I came into the office yesterday afternoon still wearing my scrubs; I had spent the morning working as a CNA at one of our Louisville nursing centers, and I hadn’t had time to change before rushing into what would be an hours-long meeting. Holli, the most intuitive person on our team, said right away, “Oh my gosh. You look like you’ve been traumatized. Are you alright?”
(side note: I hate the fact that I can’t conceal my emotions. I don’t even bother to play cards because I am the world’s easiest “mark.” Is it asking for too much to hope that someday I might learn how to get through a meeting, a hallway encounter, or a conversation with my wife without having my emotions dance across my face like some troupe of shameless, naked monkeys?)
“Traumatized.” Was that too strong a word? Maybe not. I honestly don’t remember what I said next, but I’m pretty sure I just tried to deflect Holli’s question with some lame humor. This was my third shift as a CNA, and like the previous two, it had made a big impression. I’ve learned a lot about myself over the last few months, and not all of it is good. I’ve learned that I will go to extraordinary lenghts to insulate myself against negative emotions and memories, that I still carry tremendous guilt and shame over my failures as a son when my parents were dying, that I tend to use my social skills to keep people at a comfortable distance rather than making a real human connection, that I am more of an “only child” than I ever thought, and that many (if not most) of the things I have thought most important in this life are meaningless.
I don’t mean to sound morose. The strange truth is that I’ve literally never been happier in my adult life. It’s just that this “existential journey” into the work of eldercare has forced me to really think and grow for the first time in years. For that alone, I am inexpressibly grateful to Signature.
The work of yesterday’s shift was mild and “easy” in comparison with the first two. Census at this particular facility was low, so the pace of the day was manageable. Plus, Signature had sent nurse consultants as monitors to make sure that we executives didn’t do anything too stupid or harmful. The health levels were better than what I expected. And having just received my state certification the day before, I felt more comfortable in the environment than on my previous stints.
One resident in particular was a delight. I had noticed her during breakfast, reading the newspaper and chatting with everyone around her. She was very particular about her likes and dislikes, and she wasn’t afraid to share them! Her voice conveyed intelligence and an easy command: this was a woman who had not surrendered any part of her will. She might have been a small business owner, a teacher, or even a nurse in her past. I wondered who she was and hoped that I would get to spend more time with her.
As fate would have it, I was asked to help give her a bed bath. My role was minor. A “real CNA” did 90% of the work while I helped with positioning, filled the water basin, folded clothes, and talked with the resident. Here is what I learned: She had been in the facility for over 2 years. When she first arrived, she was completely paralyzed; an illness and subsequent surgery had left her with no mobility below her shoulders. Her doctors had told her that she would never regain any function.
Think about that for a moment. Imagine being an 80+ year old woman, alone and completely paralyzed in a nursing home. And yet here she was, two years later, with nearly full mobility in her hands and arms and some 20% strength in her legs! I asked her how she had done it. She told me that she knew from the very first moment that the doctor was wrong. How? Because she had a slight tingling feeling in her fingers and toes. That told her that the nerve pathways were still there, that there was hope. And so through that miraculous combination of human will and divine grace, the True Balm, she gradually regained function and independence. She expects to be able to walk again within a year, and I would not bet against her!
We talked about her family. She bragged on her oldest grandson’s big job in New York and fretted about his dating life. She talked about visits with her son. Life, so much life. The other CNA joined in the conversation, speaking about the family she had left in her troubled homeland in Africa. Her children want to stay in America; she and her husband long to return. Life, life, life.
After the bath was over, the resident hugged us both and told us it was “the best bath ever.” Even though my role was minor, I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder. How easy is it, really, to give someone an extraordinary experience? In this case, it was as easy as just asking a few questions and listening.
I called my wife on the way back to work and told her how much I loved her. We talked about my parents and my guilt over having not been as present for them in their dying days as I should have been, a topic we rarely discuss. We talked about gratitude for the simple things that I have spent most of my life taking for granted. I cried a little bit, which is probably what Holli picked up when I walked into the conference room a few minutes later.
Finally, we talked about the resident. “The best bath ever,” she called it. I can relate. That’s what the last few months have been for me. I’ve washed off the mental and emotional grime of many years, and I feel new and clean again. I’m still me. I still have the same wounds and the same issues as before. But somehow, a good bath can make your wounds seem less painful, less ugly. It can make you feel lovable. It can give you strength to face the day.