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.