Stories from the retirement home
I was recalling an anecdote from an old job earlier, and it brought back a flood of memories. I worked as a dining services supervisor for a retirement home outside Reading, PA. I was in charge of the Assisted Living section, which is home to people who need regular nursing attention, but who are still moderately capable of caring for themselves. (The other sections were Independant Living--basically a series of apartments on the property where the residents had complete freedom, but could dine in the main dining hall and recieve normal checkups from the staff--and Healthcare, which was for residents with severe demensia or motor skill impairments requiring constant nursing care.) I've heard a lot of people say they could never work in a place like that, because it would make them too sad. I used to worry that I'd feel the same way, but I really think a number of those residents affected me in profound ways that I am so thankful for.
As a whole, the job was miserable; I won't lie about that. But it was never the residents who made me miserable, just my bosses. They were the type to delegate impossible tasks, do no work themselves, and thus take no responsibility for their ultimate failure. They spoke horribly of the residents behind their backs, purposefully didn't follow legal guidelines for food preparation, and had seemingly no empathy for any other human being. A good example? After having taken none of my 10 sick or 3 excused absense days, I was told I would not be allowed to take a day off if it were deemed medically necessary. I explained to my bosses (a bit tearfully, I admit) that on my most recent dental visit, my X-Rays had shown an abnormality that my dentist feared was a tumor. I was going in for more invasive testing on my day off, and if the anomoly was cancerous, I was going to have a root canal that morning to remove the tumor. I set this specifically for my weekday off (a Wednesday) when I had the following weekend off, so that I could take only two sick days and still have five days to recover from the surgery, if necessary. I was told this was unacceptable; even having the following day off was unacceptable. They didn't care that it was against HR regulations, that it was against FMLA law, that it was outright cruel. All that mattered to them was that they'd have to cover my shift if I was busy with cancer, and that wasn't okay. After crying onto the shoulder of a nurse I'd befriended, I quit.
I don't regret walking away from the company. I truly think my bosses were a drain on my soul, and being around people that horrible cannot benefit anyone. But I do regret never seeing the residents again. I really bonded with some of them, and I think about them often. That's why I wanted to share some anecdotes...because I think the elderly, especially those in special care, are a segment of society often overlooked, and they don't deserve to be.
All of the residents I really befriended were the ones that all of the other employees seemed to really hate. A couple of them had demensia that had nearly advanced to the stage that they'd be transfered to Healthcare, but they still had enough lucid days that they stayed in AL. One woman, a 90-something who I recalled in that anecdote earlier, was one of the most difficult residents to work with on her "bad days." But on her good days, she was vibrant and talkative, and loved to regail any and all listeners with stories of her past. This irritated the nurses and my waitstaff nearly as much as her bad-day obstinance, but I adored hearing her stories. My favorite was when she spoke of her husband, who she'd met just a decade earlier. They only had a few years together before he passed away, but she constantly told me how he was her one true love. Her eyes were so brilliant and full of life when she spoke of him, it made me want to cry, simply because I could feel the pure joy radiating from her soul. The hardest thing for me to deal with was the days when she couldn't remember her husband at all. Those days, I remembered him for her, and I still carry the both of them in my heart, trying to make their love immortal in some way, to keep the story alive for all eternity. I'm going to tell their story to my daughter when she gets older, and I hope she'll share it with her children, should she have any. It deserves to be remembered.
Another couple claimed a special place in my heart, and again, in spite of everyone else's irritation with the pair. The wife was a delicate, sweet woman who'd moved to AL when she lost the ability to walk. Her husband moved with her--though he was spry and exhuberant--simply because he refused to leave her. He never let the nurses push her wheelchair; he always insisted on doing it himself. They playfully bickered all the time, and truthfully, made me think of what my husband and I might be like at that age. But he was a difficult diner, very particular and cranky, and even his wife's sweetness couldn't smooth over his gruff attitude in the minds of my waitstaff. I liked him though; he was obstinant because he had every right to be. He was absolutely right when he complained to the nurses that the residents didn't recieve the care they deserved...it's just that the rest of the residents were incapacitated enough that they couldn't complain nearly as readily (or loudly) as he could, so his seemed like the lone voice of dissatisfaction. I could tell when I met him that he didn't want to like me, but I've always had a way of winning people over if given the proper opportunity. (I actually have a very sunny personality.) I treated him with the respect he didn't get from the rest of the staff, and because of that simple thing, he came to truly enjoy my company and conversation. One of my favorite stories from that job is about him, one the nurses had told me with furrowed brows and scolding tones, but which was so much more entertaining when he told it in an amused voice infused with youthful mischeif. There was a hair salon on the first floor of the main building, and the residents would park their wheelchairs outside the salon to be helped into chairs to get their hair styled. He was passing by the salon, saw a sleek red electric, and decided to take a spin around the complex. Apparently quite a few nurses and supervisors ended up chasing him around, trying to convince him to relinquish the chair, while he laughed in refusal. I could picture the entire scene so perfectly, almost entirely because of the mischeivous grin plastered on his face while he told it, and it's an image that always brings a smile to my face.
I do miss these people, and a few others, and I have tried very hard to cement these memories in my mind. I don't like to think about "where are they now," because a lot can happen in a place like that in five years. I remember them as I knew them, and I thank them for allowing me to know them at all. I feel like a better person for it. I feel as though my soul is richer for having shared a tiny part of their lives, and I hope I brought them some tiny bit of happiness in return.
As a whole, the job was miserable; I won't lie about that. But it was never the residents who made me miserable, just my bosses. They were the type to delegate impossible tasks, do no work themselves, and thus take no responsibility for their ultimate failure. They spoke horribly of the residents behind their backs, purposefully didn't follow legal guidelines for food preparation, and had seemingly no empathy for any other human being. A good example? After having taken none of my 10 sick or 3 excused absense days, I was told I would not be allowed to take a day off if it were deemed medically necessary. I explained to my bosses (a bit tearfully, I admit) that on my most recent dental visit, my X-Rays had shown an abnormality that my dentist feared was a tumor. I was going in for more invasive testing on my day off, and if the anomoly was cancerous, I was going to have a root canal that morning to remove the tumor. I set this specifically for my weekday off (a Wednesday) when I had the following weekend off, so that I could take only two sick days and still have five days to recover from the surgery, if necessary. I was told this was unacceptable; even having the following day off was unacceptable. They didn't care that it was against HR regulations, that it was against FMLA law, that it was outright cruel. All that mattered to them was that they'd have to cover my shift if I was busy with cancer, and that wasn't okay. After crying onto the shoulder of a nurse I'd befriended, I quit.
I don't regret walking away from the company. I truly think my bosses were a drain on my soul, and being around people that horrible cannot benefit anyone. But I do regret never seeing the residents again. I really bonded with some of them, and I think about them often. That's why I wanted to share some anecdotes...because I think the elderly, especially those in special care, are a segment of society often overlooked, and they don't deserve to be.
All of the residents I really befriended were the ones that all of the other employees seemed to really hate. A couple of them had demensia that had nearly advanced to the stage that they'd be transfered to Healthcare, but they still had enough lucid days that they stayed in AL. One woman, a 90-something who I recalled in that anecdote earlier, was one of the most difficult residents to work with on her "bad days." But on her good days, she was vibrant and talkative, and loved to regail any and all listeners with stories of her past. This irritated the nurses and my waitstaff nearly as much as her bad-day obstinance, but I adored hearing her stories. My favorite was when she spoke of her husband, who she'd met just a decade earlier. They only had a few years together before he passed away, but she constantly told me how he was her one true love. Her eyes were so brilliant and full of life when she spoke of him, it made me want to cry, simply because I could feel the pure joy radiating from her soul. The hardest thing for me to deal with was the days when she couldn't remember her husband at all. Those days, I remembered him for her, and I still carry the both of them in my heart, trying to make their love immortal in some way, to keep the story alive for all eternity. I'm going to tell their story to my daughter when she gets older, and I hope she'll share it with her children, should she have any. It deserves to be remembered.
Another couple claimed a special place in my heart, and again, in spite of everyone else's irritation with the pair. The wife was a delicate, sweet woman who'd moved to AL when she lost the ability to walk. Her husband moved with her--though he was spry and exhuberant--simply because he refused to leave her. He never let the nurses push her wheelchair; he always insisted on doing it himself. They playfully bickered all the time, and truthfully, made me think of what my husband and I might be like at that age. But he was a difficult diner, very particular and cranky, and even his wife's sweetness couldn't smooth over his gruff attitude in the minds of my waitstaff. I liked him though; he was obstinant because he had every right to be. He was absolutely right when he complained to the nurses that the residents didn't recieve the care they deserved...it's just that the rest of the residents were incapacitated enough that they couldn't complain nearly as readily (or loudly) as he could, so his seemed like the lone voice of dissatisfaction. I could tell when I met him that he didn't want to like me, but I've always had a way of winning people over if given the proper opportunity. (I actually have a very sunny personality.) I treated him with the respect he didn't get from the rest of the staff, and because of that simple thing, he came to truly enjoy my company and conversation. One of my favorite stories from that job is about him, one the nurses had told me with furrowed brows and scolding tones, but which was so much more entertaining when he told it in an amused voice infused with youthful mischeif. There was a hair salon on the first floor of the main building, and the residents would park their wheelchairs outside the salon to be helped into chairs to get their hair styled. He was passing by the salon, saw a sleek red electric, and decided to take a spin around the complex. Apparently quite a few nurses and supervisors ended up chasing him around, trying to convince him to relinquish the chair, while he laughed in refusal. I could picture the entire scene so perfectly, almost entirely because of the mischeivous grin plastered on his face while he told it, and it's an image that always brings a smile to my face.
I do miss these people, and a few others, and I have tried very hard to cement these memories in my mind. I don't like to think about "where are they now," because a lot can happen in a place like that in five years. I remember them as I knew them, and I thank them for allowing me to know them at all. I feel like a better person for it. I feel as though my soul is richer for having shared a tiny part of their lives, and I hope I brought them some tiny bit of happiness in return.