I’m currently immersed in the world of the elderly: an endeavor that is itself worth 100 stories; but for now, I only have one.
I have no idea how old Ms. X is, even though she was my patient for 5 hours. I gave her meds, put in her eye drops and suctioned little “bubble cups” to her eyes to help her conjunctivitis (“pink eye”). I changed her diaper, rubbed on some lotion, and turned her on her side to avoid skin breakdown.
She had a Don King hair-do and contracted limbs. She was wearing big white mittens, velcroed to her wrists: a form of restraint used for patients who are pulling at their various tubes. In her case, she had already pulled out her NG Tube (Nasogastric Tube: inserted through the nose and snaked down into the stomach) and she was still wearing the mittens in an effort to keep her bubble cups on her eyes. She looked like Don King in giant white boxing gloves.
As I approached to ask her about breakfast, she reported to me that all of her food was poisened and she was -no way – going to eat her applesauce. She tried to hit me twice and refused to take any of her pills. She takes two antipsychotics. It would have been really nice to be able to medicate her.
Today was the first day in her 2 week hospital stay that she has spoken to the staff.
The social worker told me that her medical history is as follows: transferred from one nursing home to another for “behavioral problems.” Transferred from nursing home #2 to a psychiatric hospital for “psychosis.” Transferred from psychiatric hospital to current hospital for “mental status change.” She has no family. Not one person has tried to make contact with her for more than a year. Neither of the nursing homes have any record of family members and she has no contacts listed. It’s like she never existed before nursing home #1.
It’s almost like finding a baby on your doorstep in a basket: like in the movie ’3 Men and a Baby.’ Minus the wildly attractive Tom Selleck and the fabulous Manhattan loft. Oh, and minus the hope and wonder that comes with a basket full of pink baby.
The social worker finished up by saying: “This is the kind of patient that we just leave alone. We send them back to the nursing home and we just leave them alone. We’re not superheroes. We can’t fix everyone. We can make them healthy enough – physically – to send them away. . . “
I wanted to be the green nurse who says, “But we can help!” I wanted to march back in there and convince Ms. X. that there was no poisen in her food – that she should stop with all this “psychotic” nonsense – you’re just confused! Come on! Shape up!
We’re trying to help you.
Talk with her for hours until I had won her heart, found the phone numbers of her children, organized a family meeting – Mom! We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Done a nutritional consultation, gotten her out of bed and into a chair by the window, played some checkers. I care!
She was my patient and I did the best I could – or the best I wanted to. I don’t know. But when I was done with my various menial tasks (putting her boxing gloves back on, for example), I shot out of her room without looking back. Not one look back. And when I left for the day, I felt relief more than anything.
You don’t expect this when you start nursing school. You don’t see yourself in these positions.
What do you do with unclaimed human beings? There’s no Potter’s Field for the living.
WRITE MORE STORIES! FASTER! FASTER!
My procrastination depends on you.
love….
kate–>
oh george,
like, wow, my first blog-like posting. first of all, you are incredible.
second, i had to write because i relate so strongly. but george, i have discovered the way to success. i am going to figure out a way to run cars and trains and robots with human loneliness (it’s renewable and my oh my, it’s everywhere!) and then i will save the world and be the first person ever to receive riches and recognition for social work.
also, sometime remind me to tell you about my new suitor, who comes into work and who is enormous and stands too close when she talks with me and who was recently fired from a grocery store because her pants kept falling down and exposing her crack and because she couldn’t gather the carts from the parking lot fast enough. and she loves new york and has written NEW YORK all over all her things with a magic marker. have i told you about her? she makes me so nervous and she keeps telling people i’m pretty and then i feel guilty laughing at her because she’s a person… oh god. and she’s the only person in the world who’s interested in me.
ok, write more so i can love it.
i miss you. (is it ok that i wrote a letter here?)
your faithful, mego
I love you!
So, reading the vaults of the Burman blog have left me near-tears with laughter, happy to get a window into your life, and so unproductive at work that if someone were to walk in here right now and ask me what I’ve done today I’d loose my job. It would we worth it (well, kinda). It sounds hard, but good for you (the nursing I mean). I’ll check back often.
Aaron
You wrote: “What do you do with unclaimed human beings? There’s no Potter’s Field for the living”. Ahhh, but there is a Potter’s Field for the living; it’s the next nursing home she will go to where no one will have time to try to reach her (or will care to try, one or the other) or the psych hospital ward she will wind up on; where she will languish until she “qualifies” for the actual Potter’s Field.