
    Member

    oomis1105-

    blinky-

    Thank you for the kind words.

    I first visited a nursing home in my mid-late teens and remember how struck I was by the number of people just sitting in the lobby as if they were waiting for something – it could have been a train station or an airport.

    Over the years I’ve visited others in nursing homes – mostly relatives – and the visits were somewhat uncomfortable and not as frequent as they should have been.

    The first article is a real eye-opener, told by a person who retained her sharp wit and sense of irony while dealing with her reduced physical capability and its accompanying indignity, well-meaning but condescending caretakers, and loneliness.

    The second article is a memorial from a son to his mother, describing the erosion of a person’s core, written by one of the master wordsmiths of today.

    This thread doesn’t have a catchy title, and the length of the posts can be off-putting, but these are memorable articles that I wanted to share in their entireties.

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