1942-2016
Although I have worked on all 6 groups of residents at Someren Glen in the past 8 months, as well as on the rehab hallway, I primarily am on group 3. Group 3 is composed of 8 residents, some in shared rooms, some in private. Since I've been working there, I've lost 4 residents. The first was a man whose name I can't even recall, who was already at death's door when I met him. I spent my first 2 weeks of work just keeping him clean, comfortable and swabbing his mouth to keep it moist. This otherwise motionless man would, when I put a water filled swab in his mouth, vigorously grab it with his teeth, gnaw, and suck on it until his energy gave out. When he passed I was happy for him.The second, Lavinia took over the same room: 318. She was 96. Her spine humped so badly that her head was held at not much more than a 90 degree angle. She kept a neck brace on at all times except for eating and when I dressed her. Although nearly deaf, she worked hard to communicate and was stubborn as heck. She would scowl or hit at me if I touched or moved anything without her permission. At first, I'll admit, I was a little intimidated by her. But the more I got to know her, I saw a tender and generous side. I saw her patience with me grow as I learned her needs. After just a couple of months, I found out she had been moved to the hospital, dying there a few days later. I'll rain grief down on anyone that lets me die in a hospital.
The third was Maryann. Maryann was 89, mentally coherent and, although she didn't talk a lot, we could have small conversations. She was very stiff but could walk. I would hold her hands, help her up to standing from her bed and she could walk across the room to her recliner. Because she couldn't bend well, it was a quick plop down to the raised recliner. I remember the child like smile and look of relief when she realized that she was safely sitting again. She would almost giggle every time. It was beautiful. As months passed her mind began to deteriorate. She began regularly telling me to 'put the spaghetti on' because some her inlaws were coming and she had to be ready! Maryann was always a joy. One day she complained that her back hurt when I went to get her up in the morning. A week later when I came to work, I passed her room and noticed her name tag had been removed from her door. She had died quickly from a blood clot in the night. I cried for Maryann.
The fourth was Dennis. Dennis was different. He was young, only 73. He had a masters in Mathematics. He was an avid singer of contemporary Christian music and performed often in churches. He worked for Martin Marietta in Denver for 37 years on projects such as the skylab. It his later 60's he began to have small strokes along with other unidentified medical issues. His mind remained relatively strong, but his body declined quickly. When I met him his muscles were contractured. His arms and legs were always bent and he struggled to sit in his wheelchair without falling to one side. I would get him up for meals, but he was confined mostly to bed. Although when he spoke I could tell he was an educated man, he did have issues here as well. He spoke only in small fragments and his responses were delayed. Every morning when I entered his room, I would take his hand, look directly in his eyes and say, 'Good morning, Dennis. It's so good to see you!' After a moment I would see recognition in his eyes and he would smile and say, 'It's...good...to... see...you...too'. I always sang to Dennis as I was changing his catheter and getting him dressed. Familiar and simple songs. Often I would pause when singing and he would chime in with the next line. I loved getting Dennis to talk. Most people transferred him with a mechanical standing lift, which he hated. On his weak days I probably should have too, but I couldn't do it. It always put him in a bad mood. Because he was so stiff, I had to do most of the work sitting him up. With my left arm under his head and my right arm under his legs, I would tell Dennis we were going to spin and sit on the edge of the bed in, 'one fell swoop'. He would look at me and say, 'In one swell floop?'. He loved to joke. Even though he had lost a lot of muscle control he was still quite strong. To transfer I'd say, 'OK Dennis, you know what time it is now? Time to give me a hug!'' His reflex when sitting was to reach out an grab the arm of the wheelchair or his bed cane (bar attached to the bed) and hold on tight. This was not helpful when midway through a transfer as he would not let go! He got to trust me though, and would wrap his arms around me when we stood to transfer. It's a 'stand, turn, sit in wheelchair' kind of transfer. I definitely would be supporting a bit of weight when we first would stand together, but after a second I could feel his strength kick in and he would be doing the work. He would yell out loudly whenever he felt pain or if someone was impatient with him. I became very protective of Dennis when CNA's would rush (and consequently hurt) him. He hit and hurt a woman CNA not long before his death and so the board decided that he could only have men CNA's after that point (he was getting more agitated and violent). Nothing has made me more mad than them taking Dennis away from me. His last week, after he had been put on hospice, he suddenly became just completely lethargic. He didn't eat or move or respond. I would slip into his room for a few minutes at a time to see him. His eyes would be open but were glassed over. Two days before his death I sat and held his hand and just sang hymns quietly to him. I think I felt him squeeze my hand. That's the last time I saw Dennis. His wife Kathy invited me to his funeral, which was this past Saturday. It was at a Christian Fellowship church just blocks away from Euclid Middle School in Littleton. I went alone and sat in the back. There was a lot of singing and a lot of pictures projected up on two screens. It was nice to see Dennis smiling and walking and with family. He had a good life. His mother passed four days later. I miss Dennis.
