The Horror

Here's the song that I learned in the nursing home:

Blackjack was one of the residents that was we kept wedged tightly between two pillows on the communal sofa. When he was younger, Blackjack had been a hard-drinking chain-smoking gambler; now he was demented and completely blind.   Throughout the day, Blackjack would call out from the sofa, "Put me to bed! Put me to bed!" his blind, milky eyes staring straight ahead.

Sometimes he would summon the strength to push his frail, shaking body upright and stand there tottering, screaming, "Put me to bed! Put me to bed!" until a nurse or an aide ran up and sat him back down.

Mrs. Maines was wheelchair-bound. She crept around the halls by pushing her swollen purplish feet at the floor, inching along. One afternoon I heard her whisper, "C'mere. C'mere. C'mere."   She was watching me intently, making a beckoning gesture with her gnarled, age-spotted hand.  I bent down and she took my hand weakly.  I thought how lonely she must be, what a dreadful life this was for her.

As I was considering this, Mrs. Maines tugged my hand, up, up--to her open mouth full of broken, blackened teeth. 

She was trying to bite me!  In slow motion! 

I jerked back, aghast, and stared at her.

"C'mere," she whispered, beckoning. "C'mere. C'mere."

"Put me to bed! Put me to bed!"

"C'mere. C'mere. C'mere."

Hayden was a very sweet, childlike man with a severe mental illness. Years of anti-psychotic drugs had given him tardive dyskinesia; his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. His few words came out very loud and very wet, like a sadistic imitation of Yosemite Sam.

Hayden was obsessed with changing his clothes.  Sometimes he changed them ten times a day.   Since he lacked the fine motor skills necessary for buttons and zippers, he would wander the halls with his pants falling around his knees and his shirt hanging open. When he saw a staff member he liked, he would approach and say, "MA'AM? PBBBTHHHHHHH! MA'AM? PBBBTHHHHHHH!" saliva spraying with each, "PBBTHHHHHHH!"

He would gesture at his falling pants, indicating that he wanted them to zipped and buttoned.   At first I felt  awkward groping with a man's pants in the middle of a busy hallway with staff hurrying by and residents sitting everywhere. But after the sixth time in one day, my shyness vanished.

"Put me to bed! Put me to bed!"

"C'mere. C'mere. C'mere."

"MA'AM?PBBBTHHHHHHH! MA'AM?PBBBTHHHHHHH!"

Pauline had severe diabetes that had been poorly controlled for years. As a result, one leg had been amputated; she was nearly blind and had suffered a stroke.  Pauline sat in her wheelchair all day, like an obese one-legged idol, calling out plaintively: "Juice! Juice! Please! Juice! Juice!"

"Put me to bed! Put me to bed!"

"C'mere. C'mere. C'mere."

"MA'AM?PBBBTHHHHHHH! MA'AM?PBBBTHHHHHHH!"

"Juice! Juice! Please! Juice! Juice!"

One afternoon I was at the desk poking dispiritedly at paperwork when a resident approached. She had a some kind of mangy dead animal wrapped around her neck.  It must have died of rabies because it was biting its own tail. She leaned over the counter and said loudly, "I'M SUPPOSED TO BE LEAVING NOW. I NEED YOU TO CALL MY DAUGHTER. SHE IS COMING TO GET ME. YOU NEED TO GET MY THINGS TOGETHER. I'M GOING TO BE LEAVING NOW."

I dropped the papers.

I had never discharged anyone; I had no idea what the proper procedure might be. What was legally required to send a resident home with her family? Was she leaving for good, or just for an overnight visit?   As the only RN in the facility, I was supposed to have the answers, knowledge and education to handle this.

I was quite sure that I had all the liability.

I stood up, trying to think. The woman repeated, "IF YOU CALL MY DAUGHTER SHE WILL COME AND GET ME. I AM SUPPOSED TO BE LEAVING. YOU NEED TO GET MY THINGS TOGETHER."

Unable to think of anything else to do,  I started rooting around for her chart.  Maybe she went home regularly.  Maybe her daughter knew the proper papers, forms, etc. that she needed to sign to take her mom home. 

The woman reached her hand out, urgent.  "I NEED YOU TO GET MY THINGS TOGETHER. MY DAUGHTER IS COMING FOR ME.  I AM GOING TO BE LEAVING NOW."

She was obviously extremely hard of hearing, so I nodded and smiled and waved.

I found the chart.    It was covered in red tape.  The tape was criss-crossed over the front, back and spine.  And there were words written on the tape, over and over, on each strip were the words, "DO NOT CALL PATIENT'S DAUGHTER".

"Put me to bed! Put me to bed!"

"C'mere. C'mere. C'mere."

"MA'AM?PBBBTHHHHHHH! MA'AM?PBBBTHHHHHHH!"

"Juice! Juice! Please! Juice! Juice!"

"MY DAUGHTER IS COMING FOR ME. YOU NEED TO GET MY THINGS TOGETHER. MY DAUGHTER IS COMING FOR ME."

11 minutes before my shift ended, someone touched my arm. I lunged back violently, like an abused animal anticipating the worst.  Mrs. Maines had already snuck up on me twice that day, pulling weakly at my sleeve, trying to get some part of me into her mouth.

This time it was a old lady with hair dyed a shade of red incompatible with life.  Since she wasn't trying to bite me, I steadied my breathing and tried to recall that I was a nurse.

The woman stood there, looking soulfully into my eyes.  Then, she shook her head and said sadly, "I love you even though you've turned against me."

The horror. The horror.