At dinner Monday night Lynne was lackluster, listening to music on her headphones and verbalizing a few verses with her lips. She ignored her plate of gravy, beef, noodles and green beans, so I stabbed a bite of beef with a noodle which she let me put into her mouth. She let me feed her every bite. Staff gave both of us a slice of carrot cake for dessert with my own fork.
We walked to her apartment to watch TV, but after we watched repeated ads of Medicare Plan C, she said, “I can’t stand this,” and left the room. We laughed when we danced a little bit. We walked the halls as she went through multiple moods with tears, pushing me away, shouting at me, then smiling, focused, following me in and out of her apartment. She says, “I hate this place.” I tell her “Lynne you are safe here. Everyone loves you.”
Finally, I turned her over to the nurse who said she had had a pretty good day, but she’d get her ready for bed. As I slipped out the door to the stairs, I heard her in the hallway sobbing and yelling, “What did I doooooo?”
That yell drove me to the edge of despair. What could I do? I had not helped her. I felt helpless. I expected and hoped she would switch moods again. And the nurse would help her, even sedate her. I closed the door and walked down the stairs. Her cry kept haunting me.
When I returned late that night, the caregivers said she had a pretty good night. They had the pack and headphones ready for me instead of having to look for them as we often do. With those readily available, them watching me feed her, offering me cake and my own fork, and now their assuring me they calmed her down, I felt like we were a team to give her care in this more depressing part of our journey. Her determination inspires us all