A True Trooper

In my last blog entry, I described how "V"s caregiving team was re-assigned and distributed during our recent "Bug Out!!!" 

 

What I neglected to tell you is how "V" handled the sudden and, at times, not so smooth transition (if you consider the painfully long and bumpy ride from the hospital to the rehabilitation center in an emergency transport vehicle) to her new level of care.  From her perspective, I am certain that it did not always seem as though things were truly "going with the flow."

 

Smooth or bumpy, one thing rings loud and clear, and that is the absolute dignity with which "V" endured her recent ordeal.

 

That is at least worth a blog entry all its own.

 

When I learned of my relocation to the Rehabilitation Center for my weekend assignment with "V", I was extremely wary of what I might find when I arrived there.  The only information I had received thus far was from her other caregivers and her daughter-in-law, and while the communication was extremely helpful, it was all reflective of  "V"s time in the surgical unit before, during, and after her hip replacement.

 

The Physical Therapy Unit of a rehabilitation facility, I knew from past experiences, would involve a much more active, and frequently painful, type of recovery.  Given "V"s age, I was filled with worry and concern as I traveled to her new temporary (hopefully) residence.  Transition is difficult at any age, no matter what the situation entails, and I knew that "V"s fall would involve many changes in her daily routine, some that could perhaps permanently impact her former lifestyle. 

 

Words cannot do justice to the relief I felt when I first saw "V" in her room at the rehabilitation center.  The expression on her face said it all.  Alert.  Determined.  Ready to take on the next challenge.  And given what she had just endured during the week, I was actually quite stunned. 

 

There she lay in her hospital bed, her covers disheveled and still showing some stains from the recent operation.  The dressing on her wound needed to be re-applied, and because it was change of shift at the facility, as well as the fact that "V" was a new admission, the nursing staff had not yet been able to attend to their new patient. 

 

Nevertheless, "V" looked terrific!  Her color was good, despite the dingy grayness of the drab hospital "gown."   Her countenance revealed her usual dignity, as well as her characteristic good-naturedness.  Her eyes lit up with a smile that so clearly reflected the same one that shone so brightly through her pale, dry lips.  This was a woman with a tremendous courage and strength!  I knew from the moment I saw her that whatever changes were necessary to ensure that she could continue living independently in her home would be put into place seamlessly.

 

"You found me!" she exclaimed as I stumbled into the room with my knapsack and snack bags, more than a bit disoriented from the long drive to an unknown destination.

 

Her daytime caregiver was standing beside her, and her relieved expression echoed mine.  I could only imagine the kind of week that she must have had, remaining right by "V"s side to comfort and encourage her before, during, and after the surgery.  In many ways, she appeared more tired and worn out than "V".

 

We talked for quite a while before she left for the evening, as there was a great deal of information that needed to be exchanged about "V"s transition from the surgical hospital to the rehabilitation unit.  Luckily (perhaps not the best choice of words), "V" had been treated at this facility several times before, most recently, a year earlier when she was recovering from her first hip replacement.  She was quite understandably a favorite among the staff members, who all seemed to recognize her immediately, and vice versa.  It was like old home week, and I was the only new member.

 

It was agreed that I would stay for my regular hours with "V", and then go back to her home for the night, which would save me a great deal of driving as well as also allow me to gather up some necessary items that "V" would need in her new location, such as a change of clothes, shoes, grooming items, and, not surprisingly, her I-Pad (an absolute necessity!).  Perhaps most importantly for "V", she would have the comfort of knowing that her house plants were watered and the garbage taken out on time. 

 

Shortly after my arrival, a dinner tray was brought up to "V", and I looked on in amazement as she ravenously dug into a piece of chicken accompanied only by a lonely group of cooked corn kernels.  No dignity there!  This woman was HUNGRY!!!  Any sign of "V"s typically ever-so-neat eating etiquette seemed to fly right out the window, perhaps landing on the helicopter pad that was our new vista (farewell dead field of beans until next Spring!), awaiting immediate airlifting.

 

When she had finished devouring the chicken, "V" returned to her polite and delicate demeanor, politely asking me, "Would you like the Jello?"

 

Still stunned, but also hungry, I replied, "Yes. Thank you," and proceeded to devour the jiggling red-dyed substance.  Not our usual dinner fare, but better than nothing.

 

With dinner out of the way (at least I think that is what had just transpired in "V"s room), the nursing staff told "V" that they would be in to change her linens and gown shortly. 

 

Hearing this statement from the nurse, "V"s expression stiffened, and I suspected that she was bracing herself for what she knew from prior experience would be a most painful and quite unpleasant occurrence. 

 

I also knew what changing the linens and clothing of someone who had just undergone a hip replacement would entail, so I gently told "V", "I'll be right here next to you.  You can squeeze my hand as tightly as you want."

 

"Okay," she nodded, "I may need to."  That was a rather unexpected, but extremely welcome statement, coming from "V".   Up until this point in our relationship, we had been on a still somewhat formal basis in terms of our interactions.  Granted, I helped the woman get dressed and undressed (with the lights out, of course) at home, as well as prepared and cleaned up after her meals.  And we had become very close  as old movie and "Everybody Loves Raymond" buddies. 

 

But there was still a level of trust that had yet to be achieved in my relationship with "V" thus far, and I strongly suspected that our time together on the rehabilitation unit was about to change all of that.

 

My instincts were correct, and the next excruciating half hour was a testament to that.

 

As the nursing staff, working in tandem, gently rolled "V" on her side to begin the changing process, I could see the level of pain, and even a bit of fear, well up in her pleading eyes.  I got down on my knees so that my own eyes were level with hers, and looked at this amazingly courageous woman whose hands were clinging to the bedrail with every ounce of energy she had so that she could remain on her side while the changing took place.  We never unlocked our gazes, and I gently placed my hand on top of hers and repeated the phrase, "You're doing just fine," in an attempt to soothe her.  I'm sure that other sentences, such as "It will be over soon," and "Squeeze my hand if you need to," came helplessly out of my mouth during the agonizing changing process, but I couldn't be certain what the exact words were.  I just kept staring at "V", and she at me, hoping with all my heart that her horrific pain would stop soon.  Our gazes were locked, and it was as though I could almost feel her distress in my own stiffened body.  Almost being the key word.  I have never been through any type of bone fracture or replacement, and so I couldn't possibly know how I would feel in a state of such tremendous physical discomfort. 

 

What I did know was that in front of my eyes lay a woman of undeniable courage and strength, a woman whose ninety-five years and counting have included, along with some ecstatically joyous events, more than its fare share of heart-wrenching sorrows.  

 

When the linens were changed, along with "V"s dingy grey drab hospital gown, the nursing staff rolled "V" onto her back again.  During the process, "V" had not uttered a sound, the only expression coming from the depths of her eyes.  But as soon as she was in a more "comfortable" position, "V" let out a long, staggered sigh.  She took some deep breaths, as deep as she was able to, and the tension and pain slowly began to slide from her face. 

 

After a few minutes, she looked at me straight in the eyes and I could swear I felt a new-found trust between the two of us emerge at that very moment, the kind of trust that comes from surviving something extremely difficult together... like a well-fought but incredibly demanding battle, perhaps.

 

"It wasn't as bad as childbirth, was it?" I asked "V", feeling a bit foolish for asking something so seemingly flippant.  But I was also genuinely curious, as childbirth, on a scale of one to ten, involved a level of pain closer to an eleven, which was something I could definitely relate to!

 

"V" cracked a slight smile, and with that, I knew that we had just overcome a huge hurdle in our relationship, and entered an entirely new phase of caregiving.

 

"No," she replied slowly, but with absolute certainty.  "It wasn't as bad as childbirth."  I could see the warmth coming back to her face, which, in spite of the recent trauma, looked absolutely beautiful to me.

 

"You know who I want to be like when I grow up?" I asked her. 

 

"V" shrugged her shoulders as best as she could with a curious look on her face.  "Who?" she queried in response.

 

"YOU!!!" I blurted out with sincere admiration and respect.  "V" looked incredulous, so I continued, "Seriously... I want to be like you!"

 

"How so?" she inquired.

 

"If I ever have to go through the type of pain that you just did, I want to be able to handle it just as gracefully."

 

"Thank you," she said, a true smile returning to her face.  "You will."

 

I stayed with "V" on Friday night until she fell asleep, aided by a pain pill that the nurse was instructed to give her.  "V" generally does not take a lot of medication, especially for pain, but I could tell that she was quite eager to take this particular pill.

 

She fell asleep to Raymond's antics, with me by her side, gently running my fingers up and down one of her hands.  When she started snoring (the soothing sound that I have gotten used to falling asleep to as heard through the baby monitor in my upstairs bedroom at "V"s home), I packed up my knapsack and other belongings, and prepared to leave for the night.  Before exiting, I leaned over and brushed my lips against her head in a slight kiss. 

 

"See you tomorrow," I whispered as "V" snored on.  Then I added, "You know, I really DO want to be like you when I grow up!"

 

If ever anyone deserved a Purple Heart for a non-combat situation that nevertheless felt very much like being in a battle, it was this dear, sweet woman sleeping peacefully in front of me. 

 

In my opinion, "V" is, without any doubt, a true trooper.

 

I went to sleep that night safe in the knowledge that whatever lay in store for "V" during the next several weeks or months of her recovery process, she would absolutely get through it with shining colors! 

 

Incidentally, I slept on "V"s bed.  On top of her covers, so as not to disturb anything.  For warmth, I draped myself with a comforter that she had crocheted many years ago, when she was still able to do things "on her own."

 

"If I am truly going to be like her when I grow up," I thought, "Then maybe I can do it through osmosis!"

It was the most peaceful night's sleep I've had in a very long time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going with the Flow ("Bug Out!!!")

Starting waaaaaaay back in the early 1970's and running well into the early 1980's, there was an iconic American television show by the name of "*M*A*S*H*" (short for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital).  Based on the movie of the same name, the show was set during the deadly Korean War of the early 1950's, although its anti-war sentiments were really a reflection of America's involvement in the even deadlier Vietnam War that ended during the show's third season.  Eight seasons later, in 1983, "M*A*S*H*" also ended, but for the past thirty years has lived on as a poignant yet painful reminder of the devastating effects war has on the lives of so many people.  

 

(Okaaaaaay...  I admit it...  I was one of the series' really BIG fans!)

 

Sometimes I even wonder if its one of the reasons I went into the frenetic, albeit fulfilling, field of human services, which often leaves its staff members feeling like they've been through a war.

 

In one very memorable episode of the show, the entire camp, a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital (or the good ole "4077", as it is lovingly remembered by really BIG fans like me) had to pack up and relocate due to an impending enemy attack.   The process,  referred to as a "Bug Out!!!", was rapid, like gunfire itself, and everything had to be coordinated quickly, yet with the utmost precision and clear communication, so that the process could flow smoothly, without a hitch, to ensure the safety of the human lives that were at risk...

 

This past week of caring for "V" felt exactly like that episode of "M*A*S*H*."  A "Bug Out!!!"  Rapid.  Quickly coordinated.  Precise.  Clearly communicated.  And thankfully, safely executed, the entire process flowing smoothly.

 

When I last saw "V" a week ago, she was in the process of cheering up a very dreary late November day with her positive attitude and gentle kindness.  Always worrying about other people first, I remember her calling to me, "Be careful driving!" as I walked out the front door of her home.  "V"s spirits were upbeat, and her overall health appeared to be pretty darned good for someone her age.   As I pulled out of her driveway in my little blue Honda Fit, I had every intention of seeing her again five days later in the exact same spot.

 

That's why I was so incredibly shocked when I received a phone call from one of the other members of "V"s caregiving team the following day informing me that she had fallen and fractured her left hip... her good hip.  A little over a year ago, she had fractured the other one, and had subsequently undergone very intensive physical therapy, especially for a ninety-five year old, so that she could return to living as independently as possible in her own home. 

 

"It's a hairline fracture," the other caregiver explained to me over the phone.  "The x-rays didn't even show one at first."

 

I was stunned, and simply didn't know what to say.   And believe me, that rarely happens!

 

The caregiver continued, "They are going to do another hip replacement as soon as they can get it scheduled.  After that, "V" will go to a rehabilitation center again."

 

Again.  That's the word that made me feel so badly for "V".  The Thanksgiving holiday is this upcoming week, and a rehabilitation facility is exactly where she was around the same time last year.  I know from experience (thanks to "M" and her Senior Sisters) that Thanksgiving spent in such a place can be extremely enjoyable and entertaining.  But probably not two years in a row.  At least not for someone as self-sufficient as "V".

 

My own self-centered worry began to get the better of me after I hung up the phone.  Caring for "V" on the weekends is my full-time job.   As much as I value my time with her, it is also the way I make a living and pay my bills.  My mind began racing toward the Christmas Holiday Season (no thanks to the onslaught of advertisement that retailers bombard consumers with as soon as the kids are packed up and back in school!).  I would need money to buy gifts for my family.  I'm always a thrifty shopper, and like to "discover treasures" at second-hand stores, (like "M"s Piper Cub from last year), but I still need something to start with.  And at the current time, I don't have much.  Like so many people in today's struggling economy, I live paycheck to paycheck, and have gotten used to surviving on a shoestring budget.

 

It never once dawned on me that "V"s family members, who had already quite clearly demonstrated their commitment to having her live as independently as possible in her own home, would offer a win-win solution that would benefit every single member of "V"s caregiving team.  And even more importantly, it would greatly improve "V"s understandably sagging spirits.  I could already imagine how guilty she would be feeling about "being a bother" to everyone else, and I longed to tell her that she was anything but that!  In fact, she is exactly the opposite!

 

And that's how it was decided that "V"s four-person caregiving team would "Bug Out!!!"  We were to pack up and relocate!  Wherever "V" went, so would we!   The traveling caregivers.  (Do I have to start an entirely new blog???)  I was completely onboard with the idea, as were the other caregivers, and extremely grateful that the option was offered to all of us by "V"s family members. 

 

Throughout the remainder of the week, we all diligently stayed in touch about "V"s hip replacement surgery and recovery, and by the time my shift rolled around again on Friday afternoon, I was completely prepared and entirely willing to go with the flow.  The only problem was that I wasn't quite sure in which direction I would be flowing, either the surgical hospital, located thirty miles north of my home, or the Rehabilitation Center, situated forty miles west of my home.  Either way was fine with me!  I just needed to know in which way to point my little blue Honda Fit!

 

Shortly before throwing my knapsack into the car, I received the clarifying call from "V"s primary weekday caregiver.  The surgery had gone successfully, and "V was currently en route to the Swing Bed Unit in the Physical Therapy Department at the hospital closest to her home.  The exact same place she had been a year ago when she fractured her other hip... and the exact same place where hardworking staff members assisted "V" in her recovery.  I couldn't help but imagine how happy they would all be to see her again.

 

So Westward it was!  I had absolutely no idea what my duties with "V" would entail as I began my weekly trek across the river and over the foothills to "V"s neck of the woods.  Her daughter-in-law, who had contacted me several times earlier in the week, assured me that the family wanted to keep the caregiving team "in tact", but also acknowledged that the job itself would be "different" for a while.  I was so relieved for everyone involved, not only for myself, but also for the other caregivers, the family members, and most significantly, for "V", who would now have her own little M*A*S*H* unit tending to her recovery from an untimely, but not insurmountable, setback.

 

We will all just go with the flow... the new goal being to have "V" living independently in her own home again by the Christmas Holiday. 

 

Wow!  Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I am so glad that I chose the frenetic field of human services to work in, even if it does sometimes seem like being on a battlefield.  It's the most fulfilling thing I've' ever done, and I am extremely proud to be a member of "V"s caregiving team.

 

 

 

 

You guessed it... the view from "V"s Rehabilitation Center room!  I can still hear Radar O'Reilly's anxious announcement over the M*A*S*H* unit's loudspeaker right now, "Chopper alert!  All available personnel report to the O.R. immediately!  Incoming Wounded!"

 

 

 

This may be my work attire for the next shift with "V", wherever she may be! 

Amazing how it just happened to be sitting right front & center in my drawer of favorite old T-Shirts.





A Matter of Attitude (Dreariness to Cheeriness)

This photo represents what I awakened to last Sunday as I began my morning shift with "V".  An all too accurate depiction of a truly dreary day.

I almost hated to wake her up.  We had stayed up a little later than usual laughing loudly at already seen repeats of "Everybody Loves Raymond" on TV Land.  (By the way, I am now one hundred percent positive that "V" and I can relate to the crazy characters in that sit-com far too easily!).

 

Our other viewing choice was a movie called "The Women" on Turner Classic Movies.  About five minutes into the old film, during which time we witnessed four famous female actresses from Hollywood's heyday portraying chatty, catty, wealthy women with nothing better to do than gossip about each other, "V" grunted and asked if she could change the channel.  "I'm tired of these women!" she declared.  "Where are the men?" 

 

After an hour and a half of raucously relating to Raymond's meddling, middle-class, Mother-rules-the-roost, suburban New York City family, "V" said, "It's always better to end the day with a smile."

 

"I couldn't agree more," I told her as we began our by now familiar bedtime routine.

 

But it was extremely difficult to smile as I looked out the window the following morning only to see a thick, dense, dark gray mist hovering in the air, completely hiding the late Autumn landscape.  No look at what was left of the field of beans today.  No view of anything!  Just the sickening sound of gunshots shattering the peaceful valley, a painful reminder that deer hunting season had officially begun the day before.

 

Thinking back, that sound is about the only thing that "V" and I didn't agree upon as we spent a truly delightful hour enjoying our breakfast.  It turns out their her family is full of deer hunters, which makes sense given the geography of where they live. 

 

"When my husband and I first moved here from the Bronx in 1947," she told me, "Everyone we knew thought we were in the Boondocks!"

 

Having grown up in the Northeastern suburbs of New York City, where my family had settled after leaving the Bronx, I always considered myself fairly familiar with the "boondocks" of the Hudson Valley.  But this quaint and isolated Northwestern town where "V" resides definitely puts a capital "B" in the phrase!  It still seems isolated, and I could only imagine what people thought of it seventy some-odd years ago!

 

"V" continued, "My husband and the boys quickly became hunters, and one of my sons, "R", still is."  Having heard that, I made a mental note to not eat any of the meet in the refrigerator until I knew for certain exactly what it was.  "V"s son tends to bring over dinner once a week, and although I've heard that venison is quite tasty, I am still not adventuresome enough to indulge in that particular delicacy.

 

The conversational door now wide open, "V" began to tell me about a dog they had when her boys were younger.  Although the dog desperately wanted to join the men of the family, he was too much of a distraction while they were on their hunting trips, and it was "V"s job to keep him safely inside.  

 

"One time," "V" told me with a far-away smile, "I spent the entire day holding the dog down on the bed while the boys were out hunting!"  I got the impression from the misty expression on her face that she had not minded the role of snuggling with the dog one tiny bit!

 

Speaking of mist, I pointed to the dreariness outside, as though "V" hadn't yet noticed the weather conditions.  She turned her head to look, but said nothing.  I imagined she had spent many a day like this during her lifetime, and since she had nowhere to go other than the inside of her home today, the gloominess that hung in the air had no impact on her whatsoever.

 

"V" confirmed my suspicions by shrugging her shoulders and simply stating, "Oh well.  There's nothing we can do about the weather, so why worry about it."

 

Wow!  It was like someone slapped me in the face and woke me from some kind of terrible trance!  I had already spent the previous hour worrying about how I was going to drive home over the mountain roads through this thick, dense, dark, gray mist!  What a complete waste of time!

 

I suddenly, and thankfully, realized that I was missing out on something extremely valuable.  The present moment with "V"!  She was full of cheer this morning, happily talking about only a few of the many experiences she had lived through during the last ninety-five years.  "V" is alive, as are her warm and wonderful memories, and that is something to be celebrated, no matter what Mother Nature has planned for the rest of the day!

 

In fact, breakfast with "V" this past Sunday morning turned out to be more enjoyable than any we've had thus far in our relationship. 

 

"Maybe it's because she had ended her day with a smile," I mused, giving into a smile myself.

 

I learned sooooo many things from "V" that morning, some that I imagined my own family in the Bronx had experienced, only I never bothered to take the time to ask them about it.  Especially my Grandmother, Rose.  She would have known everything!  It dawned on me that not only did "V" remind me very much of my Grandma, but Raymond's ever-meddling, but deep-down-inside always loving mother also reminded me of her!

 

As we draw nearer and nearer to the holiday season (the multitude of television advertisements, the only downside of the Raymond repeats, being a constant reminder of this!), it's no wonder that "V"'s mind drifted back to her childhood.  My spirits brightened as she joyfully described the Halloween and Thanksgiving traditions that she grew up with in the 1920's and 1930's.

 

"What do you mean you did not trick or treat on Halloween?" I asked in sheer astonishment, imagining the mountains of candy that could be had living in an urban apartment setting.

 

"We did not," "V" explained to me, matter-of-factly.  I mentioned the giant bowl of candy sitting on her kitchen counter, which was leftover from a rainy Halloween several weeks ago, and "V" replied, "We only started trick-or-treating when we moved here and the kids were small."

 

"What did you do?" I asked, still trying to overcome my astonishment.

 

"Well..." she began slowly.  "We all wore our clothes inside out."

 

My expression must have clearly conveyed my utter confusion, even though the word "Huh?" never came out of my mouth, so "V" continued her explanation of the Halloween tradition.

 

"All the kids wore their clothes inside out because they knew they were going to be hit by other kids with stockings full of flour or chalk!"

 

How odd, I thought.  And rather violent (but then again, I'm a bit over-sensitive, as evidenced by my reaction to the start of deer hunting season earlier in the blog.) 

 

"Ohhhhhh," I said, a visual picture finally forming in my foggy head.  "If you all hit each other with stockings full of flour or chalk, you'd really look like ghosts!"  I was a little too proud of myself as I declared this last statement, as if I'd just figured out the meaning of life.

 

"I guess so," "V" responded, as if she hadn't really thought about the ghostly part of the sacking.  "We were all kids and just having fun," her smile widened at the memory of events she enjoyed eight decades ago.

 

Suddenly, "V" unexpectedly added, "Thanksgiving was when we went around asking for things!"

 

"What?" I asked, completely befuddled.

 

"Anything for Thanksgiving?  That's what all us kids would go around asking," "V" told me, still smiling, but this time I think more because of my obvious befuddlement than anything else.

 

"Anything for Thanksgiving?" she repeated, adding that "people would usually give us pennies, but sometimes we'd find a nickel!" 

 

"Amazing!" I responded.  "I remember finding pennies, and sometimes nickels, in my trick-or-treating bag on Halloween, too, and I would be thrilled with the money.  My son was, too, and that was only ten years ago!"  I marveled to myself that despite the eighty year time difference, the thrill of money to a child was always a wonder to behold!

 

"We were thrilled," "V" continued.  "It was right around the Great Depression," she reminded me, which made me realize just how valuable those coins were at that time.

 

"After that," "V" summed up, "We'd all go home to our families and have a big dinner."

 

"You didn't shoot your own turkeys in the Bronx, I'll bet?" I said with a smirk, and she laughed at my clever little hunting reference.

 

"Nooooo," she added, "But we could get fresh killed ones from the butcher down the street."

 

The butcher down the street...  Now there was an image that I was rather unfamiliar with.  During my formative years, the video store down the street (which, of course, you needed a car to get to way out in the suburbs) was a much more popular destination.

 

I thought of my Grandmother again.  I could vaguely remember going with her and my Great-Grandmother to the closest butcher store when I was a little girl...  In her big Cadillac, the one whose steering wheel she could barely see over because she was so short!  I laughed to myself.  I was beginning to remember a lot of things that had been tucked away in my brain for quite some time.

 

"V" and I continued to chat happily for a while over our coffee, until the young woman who was to take the next shift arrived.  Upon seeing "V" and I casually conversing at the dining room table, overlooking the thick, dense, dark mist that completely obscured the field of beans, she cheerily sat down and joined us.  "That's odd," I thought.  She didn't even mention the weather, which she had just driven through in order to get to "V"s house.

 

As I got ready to leave yet another enjoyable weekend shift with my new friend "V", I stopped worrying about the dreariness outside, and was instead filled with a feeling of warmth and companionship.  And cheer.  Definitely cheer.

 

And you know what?  The drive home over the foggy mountain roads wasn't that difficult at all.  All I had to do was slow down.  Stay in the present.  There was nothing I could do about the weather, anyway, so why worry about it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You've Got a Friend

I shared some time with "V" earlier this month that was both insightful and inspiring, yet also a bit melancholy, as it opened my eyes in two significant ways.  Through this amazingly astute and incredibly sensitive woman, I think I finally learned what it means to be a true friend, along with how it feels to be completely alone.

It's an invaluable lesson that everyone, regardless of their age or life circumstance, should be taught.

 

Let me start by stating one very clear fact.  "V" continues to be awesome in every possible way!  And I am extremely grateful to be able to provide care for her.  Not only is she in excellent shape mentally and physically for her age (I still can't believe that she is really five years shy of a century!), making her a clever conversationalist and delightful companion, but she is equally compassionate and perceptive.  I suppose that comes with the territory... if one is lucky enough to reach her stage in life and still maintain a relatively decent degree of overall health, dignity and independence.

 

"V" is one of those "lucky" ones, largely, I believe, because she is still able to live in her own home, full of long-time memories created over the span of seven decades.  This arrangement is made possible, in part, thanks to a loving family, who have chosen to provide "V" with a twenty-four hour caregiving team, of which I am the newest, and extremely grateful, member.  It is also maintained by "V"s very strong will and deep determination to remain as self-sufficient as possible.

Please don't get me wrong.  I have seen some wonderful caregiving facilities like the one described in a recent blog entry, where "M"s sister thrived for a number of years before her recent passing.  It was distinguished by dedicated staff members who provided fun-filled festivities for the residents (and not only on holidays), while at the same time giving genuine care to each and every individual living there.  (Or so it appeared during my visits.)

Sadly, I have also seen the opposite scenario.  Assisted Living Facilities that boast about their innovative, "person-centered" approach to elderly care when the reality is that many of the residents, most commonly the ones who cannot advocate on their own behalf and have no family or friends who are willing to do so, are often left alone and isolated from their "community" of seniors. 

 

Gladly, this is not the case with "V".  She is comfortable and content in familiar surroundings, enjoying a very high quality of life that would probably not be possible for her in an Assisted Living Facility.  Granted, "V" has lost some confidence in her mobility as the result of two serious falls, but she nevertheless is able to ambulate quite well around the first floor of her long-time home with the assistance of a walker.  At times, "V" expresses regret that she is no longer capable of climbing the stairs up to her attic or down the rather treacherous steps to her basement (which, I can tell you from personal experience is not an easy feat, even for someone whose feet are forty-five years her junior!).  But most of the time, "V" remains keenly aware and immensely appreciative of the fact that she is still able to live in her own home.   The home where she raised her children.  The home where she happily baby-sat for her children's children, (and happily watched as they took them to their own homes afterwards!).  The home where she can happily relax in her cozy living room chair and "Face-Chat" on her I-Pad with her grandchildren's children!!!

And the home where she enjoyed a hard-earned and fulfilling retirement with her husband, along with an extremely close-knit group of friends from her local community. 

 

"V" absolutely beams when she talks about this group of friends.  Women, all of whom have lost their husbands, that she met in her small community's social club.  Her eyes light up as she describes tales of their travels together, sometimes on scenic Senior bus trips to nearby attractions, and other times, flights to popular vacation destinations much further away.  Like Las Vegas.  And yes.  What happens in Vegas really does stay in Vegas, even among retirees!  While "V" is more than willing to talk about the excursions she shared with  her group of peers, I can't help but wonder if she is holding back a bit when discussing their adventures in "Sin City."  (How I would love to have been a fly on the wall during some of those escapades!)

 

To me, close-knit is a concept that conjures up many images, including warmth, familiarity and acceptance, and it is clearly the best way to describe "V"s community of friends.  When not traveling together, the ladies typically remained in regular contact with each other, either by telephone or in person, rotating whose home they would gather at for coffee, cake and conversation.  No Twittering.  No texting.  Just face-to-face interaction characterized by chatting with each other in the same room!  Get-togethers full of love and laughter, catching-up on the latest community news (and sometimes gossip), the kind of closeness that comes from truly knowing your friends inside and out... the kind of closeness that seems rather evasive among today's technologically dependent generation.  No Facebook friending among this group!

 

It sounds idyllic to me!  The kind of retirement I can only hope to enjoy, if ever I can afford to do so in today's depressing economy! 

 

There is, sadly, another side to this story.  A darker picture painted with many strokes of sorrow and deep-rooted loneliness.  And if you've been following my blog entries so far, you already know that a grass-is-not-always-greener scenario is just around the corner...

 

While the years have passed for "V", who is comfortably able to live in her own home, many of her closest and dearest friends have moved on... in one form or another.  Of course, this is not unusual during the course of one's lifetime.  And although I'm only at the half century mark, I've nevertheless experienced this phenomenon one too many times myself, often with me being the one moving away, leaving behind a tearful trail of people who had grown to care about me, (and hopefully vice-versa). 

To my credit (or in my defense, depending on how you look at it), I have managed to stay in touch with many of these friends as best I can.  For many years, I had to rely primarily on primitive modes of communication, in particular, hand-written letters sent through the good ole U.S. Postal Service.  And as the cost of mailing a letter continues to rise at an alarmingly disproportional rate, I still plow forward, especially during the holiday season, when some form of Internet exchange just doesn't seem personal enough.

During every weekend of my relationship with "V" thus far, I have watched with awe as she engages in the very same task of maintaining an on-going connection with her old friends, primarily relying on yet another antiquated form of communication - the dial-up telephone.  It is truly an inspiring experience, and I am privileged week after week as I watch "V"s devoted, and sometimes painstaking, attempts to contact the people who mean so much to her.

On her dining room table, in the room that overlooks the increasingly gray field of beans, "V" keeps her address book.  It is a good size binder, about half as big as a school notebook, decorated with an colorful and uplifting floral pattern.  I recall my Grandmother having one.  And I remember seeing one in "M"s home as well, although her Dementia, quite sadly, prevented her from using it in any meaningful way.  Come to think of it, I used to have one, too, and not that long ago!  I think it also had a colorful and uplifting floral pattern on it!   I'm chagrined to confess, however, that these days, all of my "contacts" are "stored" in either my computer or my cell phone.  I can't even recall my own sister's phone number without first looking it up on some electronic device!

 

Often, after we've shared an enjoyable meal at this table, "V" likes to reach out to some of her friends from the social club, friends whose addresses and phone numbers are kept safe and sound in her well-worn but still colorful binder.   From our discussions, I've learned that there was a core group of four women, including "V", who were especially close and spent a great deal of time together.  To hear "V" talk about their antics, it sounds as though she was the unspoken "leader" of the pack, often initiating their contacts and road trips.

 

But while "V" has continued to maintain a high quality of life in her long-time home, this group of women that she was so close with, beloved friends with whom she celebrated life's amazing joys, as well as mourned its inevitable sorrows, has not fared quite as well in terms of their overall health and level of independence.  From what I can gather during "V"s regular phone conversations with the other three women, also amazingly still alive at a hearty age, this is largely due to the quality of their living situations. 

This reality became piercingly clear to me during my time with "V" several weekends ago.  While the hours spent in her company were as enjoyable and fulfilling as they always are, they were also distinguished by a profound, almost palpable pain.  With a combined, yet somewhat confusing, sense of sadness and admiration, I watched with a heavy heart as "V" attempted to keep in touch with the three other women.

 

The process, of course, was all completed by telephone, which of course could not be done without the aid of the colorful and uplifting floral-patterned notebook.   And "V", always the loyal, devoted, unspoken "leader" of the group, was the initiator in the chain of contact. 

"V" had somehow heard from another friend or family member that the youngest member of the social club, "J", had recently moved into a nursing home.  According to "V", this friend had no family members other than two nieces who were no longer a consistent part of their Aunt "J"s life.  "V" described to me with great sadness how her friend had lost everything by trusting someone who was entrusted to care for her, thus ending up in the nursing home.

The two other friends in the quartet, "M" and "L", had asked "V" if she would take on the task of contacting "J" to find out how she was doing, and "V", perhaps out of a sense of obligation, but also coupled with a sincere-sounding compassion for her friend, volunteered to telephone "J".

With a noticeable sigh, "V" opened her address book to look for the phone number of the nursing home "J" was reportedly in.  Observing her body language from across the dining room table, I had the distinct feeling that "V" had, prior to this occasion, engaged in this activity far too frequently.  I noticed that the colorful and uplifting floral notebook actually appeared quite tattered and a bit torn, as if it had been opened and closed quite frequently.  Tucked in inside were tiny pieces of paper containing hand-scribbled addresses and phone numbers.  I was amazed that "V" could even see the letters and numbers that looked like jibber-jabber from where I sat.  Of course, she had her reading glasses on, but then again, so did I!

Slowly, patiently, and, I suspected, somewhat wearily, "V" looked through the pages until she found the phone number she was seeking. 

"I think "J" is on the Red Unit," she told me as I watched her pick up the telephone. 

Carefully dialing the numbers, "V" then waited quite a while only to have a recorded message answer her call.  We all know the kind...  Press 1 for *****, Press 2 for #####, Press 3 for ++++++, etc.  Completely computerized, with only the slightest hint of a human voice.  I could tell that "V" had been through this kind of routine before, as she seemed adept at following the prompts.  I guess she would have to be to survive in today's world, as pretty much every imaginable public entity utilizes some form of computer generated voice messaging. 

I watched and heard as "V" pressed the number for the Red Unit, only to have the call disconnected shortly afterwards.  With another sigh, "V" began another attempt.  This time, she got through to the Red Unit, but was immediately placed on hold by what sounded like a human being on the other end of the line.  Silently, patiently, "V" sat waiting, only to have the call disconnected again. 

"It's the weekend, and it's after dinner time," "V" justified.  "It's probably a busy time for the staff." 

"Wow!" I thought.  That was incredibly understanding of her!  I would have been mad as heck by this point in time, after being put on hold once, and two disconnections! 

Unrelentingly, "V" tried dialing the number again.  Same process.  Same prompts.  Better outcome, though.  This time, "V" was able to talk with a live person. 

"I'm trying to reach "J", a friend of mine who recently moved in," "V" explained to the woman on the other side of the telephone line.

Hurriedly cutting "V"s query off, the woman told "V" what room number her friend was in, and said she would transfer her to that extension.

Unfortunately, and as you undoubtedly may have expected, the call was again disconnected.

"V" let out another barely audible sigh, and without hesitation, dialed the number one more time.  After getting through to the hurried staff member again, "V" clearly stated that she would like to be connected to the room that "J" was in. 

Finally, I could hear a definite ringing sound as "V" held the phone up to her ear, speaker on because of her hearing impairment.   

If confusion has a sound, then that is exactly what I heard on the other end of the line.  An older woman's voice definitely had uttered the words, "Hello?  Hello?", but then the noise of the phone dropping onto a hard surface, probably the floor, quickly followed.  The voice returned, as though from a distance, and pleaded, "Hold on!  Hold on!  I'm not used to this damned phone!"  There was an urgency in the woman's voice, and I got the impression that she did not receive many telephone calls and was desperate to receive this one.

"Is that you "J"?" "V" asked, loudly  "It's me, "V"!" also loudly.

"Who?" The woman sounded disoriented and out of breath.

"V" explained again who she was.  I thought I saw a hint of frustration in her eyes, but if there really was any there, "V" certainly masked it well by remaining cheerful in her tone.

"V"?  Is that you?" the woman asked again, this time sounding more shocked than anything else.

"Yes.  It's me!" "V" explained again.  A big smile spread over her tired-looking countenance as she realized that "J" knew who she was.

Taking the name of the Lord in vain, "J" responded with sheer joy.  It was a wonderful thing to hear, as she came to the realization that her dear friend was actually on the telephone with her. 

"You are an Angel sent by God!" "J" declared to "V" with absolute sincerity in her voice.   In a burst of energy, she went on to describe how she had ended up in the nursing home... how she had lost her own home, and how the woman she had trusted to care for her hadn't done so, and how her health has been deteriorating, and how she had no one to help her, and how terribly alone she felt... and on and on and on... The reality of "J"s situation, being basically abandoned in a nursing home with no friends or family around her to offer support, became painfully clear to me.  Kind of like a brick hitting you in the side of the head.

In a calm, soothing tone, "V" continued to comfort her friend by saying, "I know.  I know it's hard."

"J" continued to share her troubles with "V", who sat and listened patiently.  Across the table, I tried to gauge her emotions by the expression on her face, but could not.  Her face remained completely unchanged from the beginning of the conversation to the end.  I got the feeling that "V" was fulfilling some kind of extremely difficult, yet essentially necessary, duty by hearing her dear old friend's woes.  And all throughout, "V" continued her attempt to offer comfort to "J" with the same words, "I know it's hard."

"An Angel sent by God!" "J" exclaimed again, thanking "V" over and over for finding her at the nursing home.  "I thought everyone had forgotten about me!"

"We haven't," "V" told her old friend kindly, and the words were both sincere and sad.  I knew that "V" was speaking for her other two friends, "M" and "L", when she spoke in the plural.  And I also knew that "V", even at the age of ninety-five, was still the strong, steadfast leader of this close-knit group of friends, a role that she took very seriously.

After hanging up, "V" told me in a resigned tone of voice that she would have to call "M" and "L" and let them know that she had spoken with "J."

"Not now, though," she added.  "Later."  It was clear that she needed some time to recover from the conversation, along with the extreme effort involved in getting through to "J" in the first place.

I looked at her in awe, and wondered how difficult it must be for her to be such a strong support for her younger friends. 

"Was that conversation hard for you?" I asked, genuinely concerned about the impact it may have had upon her.

A final sigh.  "Yes," she said simply.  "But I'm the one who makes sure we all stay in touch."

There it was.  "V" was acknowledging her own purpose, an extremely relevant meaning in her life.   Her friends relied on her to find out information about their other friends, even if the news was sad.  And "V" responsibly and consistently fulfilled this role, still the "leader of the pack."

Then "V said something that made me realize that although weary, and possibly very sad at the loss of the deep connection she once had with her close-knit group of friends, she was still full of spirit... and a taste for something sweet.

"Let's have one of those Little Debbie snacks," she suggested, and I more than willingly fulfilled her request.



 


 

 

Same Tree... Different Week

A Little Less Bright, But Just as Beautiful!

How Green Was My Valley

What a difference a week can make!!!

 

Of course, there are the obvious ways...  Weather systems moving in and out, sometimes wreaking havoc in their paths, as did the bombardment of wind and rain that some unlucky central U.S. states buckled down under last week.  Then there are the ever-changing (yet somehow oddly consistent) news stories from abroad and at home, as in another attempted mass shooting in a frighteningly public venue... an airport!  (I only pray that we aren't become immune to this type of headline as a society).  

 

The week that passed also brought causes for great celebration, like the Boston Red Sox winning the World Series title at home in their now historic Fenway Park for the first time since 1918.  1918!!!  Sooooooo long ago, to hear the enthusiastic sportscasters talk about it!  And yet, that was the very same year in which "V" was born.  When one is privileged enough to spend time in her presence, however, it doesn't seem all that long ago!  At least not to me!

 

The local changes that occurred on the overall topography of the Hudson Valley Region were fairly significant last week.  Some still half-dressed Maple trees  completely shed their colorful Summer attire, leaving scattered piles of crackling leaves everywhere in sight.  Halloween, which had been blizzarded and hurricaned into non-existence over the past two years, came and went rather uneventfully.  Actually, "went" is an apt description, because in the area that "V" and I reside, the trick-or-treaters simply never "came" due to some cool temperatures and steady rain showers.   Lots of leftover "just in case" candy for us!

 

And who can forget the annual nationwide "Fall Back," the time change in most of the United States that allows people to regain the precious hour of sleep they begrudgingly forfeited last March, the tradeoff being darker days from here-on-in until we Spring Forward once again.  It's funny how eager we are to give that begrudged lost hour back to Mother Nature in exchange for a little more light!

 

Then there are the subtler changes... The ones that occur in a person's psyche and demeanor.  Emotional waves that, although not very high, are nevertheless strong and steady.  The little things that perhaps go unnoticed until someone who spends a lot of time with a particular individual is able to detect them. 

 

As caregivers, I believe we all have the ability to notice such subtleties in the people we look after. 

 

I definitely saw some changes in "V"s overall demeanor and attitude this past week, and I wondered throughout the weekend what they were attributed to.

 

Perhaps the reality of the oncoming winter has something to do with it, as the lush green valley behind "V"s home begins to fade into an almost unrecognizable blend of gray and brown, dotted with equally gray looking evergreen trees.   The chill in the air can still lead to moderately pleasant days, filled with warm sunshine fine enough for basking in, although the other alternative is ever-present... there could also be a beautiful blanket of far too early snowfall painting the horizon.

 

 

 

"V" and I discussed the dramatic changes in the landscape that had occurred over the past several weeks during our breakfast this morning, as we gazed at the formerly glowing but now forlorn-looking field of beans.  For some reason, our conversation focused on birds of the region.  Over the past several weeks, we had watched many of our aviary friends flee the area, most memorable of which were the extremely loud, V-line formatted Canadian Geese.  Always an amazing sight, no matter how many years one has seen the occurrence.   Like ninety-five years, for example.

"V" and I also talked about the glorious red cardinals that brighten up the bleak landscape every winter, and I acknowledged the fact that these wonderful creatures were not residents of the West Coast of the United States, where I lived for ten years.  We both agreed that maybe God put them where they were most needed, as a sign of hope that brighter, more colorful days were to come.

 

"Not for me, though" "V" suddenly stated with a certainty that increased my already chilly bones. 

 

"What do you mean?" I asked encouragingly, trying to bring back some semblance of cheer to the coldness slowly creeping through the room.  "You are in wonderful health for your age, and you could very well live another five or ten years!"

 

"V" shrugged wearily, and I had noticed that she looked especially tired all weekend long.  "I suppose I could," she went on, "but the reality is that I won't.  My time is almost done."

 

Ouch!  Reality reached out and slapped me just a tad too harshly with that comment! 

 

I continued my attempt at encouragement.  "You could have many more years ahead of you that are filled with a good quality in your life..." I began bargaining.

 

"I know," "V" said, smiling a bit sadly.  "I know that my life is good compared to others my age."  She hesitated just a bit, then went on, "But I know that I'm near the end."

 

She continued, and I listened carefully, trying to understand where she was coming from.  "My husband and I used to feed all the birds," "V" began.  "He even built a special platform for them," she pointed to a now bare spot on the back deck.  "We used to love to sit right at this table and watch the birds eat..."  her voice trailed off and an awkward silence hung in the room.

 

Not comfortable with awkward silences, but fully realizing that they are often quite necessary in order to truly hear what the other person is conveying, I held my tongue.

 

"V" went on, "There's so many things I can't do anymore that I wish I could."

 

"Like what?" I chimed in perhaps too eagerly, adding that "We (the caregiving team) would be more than happy to do anything you would like us to do!"

 

"V" nodded and smiled again.  "I know that," she replied.  "And I appreciate it.  But it's not the same."

 

Not truly hearing what she was saying, I suggested, "We can fill up the feeders so that you can watch the birds eat again, especially the cardinals in winter..."

 

"It's not the same," she repeated, and I waited for her explanation before piping in any more unwanted enthusiasm.  "I used to be able to do all these things for myself," "V" explained, a bit of a sparkle present in her eyes.  "Like feeding the birds," again, she pointed to the bare spot on the back deck.  "But now that I can't walk out there and do it myself, I just don't want to have it done at all."

 

I heard her this time, and thought that I understood what she meant.  Just for clarification, I gently prodded, "You mean because you can't do it on your own anymore?"

 

"Yes," "V" replied.   One short, simple, immensely powerful word.

 

Silence hung in the air again, but this time, not quite as awkwardly.

 

My queries turned more empathic at that moment, and I softly asked "V" some additional, (hindsight being twenty-twenty), but perhaps seemingly silly, questions. "You value your independence a great deal, don't you?  Being able to do things for yourself without having to ask others for help."

 

"Yes I do," "V" slowly shook her head in affirmation.  Her gaze shifted to her walker as she stated, "Now I just can't do the things I want to."

 

I looked at the walker again, and tried to console "V" with the rather stupid comment that "I know a lot of people who are younger than you who rely on a walker to get around."

 

Duh... I wasn't actually in the room with any of those other people, was I?  I was here to be a comforting companion to "V".  How foolish of me to throw out a generalization when it came to something as significant as one's ability to get around?

 

Before "V" was able to say anything else, I quickly added, in an immediate attempt to atone for my earlier error in judgment, "I know you don't like using that thing."  This time I pointed to the elephant in the room rather than identifying it by name.  That would be like rubbing salt into a festering wound at this point.

 

"V" sighed wearily, then acknowledged that she "knows she needs it to get around without falling."  It was as though she had given permission for her worst enemy to remain by her side.

 

My thoughts drifted to the movie we had begun watching the night before.  "How Green Was My Valley," the 1941 winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture and Director, John Ford.  As the plot progressed, unfolding with  an underlying feeling of foreboding, from a carefree, turn-of-the-century tale about a close-knit, loving family whose lives become irrevocably altered as the result of the coal mining revolution in Southern Wales, to a sorrowful story about loss, not only of human life, but of a very real youthful innocence, "V" suddenly stated, "I can't take it anymore."  Before turning the TV off, she earnestly asked me, "Does it get any better?"  Her eyes were almost pleading.  By "better", I suspected that she meant "happier."  Having seen the film before, I knew it did not get any "better" in the way she hoped it would,  and evaded the question by cleverly suggesting that we watch an episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond."  "V"s response was all too eager, and she quickly changed the channel.  "It's always good to have a laugh," she smiled.  "Yes it is," I agreed.

 

What had "V" meant, I wondered, when she said she couldn't "take it anymore?"  The phrase, along with the sorrow-filled resignation with which it was uttered, kept playing over and over in my head.

 

As our conversation over breakfast continued, I came to realize what it was that "V" couldn't "take."  It was all the loss.  The tremendous loss that occurs over the course of a lifetime, in particular, a lifetime that has gone on much longer than ever anticipated.   During which you have outlived most family members of the same generation, not to mention a myriad of close friends.  And near the end of which, you wearily succumb to the inevitable loss of some of your independence, perhaps having to rely on a walker to move about and do what you used to be fully capable of doing for yourself.

 

I tried to imagine myself in "V"s position, as I have done many times in my years as a caregiver.  Before "M" sunk deeper into her Dementia, she used to say similar things.  In a way, it was almost a blessing to watch as that devastating disease completely erased "M"s memories of her former capabilities, as well as the many people she had lost along the way, along with the independence she once valued so very proudly.

 

"V" doesn't have the benefit of a disease that robs you of your mind.   She remembers almost everything, good and bad, perhaps all too clearly.  That is why she is unable to look at old photographs of herself, or glance at her image in the mirror, or keep the lights on when she changes her clothes.   More than anything, I think she feels that she has lost herself.

 

Maybe she has.  In many different ways.  And perhaps I will as well, if I am able to live another four decades, (give or take a few years). 

 

To me, however, an inspired caregiver forty-five years her junior, I see "V" as an amazingly capable individual, successfully surviving all the storms that life steered in her direction... always with an incredible amount of grace and dignity.

 

"V"s valley may have been greener at one time, filled with a carefree spirit, youthful innocence and hope about the future, but her present is one to be relished and respected.

 

I found out a little while ago that I am going to spend an unexpected shift with "V" this evening, as her Sunday evening caregiver called out sick.  I'm glad.  I feel like our conversation this morning was left hanging in an uncomfortable way. 

 

If "V" asks me if I know how the movie ended, I will truthfully tell her "happily."   The valleys are still green. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Tree Like "V"

Awesome and Inspiring