There was Ralph, who thought we had worked together, building the nursing home long ago. "We did a hell of a job," he would say, sizing up the light fixtures.Some may say I should've oriented him to the present. Poor fellow was lost in his own world, the sad result of Dementia. Why should I make him angry and even more frustrated? He really believed we had worked together just as I believe the sky is blue. So Validation Therapy worked best for him.
There was Mrs. Pipp, 97 years old and still flirting. She always liked my dimples and often commented "If I was sixty years younger!." as she batted her eyes. She reminded me nearly once a week that she was a distant cousin of the old time ballplayer Wally Pipp. Pipp was best known for losing his starting first base job to the immortal Lou Gehrig. "He was before my time," she said with a wink in her eye. "Now that's old!"
Meghan was only in her twenties but was with us for care after a tragic car accident. And Jake was a die-hard Eagles fan, who shared stories of greats like Chuck Bednarik and Norm Van Brocklin and Greasy Neale whenever I visited.
But perhaps the resident I most fondly remember from my Center days, someone who I still try to visit, is a guy named Pete.
I remember admitting Pete. He was one of my first admissions when I started working on the unit. We were undergoing major renovations and I recall doing the initial paperwork, such as signing admission forms, doing a Social History and going over Residents Rights with Pete's father as construction workers drilled and sawed outside the office.
Pete was only in his 40s. He sustained significant brain injuries from substance abuse over the years. Pete did everything from alcohol to hard-core drugs like cocaine. The abuse basically fried his brain. He was left with a major short-term memory deficit.
His father tried looking after him but Pete was a wanderer and often ended up lost in the neighborhood, oblivious to traffic. Since his dad was up there in age and dealing with his own health issues, reluctantly Pete was admitted to our facility.
When I first met Pete I expected him to be this angry guy who might try to wander out of the building, fighting every inch of the way. Instead I met the nicest, most gentle guy I have ever met in my life.
Picture Pete as a young Brad Pitt. He was that handsome. He was old-school polite, thanking everyone over and over again, from the nurse who distributed his pills to the dietary girl who brought his lunch tray. "I taught him well,' his father said with pride.
Pete was an auto mechanic in his day, and a damn good one. He still liked to talk about cars, according to his dad, but he couldn't remember much about those times. He once held down a job, drove to work every morning and tried to support his family like any other guy his age. But now it was as though those days never existed. So much had happened since.
Instead of wandering, it was a chore getting Pete to leave his room. He tended to isolate himself, as he did at home, and it would be a challenge to motivate him and offer him activities to keep busy. It had to be hard, living so close to people who were forty, fifty years older, with not much in common. We tried to match a good roommate with Pete, and after several tries, we finally hit on Oliver, also a younger guy, with muscular dystrophy. They got along well. Actually, Pete got along with everyone.
Pete was content with laying on top of his bed, watching television all day. His father brought him in an old black and white set. I was amazed it was still working. Like I said, they were old-school.
Every time I wheeled by his room to make my rounds Pete would greet me with a big, "Greg, my man! How ya' doing?" We would shake hands as if we hadn't seen each other in years. Even though Pete suffered from short-term memory loss he always remembered my name. I would continue my rounds, making the loop around the unit. As I passed by Pete's room once again (Pete had the bed by the door; Oliver was happy near the window), he noticed me, sat up in bed as he extended a hand. "Greg, my man! How ya' doing?"
He had absolutely no memory that we had spoken only five minutes earlier. It was like the movie "Groundhog Day."
He didn't care for newspapers or reading. He liked to talk, especially about music. Heavy Medal was his favorite, but you would never know it by his clean-cut looks. Pete could tell you anything you ever wanted to know about rock groups like "Iron Maiden", "Whitesnake" or " Black Sabbath." I thoguht "Whitesnake" was a reptile, so I nodded and replied, 'Oh, yes, I heard something about Ozzy Osbourne and live bats."
I remembered he liked cars, and I tried to keep up with his conversation. I still didn't drive, so when he mentioned old hot rods he loved to restore, or talked about carburetors, I was the one without a clue.
Occasionally Pete would venture out of his room to the unit for meals. The staff noticed how kind he was to the older adults, often helping them wheel through the maze of wheelchairs and walkers to the dining room. He never got upset with residents who were confused or crying for no apparent reason. Instead he would console them with a friendly smile or a pat on the shoulder. "You'll be okay,' was his typical answer. "Don't worry about it."
It was like having St. Francis of Assisi on the unit.
Pete's father couldn't take care of himself any longer so he was admitted to our assisted living section of the building. He settled into a comfy apartment on the first floor and I would escort Pete down to see his dad whenever he wanted. Sometimes they would have lunch together, and I would coordinate having Pete's tray delivered downstairs. Their meetings were met with mixed results. His dad was always glad to see Pete. "Are you behavin'?" Dad would ask gently. "Sure, Pop," Pete would reply. "You know I always do."
When I returned an hour later to take Pete back to North Six They would hug, the father with tears in his eyes. Pete was pretty oblivious to parting, looking forward to getting back to his room and his bed.
There were times, however, when I would make my rounds before leaving and I would gaze in and see Pete wiping his eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. He may have been thinking of his dad, or maybe his wife and two small children who had returned to Puerto Rico after Pete drifted into a coma from an overdose. Who knew if Pete would ever gain consciousness? Meanwhile his young wife took the children back to her homeland where her mother could help care for the kids.
Pete miraculously woke up one morning, to the delight of his dad and his two older sisters. No one could handle his confusion, plus his family, informed of his condition, decided to remain in Puerto Rico. So he entered the nursing home.
Sad on all accounts. If Pete hid his emotions and wept silently in his room, who could blame him? Not all of his memories were pleasant. Some things were better left forgotten.
On his bulletin board in his room, like most residents, Pete had a Bingo card which he filled in daily, a few greeting cards left over from his last birthday or Christmas, and several pictures of his children. He didn't see his kids for several years , but they wrote to him and sent the latest school photos. Pete rarely talked about his family. Either he didn't remember or he didn't want to remember. Not that he didn't love his family; his eyes would grow red when a nurse would comment, "Wow Pete, your kids are getting big!"
"Yeah, they are," he replied, smiling and staring at the photos which filled his board.
He loved his family. It was just easier not to think of them.
When Pete's father died a year later, Pete attended the funeral. His sisters commented how nice he looked in his new gray suit. They hardly saw him wearing anything but t-shirts and sweatpants.
Pete returned to the Center that afternoon and again seemed calm. The staff monitored him for signs of depression. He quietly grieved in his own way, politely refusing to see the staff psychologist. How much did he really remember and comprehend was anybody's guess.
His sisters assumed Power of Attorney and were good to their kid brother, finally upgrading his television to color ( which astounded Pete) and taking him home occasionally for visits. They worried he wouldn't want to come back but the Center was his home now and he knew it. There was never a problem.
Two things helped Pete come out of his room more often: video games and Milky Way chocolate bars.
Paulette, our Activities aide on the unit, thought an old Wii game system might be good exercise for the residents. So once a week one could find about ten or so residents playing video games like Bowling, Tennis or Golf on the Wii. The games were pretty simple to play, perfect for our more active residents. It was challenging and brought out the competitive juices in all. Maybe someone never played a round of golf before, or maybe they missed being in their weekly bowling league. Not only was it good exercise, it was fun.
Pete tried the games and grew addicted, this time in a good way. He became a master player at Wii, especially bowling, where he excelled at throwing perfect game upon perfect game. Pretty soon word got around the other units about Pete's 300 games and matches were set up between Pete and the best players through out the facility. All in good fun. And even if Pete lost a match he always took it in stride.
The lone Wii machine was shared by the units, so when it was our turn to host it on Six, Pete was in his glory. In fact, the nurses had to shut it down at 2 a.m. when Pete, sitting in his pajamas in the darkened dining room, was practicing by himself.
Pete never had a problem with his appetite. He generally ate whatever was sent up on his tray. When one sister brought him a box of Milky Way candy bars for his birthday ( his favorite ), we suggested he keep one or two bars in his bedside stand and allow the nurses to lock up the rest at the nurses station. Otherwise Pete would consume the entire box- we are talking eight chocolate bars- all in one sitting. It was an oddity about his condition after the coma- Pete tended to overdo most things in his new life, be it playing the Wii for eight hours straight or eating eight candy bars at once- he couldn't stop himself.
Generally once a week it was my pleasure for several years to take Pete to the facility Gift Shop to purchase a Milky Way. We would scan the entire snack section until he found the Milky Way bars. His face would light up, with a big grin on his face as he paid the cashier and we headed back to the elevator. Little things like that meant so much to Pete.
I learned a lot from Pete, as I had from Teddy years before. I admired his grace and kindness under difficult circumstances. Those emotions had nothing to do with his abuse or coma.That was Pete. His late father said his son, despite the substance abuse and various other problems in life, never failed to be a nice guy. I had a feeling he would always remain a kind soul with a good heart.
Years later, on my last day at the Center, I wheeled to his room to say goodbye. It would be hard to say so long to Pete, and I didn't want it to be a sad visit. So when I told him I was retiring he didn't quite get it.
"Oh, you're going on vacation?" he said, smiling. "Have a great time!"
"No, my friend, I'm retiring today," I said, probably feeling worse then he did.
"Well, have fun!: he answered with his typical cheerfulness. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Why fight it?
"Keep playing your Bowling," I said. "Heidi ( the daytime charge nurse on the unit) said she will take you down to the Gift Shop for your Milky Way every week."
He got a DVD player that Christmas from his sisters, so I would let him borrow a few movies from time to time. With the Wii and Milky Ways we didn't worry about Pete isolating himself in his room anymore.In fact, he was in the middle of watching an old Arnold Schwarzenegger action flick when I stopped by to bid my farewell.
"Okay, buddy," he said, paying more attention to the movie."I'll see you tomorrow."
I waved so long, slipping away, determined to visit when I could. Sad to think that Pete was young enough to spend the next thirty or forty years at the facility, maybe even in the same room. I lobbied the staff not to move him in the future unless it was an emergency. Keeping the same routine was important for Pete. Only I wouldn't be there any longer to fight for him.
Still, as I pressed the number 1 in the elevator for the final time and the door shut on North Six, I knew Pete would survive, taking things in stride like always. And I knew, whenever I could visit in the future, Pete would be there waiting.
So, my duties in Admissions soon faded away as I became the caseworker on Six, helping to care for Pete and many other residents for the next ten years.I could never ask for a better gig until that fateful day when I said bye to Pete and all my other friends, my last official day as a social worker.
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