Sensitivity Training Programs for Caregivers of People with Dementia: Part 2
Part Two:
Goggled, Hobbled, Isolated by Headphones, I Am Guided Forward
We finally reached the top step. The woman holding my elbow didn’t have much to say. I was hungry for the sound of an unfiltered human voice, but I had to concentrate so hard on climbing the steps, as my sight was distorted by the goggles, that I probably wouldn’t have heard much, anyway. Besides, these headphones were isolating.
We passed through a doorway. Two other women were in a large room. They must have been aides. One aide stood beside a young woman in a wheelchair, likely one of the staff going through training. It was obvious they were waiting for me.
An aide pushed a wheelchair toward me, mentioning “the one in the black pants.” I was wearing black jeans.
“This one’s hospice?” she briskly asked the woman who brought me in.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll put her in this chair,” the woman said. “No one who uses this chair lives long, anyway.”
I think the woman who brought me in, left. I never thought I’d miss my silent partner, but I felt abandoned here with these strangers.
One aide said: “Did she do anything? Work anywhere? Know anything about her?”
The second aide said: “I think she worked at a newspaper.”
“Well, we need a nickname for her even though she won’t last long,” the first aide said. “Look at her. Not much to her. Let’s call her Nosey. People who work at newspapers are nosey.”
“That or Snoopy,” the other one said.
“Snoopy. Nosey. Pretty much the same,” the first one said. “Don’t know what it is about that chair, but people sitting in it always die fast.”
They Put Me in the Chair Where People Die
One aide was on each side of me now. They tied my arms snugly to the arms of the chair. They lifted my popcorn filled shoes up to the chair’s footrest. At least my feet felt better.
Then the chair began shaking side to side. “This chair needs fixing,” the aide behind me said. “See, it wiggles.” Once more, she shook the chair rapidly, side to side.
One aide called out: “We’ve got a couple of feeders here!”
She pushed me in my chair, enthusiastically wiggling it as we went, nearly side-swiping a wall in the process. She deposited me at a table. All the while, she was chatting with her co-worker about the “bad luck chair,” and how nosy newspaper people are, and how I wouldn’t last long.
The table was uncomfortably high for me — I couldn’t see anything but shadows through the bug-eyed goggles. I couldn’t move my arms since they were tied down.
The aides’ talk was muffled by my headgear, but audible, and the pair kept on chatting about their plans for the weekend.
“Man, will this shift ever end?” one of them said. “I can hardly wait to get out of here.”
“Seems like forever. I’ve worked three doubles in the last two weeks,” the other one said.
Feeding the Helpless
Suddenly, something was pushed into my mouth. I didn’t see it coming because of the blacked-out circles on the goggles. It was a spoon with something pasty – pudding probably. A glop was trailing down my chin.
Before I could swallow, the same spoon was pushed into my mouth again, this time with something drippy. Some kind of salty broth? Not sure. I didn’t like it and was trying to choke it down when another spoon of something went in, pureed meat, I think, followed by liquid from a cup.
Food was all around my mouth and dripping off my chin. I wanted to scream: “Stop! I can’t do this anymore! I’m going to be sick.” Yet, I had no voice.
I felt utterly helpless against these two. I wanted only to have my face wiped off. Gluey stuff covered my chin and smeared my cheeks. Liquid trickled down toward my neck. They continued to talk about their lives while shoving food in my face. I’m assuming another woman was being fed, too, but I couldn’t see her.
My arms were part of the chair, immobile. They didn’t seem to belong to me. Stuff was drying on my face. I was getting close to breaking through the act, as I didn’t think I could take it anymore, when the aide finally said, “I think this one’s full. How about yours?”
Why am I called “yours” like I’m a thing? I have a name!
“Yeah, she’s full, too,” the other aide said.
“Whew, someone stinks. Is it yours?” my aide said.
The woman sniffed and said no. Then my aide pushed me forward in the chair and sniffed. “Eeew! It’s her. What a mess. Poop. Now I get to clean that up. I hate cleaning up poop. Yuck…
Continue reading on HealthCentral for the rest of Part Two of my awareness training:
Helpful Tools:
Wetness indicator and alert to help manage incontinence with dignity. SenecaSense Home: Discreet Support That Restores Comfort and Confidence
Stay connected with Memoryboard: Designed by caregivers. Memoryboard helps families share reminders, messages, updates, and photos on an easy-to-use screen designed for people with dementia. Peace of mind for families, independence for loved ones.
Leslie Kernisan, MD, MPH, has opened up support! View two free caregiving webinars that can help you help your older parents (and yourself).
Discover the Difference. EGOSAN: The premium incontinence brand caregivers love: They save work! Now Available on Amazon.
Minding Our Elders: Caregivers Share Their Personal Stories: “…This book is for all of us; let it help you cope! Thank you to the author and everyone she spoke with!” …Dolores
