A different kind of Hospice lady

On my way back from a visit to Northampton last weekend for my sister's bachelorette party, I stopped in for visit #2 with my new Hospice lady. We chitchatted about this and that while she chainsmoked and we watched Hoarders, until eventually the subject of the bachelorette party came up.

Tammy: Oh, yeah, a bachelorette? Did you get any strippahs?
Me: Nope, no strippers. But we did have some balls. We asked the waiter to deliver them on my sister's dessert plate. Then we put a purple mustache on them.
Tammy (pokerfaced): That's cute. No strippahs, eh? That's too bad. I suuuuure do like strippahs.

She went on to tell me about a time when she and her friend went out to a stripper bar, leaving her kids alone at home and telling them that they were going to the movies. ("We did see some movies that night, but not the kind my kids THOUGHT we saw!") There were lots of details, and indeed, it does sound like she really likes strippers. Another thing she seems to really enjoy is shocking me.

Gone is the era of the demented old Catholic Hospice ladies. I gotta say, this new era is shaping up to be interesting.

Goodbye, Midge...

I received the following email a couple of days ago from my Hospice coordinator:

Dear Heathen,

I have a new patient who I think you might enjoy. She is in her late 60s and has cardiac disease. She is alert and very talkative, and lives near you. Let me know what you think!

Well, I was pretty psyched, and even more so when I looked up her address and discovered that her house is just steps away from my yoga studio. But what did that mean about Midge, my current Hospice patient, who is 103 years old and crazy in a verbally abusive kind of way? Was my coordinator suggesting I switch patients, or that I take on both? I crafted a reply to try to feel her out and possibly edge her in the direction of switching me to the new lady:

She sounds lovely, and you're right, the location is very convenient for me. However, I'm worried about having time to visit two patients 2-3 times a month. Do you think it might make sense for someone else to take over Midge? I don't think she recognizes me so I'm not sure it would make a difference to her. She is very nice and personable sometimes, but at other times she can be quite belligerent, which can be difficult to take. (Usually I don't stay long when this is the case.) Let me know what you think.

Heathen

Well, she wrote back and said I should make the switch, effective immediately. I'll go check out my new lady this weekend. Goodbye, Midge. I'm sorry I didn't get to know you when you were younger and not crazy. I hope your remaining days are happy and filled with all the things you love -- nuns, the military, red shirts, purple pants, and imaginary friends.

More Midge

My visit with Midge the other day got off to a promising start. She broke into a huge grin, causing a nearby nurse to remark, "You sure brought a smile to her face!" I nodded happily, thinking myself the perfect Hospice volunteer. Until I looked closer, and noticed that Midge was not in fact smiling, but laughing maniacally.

It went downhill from there. I soon became acquainted with Midge's imaginary friend, seated next to her and wearing an identical red shirt ("because they're the style these days," Midge informed me). Our conversation settled into a pattern: Midge would ask a question or make a comment, I would respond, then she would repeat the conversation to her imaginary friend, except that instead of repeating what I'd actually said, she'd twist my words around to make me sound mean. Examples:

Midge: Why is that woman in a wheelchair? If I couldn't walk, I would never let someone push me in a wheelchair. [Note that Midge was seated in a wheelchair as she said this.]
Me: I'm not sure. Maybe she's sick.
Midge [to imaginary friend]: I asked her why that woman is in a wheelchair, and she said she didn't care.

A few minutes later...
Midge [leaning close toward me]: You're a beautiful girl.
Me: Thank you!
Midge [to imaginary friend]: I told her she's a beautiful girl, and she said she KNOWS.

And then, after another pause...
Midge: Do you have a date?
Me: Yes! [thinking, maybe we are getting to a more positive topic of conversation...]
Midge: You're far too young to have a date! [Turns to imaginary friend]; I wonder, does her mother even know she's here??

At this point Midge started to laugh again, this time so hard and with such utter abandon that I wondered if she was crying. When I ascertained that she was, in fact, laughing, I wondered what to do. My policy is to leave if either a) she seems to be getting no pleasure out of my visit, or b) she's so mean it makes me feel bad. However, I wasn't totally sure on either point. Was her laughing totally maniacal, or was there a hint of pleasure in it, too? Was she making me feel bad, or was she just frustrated that she couldn't hear what I was saying?

Midge made up my mind for me by announcing that she was tired and wanted a nap. With a small sigh of relief, I patted her hand and headed for the elevator.

Chinchillas and centenarians

I had a refreshingly fun visit last week with my sometimes-bellligerent 103-year-old Hospice patient, Midge. This was a relief on a number of levels, including:

1) The guilt I was starting to feel because every time I arrived and checked the nameplate on her door and it was still there (read: she's still alive), I felt a little bit disappointed.

2) She was clearly once a kind, caring woman and loving mother, as evidenced by the frequent visits from her children (now nearing their eightees!), grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. It's nice to know that that is still inside her, somewhere.

3) I'm not in denial, and know that one day it'll be me being passive-aggressive with the nurses and aids. And that's if I'm lucky and don't die in my late middles ages from a slow, painful disease. I'd like to think it's not all misery.

So anyway, Midge was in a very good mood when I got there. I could catch a little glimpse of what Celine, my former wonderful Hospice patient, saw in her, and why they were best friends. In fact, I felt so comfortable that I pulled out my ponytail and let my hair hang down, for once confident that she wouldn't reach out one of her hands and grab ahold of my hair and pull with what little strength she has left in her.

Midge generally has a theme or two that she focuses her conversation around. Often, this involves some branch of the military, and last week was no exception. In addition, she also asked me a lot of love-and-marriage type questions. Here's a snippet of our conversation:

Midge: So, you're in the Navy? (This first question was in sharp contrast to our last encounter, when she made it clear that I am not fit to be in the Navy, Army or anything remotely related to the military.)
Me: Yes. Yes, I am.
Midge: I like your uniform. Do you have a hat to match?
Me: I do. (I keep my answers short because she's deaf and blind.)
Midge: Tell me about your boyfriend. How old is he?
Me: He's 32.
Midge: Oh, 38. That's a good age. What does he do?
Me: He teaches.
Midge: He's a waiter. That's nice. Everyone's getting married these days.
Me: Not me.
Midge: When are you going to get married?
Me: I don't know.
Midge: Well, you should. I got married when I was 26. I loved to dance with my husband. You could do that, too.

Just then, a 50-something-year-old man came along carrying a chinchilla, bringing it around for some animal therapy with the patients. I tried not to flinch. I don't know if you're familiar with chinchillas, but they're basically very large, gray rats with round ears, and they're disgusting. Kind of like a cross between a rat and a squirrel, two of my least favorite animals.

Midge gave a cursory glance toward the chinchilla and patted it absently on its hindquarters, then focused in on the man. "Is this your boyfriend?" she asked me, in what she probably thought was a subtle whisper but was actually more of a loud bray. "No," I said, trying to be both emphatic and quiet at the same time and failing at both.

As if the embarrassing conversation weren't already painfully obvious, Midge decided to be perfectly clear. "I asked her if you were her boyfriend," she said to the man. "She said no."

After a few more questions about his marital history (divorced, single), Chinchilla-man thankfully moved on. Midge, however, did not: "Why don't you want to date him?" she queried. "Too busy? Works too much? That's the way they earn the money, you know."

Thanks for the advice and the attempt at setting me up, Midge. No offense, but I think I'll pass on Chinchilla-man.

Two old ladies

As the school year has progressed in tandem with my relationship with Dreamy, it has become increasingly difficult to squeeze in visits to the nursing home where 97-year-old Celine, the Hospice patient I volunteer to spend time with, is living out her last days. Still, her bright smile, silly phrases ("Here comes my big doll! You're a doll, but not a crocodoll!"), and warm personality have motivated me to continue to find time for her, albeit not as much as I spent with her last summer when I had little else to do.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from my Hospice coordinator asking if I would be interested in taking on Celine's roommate, Midge, as well. I accepted reluctantly. Midge is, amazingly, even older than Celine, and will soon celebrate her 103rd birthday. Like Celine, she has Alzheimer's, but unlike Celine it has had a negative impact on her personality. She often yells at me, or bossily instructs the nurses to kick me out when I visit Celine. When she is in a kinder mood toward me, she beckons me to come over and warns me about other people who she is suspicious of. While I am sure she was once a lovely person, it is, frankly, enough to give one nightmares.

Still, I felt that I should accept because she and Celine are best friends, and because logistically it makes sense since they are together constantly. They have spent the past 13 years together, sharing a tiny room with parallel single beds, eating every meal together, and spending 90% (if not more) of every day together.

So it was with a bit of nervousness that I set off last Sunday to the nursing home, steeling myself for unpleasantness from Midge (most recently I was warned to keep my hair away from her as she has begun to grab hair) but looking forward to seeing Celine. When I arrived, I checked their usual hangout spots -- their bedroom, a small sitting room, and the dining room -- to no avail before heading to the front desk to inquire for their whereabouts. The woman at the desk looked stricken when I said their names, and informed me that Celine had passed away the prior evening.

I realize it's a bit ridiculous, but I was shocked. Yes, she's in a Hospice program, and yes, she wasn't able to keep down food the last time I saw her, two and a half weeks before (not to mention that she's 97 years old!). But I thought it was just the stomach flu. Over the summer, each time I went to visit I half-expected her to have passed, but eventually I began to think she might last a couple more years. Clearly, she was ready to go; she had little more to look forward to in life. Still, the way she managed to remain positive under such difficult circumstances was truly inspirational, and I felt her loss tremendously.

Midge, it turned out, was on another floor at a Christmas concert, so I headed down while wiping the tears from my eyes. Most of me wanted to turn around and leave, but I certainly didn't want to have to come back the following weekend, so I decided to stay for a little while and spend time with Midge. When I got there, she was hunched over a cold slice of pizza while a cheesy singer sang Christmas classics like "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" and "White Christmas."

"Let's get out of here," growled Midge when I asked if she was enjoying the concert, "QUICK." I hesitated, unsure what to do, then pulled Midge's wheelchair out and headed back to the 4th floor.

"Do you want to sit and chat?" I asked when we arrived at the sitting room, thinking nostalgically of my many long chats with Celine that mostly consisted of her telling me how happy she was that I had dropped by. "No!" she barked back, "Take me that way." She lifted a knobby hand and indicated a long hallway. Obediently, I started wheeling her down.

At the end, we came to a right hand turn. "Go left," Midge instructed. "L-E-F-T! Left!" she barked more insistently as she felt me turning her wheelchair the only direction I could go. "There is no left turn!" I replied as cheerily as possible. We walked by some people who were standing and chatting. "Get out of the way!" she shouted, and I smiled apologetically and waved.

After our fruitless walk around the building, a half hour had passed since my arrival. Usually I stay longer, but at that point I was done. I bid Midge goodbye, telling her I was sorry for the loss of her friend. I'm not sure she understands that Celine has died, but perhaps on some level she was sad. And, in the end, my loss is really nothing compared to hers.

Even if I weren't insanely busy it would be hard to face such unpleasantness. Given how full my calendar is, I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up -- unless, of course, Midge moves on to a better place soon and I inherit a new Hospice patient!

Then again, I should probably just be grateful she didn't get ahold of my hair.

Breakthroughs

There are two relationships in my life that I have had questions about recently. I would like both of them to develop further, but I've worried that neither of them are moving in that direction -- or moving anywhere. After a lot of patience, I had two breakthroughs this past weekend with each of them.

The first is my 97-year-old Hospice patient, Celine. She has Alzheimer's and, of course, she's 97, so my expectations of our relationship aren't quite what they'd normally be. Still, I sometimes wonder if there's really any point in my being there; she obviously enjoys it, and we sit and chat together and have fun, but does she remember the visit five minutes after I've left? Does she have any idea of who I am week to week? If I miss a week, does she notice? After all, she sometimes forgets to go to the bathroom, or how to put on her shoes, or that her sisters have died.

Yesterday we were sitting and talking as usual, as Celine repeated many of the same phrases I've heard so many times -- "I'm so glad you dropped by!" "I think these rings are on the wrong fingers. I'll switch them," "You're my big doll. I call you my big doll," and "I wonder what happened to my white shoes?" among them. Then, out of the blue, she turned to me and asked, "And how has school been? You're a teacher, right?"

It was amazing. You could have knocked me over with a feather, even if at the same time as she asked this question, she was eating a cheese doodle and commenting, "My sandwich is quite tasty." The mind certainly works in mysterious ways. Still, it's good to know that part of her is there listening to me, some of the time at least. When I left, she clasped both my hands in hers and said, as she's said many times before, "Please don't forget to come back and visit." For the first time, I believed that she'd miss me if I did forget.

The second relationship I've worried about is with my lovebird, Persil. Poor Persil has huge shoes to fill (and such small feet to fill them!). Everyone knows that my former lovebird, Haricot, was the most amazing, lovable pet ever. I used to leave his cage door open at night so that in the morning he could fly to bed with me and we could cuddle; he'd take naps inside my nightshirt, curled up on my belly. It took a very, very long time for Haricot to come out of his shell and be the sweet little parrot he was, so I knew I'd have to be patient with Persil, but there have been moments since I got Persil in late July when I felt like he wasn't making ANY progress at all. He actually was making progress -- he would eat millet when I held it up to him, he'd let me put my face close to his, and he'd step up onto a stick for me -- but I never got any indication that he LIKED me. It's like we were living parallel lives in the same small bedroom.

After I got back from the nursing home yesterday, I was sitting on my bed, typing on my computer -- just as I am doing now -- when Persil hopped up to me. For a few seconds I didn't even notice. In the back of my mind I was thinking, oh, here comes Haricot. Then, very tentatively, he came a little closer, and finally put one toe up onto my keyboard. As soon as I lifted a finger toward him, he stepped back, so I just kept all my fingers on the keys. He stepped a millimeter closer, leaned down, and gingerly nibbled on my finger. A few seconds later and he had flown back to his usual hangout, the windowsill.

Today when I came home and opened his cage door, I hoped he'd come over to me again. But he didn't; he's back on his windowsill, chirping away as if yesterday never happened. But now that it's happened once I know it will happen again. I just have to be really, really patient.

At the Hospice

Last Thursday, I spent most of the day with two people: my handsome French-Canadian beau, Le Canadien, and my 92-year-old Hospice patient who is dying of "adult failure to thrive" (basically, old age). I ended up chatting with both of them a bit in French, but ironically, it was not Le Canadien who propositioned me with the age-old phrase, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"

The room erupted in laughter when she said it, mostly from the nurses and aides since other patients were too deaf or out-of-it to catch the joke. She grinned mischievously and said, "I thought you'd enjoy that."

She is, quite simply, adorable. She is smiley and chatty and appreciative of my visits and appreciative of everything in general. It makes me very happy to go see her -- so much so that I have to resist the urge to go every day. When I left today she repeated, as always, that my visit made her day, and asked when I'd be back; I told her I can come back next week, to which she replied, "Oh no! That's too long. Can't you come back this week?" I promised to return on Friday.

She seems utterly content with her life, both past and present. She told me several times today that, while she often feels tired, she still "feels like myself." At age 92, what more can one ask for?

It can't be easy to live surrounded by people who are bent double in their wheelchairs or gaze blindly at beige walls all day while Muzak plays in the background, interrupted occasionally by a prayer broadcast over the intercom. Or to share a tiny room with a few decorative wall hangings, the sole remains of a houseful of possessions; or to be so limited physically that one can't have much of a conversation because of hearing loss, or read much because of sight loss. She handles it with remarkable grace. I hope that if I am ever in her position I can do the same.