You may recall Lola's last appearance in regards to copious amounts of Tim Tam chocolate biscuits. A few weeks later Lola had a fall in the dining room. She hit her head and was bleeding, so an ambulance took her to hospital. We then didn't see Lola for about two months. I wondered what could have been wrong. (I never did find out, but then, elderly people tend to get kept in hospital for extra days just because. Doctors probably assume that they don't get any care once they leave.) It's relatively common for a resident to go to hospital on an emergency trip and then just never return - not that they die, but they either stay on for months there or go to rehabilitation to relearn to walk, or go to respite care in a nursing home until they get their strength back, or they get a permanent nursing home bed. Their dinner-table seat sits there, empty, with the kitchen staff vaguely aware that they've gone for good. And Lola was gone for so long that she became one of the ones we sorta didn't expect to return.
So one day as I did the rounds, I got a huge shock to find Lola sitting quietly and expectantly in her chair, waiting for her soup. "Oh, Lola!" I exclaimed, "it's so good to see you! You look great!"
She smiled demurely and nodded her thanks, and said, "It's good to see you too!" And we were just smiling at each other for a moment, and I thought everything was good again, since people returning from hospital usually seem to be in better shape than when they left. And she really did look well. Her skin was glowing and she looked more alert, she had a nice outfit on, and a little makeup, and she looked infinitely more healthy than I could remember her ever looking. The time in hospital had been very good to her. And then suddenly she added, "Where have I been that you haven't seen me?"
It took me a second to recover, and realise that she didn't remember two months in hospital. I managed to mumble that I'd been busy and had time off work. Beside her, Mara was smirking a self-satisfied grin at my expense. Lola finished her food in record time and was gone before dessert. As I handed out jelly and ice-cream, Mara had a conspiratory whisper ready for me. "Dennis told her earlier that he was glad she was back from hospital," she began. "Lola thanked him for his concern, then politely told him she hadn't been to the hospital and she was quite fine, thank you." Before I could react, she had started her next bit of news. "And her son has been to visit her," she intoned.
"He brought her a bunch of flowers, and a packet of Tim Tams."
Showing posts with label Dennis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dennis. Show all posts
Sunday, March 27, 2011
If the shoe fits...
Dennis had a recent fall, and his wrist got sprained, so he has it in a bandage. Because of this, the carers have been helping him dress each morning. Most residents can do everything for themselves, but if they have been sick, etc, the carers will shower and dress them. Carlotta was in the kitchen one morning and found out that the carer on duty hadn't bothered to help Dennis, so she went up to his room and found him struggling to get himself ready for lunch. She told me this story about dressing Dennis.
As she said to me at the time, raising five children is no different to dressing older people, and these are just grown up small children. (I don't think I've heard it said that way, but I get the idea.) So she helped him dress and came back to serve morning tea.
When she saw me, she said, "Remind me to talk to the carer about Dennis. I think his foot is swollen. It was hard to get his shoe on." Of course, we were busy with scones and coffee, so we both forgot. But later on at lunch, Dennis was suddenly calling Carlotta towards him, and he held his left shoe in one hand. It was then that she remembered the swollen foot, and wondered if he had somehow hurt it more.
"Now, Lottie, I want to talk to you about my shoe!" he exclaimed. Carlotta walked over and listened to see what was wrong with his foot.
"This morning, you helped me with my shoes!" And Dennis paused again. If you want to talk to Dennis, you need a lot of time. Everything he says is measured and carefully planned. And slow.
"And this shoe, you had trouble getting it on!" Carlotta looked at his foot for any signs of swelling, but the socked foot looked just fine. "And I was walking to lunch, and I thought, 'Gee, something is hurting my foot there!' "
At this point the suspense was killing Carlotta. "Dennis, did you hurt your foot? It was very hard to get your shoe on, but we managed to push hard and get it on."
"Well, Lottie, that's what I wanted to talk to you about!" continued Dennis. "Something was hurting my foot when you pushed it on! But you were talking to me, so I was distracted, and I forgot to tell you that it was hurting when you were pushing the shoe on. You're a strong girl, Lottie. And then I was walking to morning tea, and I thought, 'Gee, something is hurting my foot!' And then I came to lunch, and it was still hurting, so I just took it off here, and see what I found!"
Dennis reached into his shoe and pulled out a bunch of housekeys. He had put them in there so that he would stop leaving them at home by mistake. Carlotta just stood there, wondering how someone could walk with keys in their shoe and put up with it for more than two hours.
And probably wondering how someone could get distracted enough by a mundane conversation, to forget to tell someone that it hurts like hell as they're manhandling your foot into a shoe full of keys.
As she said to me at the time, raising five children is no different to dressing older people, and these are just grown up small children. (I don't think I've heard it said that way, but I get the idea.) So she helped him dress and came back to serve morning tea.
When she saw me, she said, "Remind me to talk to the carer about Dennis. I think his foot is swollen. It was hard to get his shoe on." Of course, we were busy with scones and coffee, so we both forgot. But later on at lunch, Dennis was suddenly calling Carlotta towards him, and he held his left shoe in one hand. It was then that she remembered the swollen foot, and wondered if he had somehow hurt it more.
"Now, Lottie, I want to talk to you about my shoe!" he exclaimed. Carlotta walked over and listened to see what was wrong with his foot.
"This morning, you helped me with my shoes!" And Dennis paused again. If you want to talk to Dennis, you need a lot of time. Everything he says is measured and carefully planned. And slow.
"And this shoe, you had trouble getting it on!" Carlotta looked at his foot for any signs of swelling, but the socked foot looked just fine. "And I was walking to lunch, and I thought, 'Gee, something is hurting my foot there!' "
At this point the suspense was killing Carlotta. "Dennis, did you hurt your foot? It was very hard to get your shoe on, but we managed to push hard and get it on."
"Well, Lottie, that's what I wanted to talk to you about!" continued Dennis. "Something was hurting my foot when you pushed it on! But you were talking to me, so I was distracted, and I forgot to tell you that it was hurting when you were pushing the shoe on. You're a strong girl, Lottie. And then I was walking to morning tea, and I thought, 'Gee, something is hurting my foot!' And then I came to lunch, and it was still hurting, so I just took it off here, and see what I found!"
Dennis reached into his shoe and pulled out a bunch of housekeys. He had put them in there so that he would stop leaving them at home by mistake. Carlotta just stood there, wondering how someone could walk with keys in their shoe and put up with it for more than two hours.
And probably wondering how someone could get distracted enough by a mundane conversation, to forget to tell someone that it hurts like hell as they're manhandling your foot into a shoe full of keys.
Dennis has good eyesight
I think Dennis has only been mentioned once before, in passing. He's a lovely old man, emphasis on the "old" part. Before his retirement he was a chairman of a very prosperous bank. Almost none of the residents have any idea. Dennis lives in Barrett House, in a one bedroom apartment devoid of anything luxurious. I would not call Dennis' flat uncomfortable; it's just evident when you look, that for someone who is very wealthy, the place is simple. He's somewhere in his nineties and walks with a limp and a cane.
Dennis has incredibly bad hearing. I don't think he wears a hearing aid of any description. And he must know his hearing is terrible, just from the many times he has to ask us to repeat something. He's perfectly sane; as with many old people there are occasional forgetful moments of course, but he still bears the mark of a very intelligent soul.
Whenever there's a movie being shown, Dennis and the other deaf residents are always placed close to the surround-sound speakers at the sides of the Royale's lounge room. One week there was a special treat for the residents. Two regular performers were coming back to do a show. It's a husband and wife team that sing and play the electric keyboards, and they have a repertoire of golden oldie songs and musical pieces that all the residents seem to love. Each time they do a "concert" the residents spend three days talking about the fabulous show and all the songs they sung, and "do you remember going to the theatre to see that show back in 1939," etc.
Dennis sat right in front of the massive loud speakers for this latest concert, so that we could be sure he would hear. Iris sat right at the front so she could see, and so on. The male singer, Charlie, walked up to a few residents after the show. "So ladies, gentlemen, how were we today?"
Gushing praise and acclimation followed. "I thought it was terrific!" exclaimed Dennis. Charlie took a moment to look deservedly chuffed as the others poured more praise onto he and Janet, his wife. Dennis' next statement might have been amusing if it had been said in jest. Unfortunately, he was completely serious and didn't grasp the humour in what he said at all.
"Of course," Dennis continued, "I couldn't hear a thing!"
Charlie didn't quite know what to say. It's not every day that a singer is told he's only terrific when he can't be heard.
Dennis has incredibly bad hearing. I don't think he wears a hearing aid of any description. And he must know his hearing is terrible, just from the many times he has to ask us to repeat something. He's perfectly sane; as with many old people there are occasional forgetful moments of course, but he still bears the mark of a very intelligent soul.
Whenever there's a movie being shown, Dennis and the other deaf residents are always placed close to the surround-sound speakers at the sides of the Royale's lounge room. One week there was a special treat for the residents. Two regular performers were coming back to do a show. It's a husband and wife team that sing and play the electric keyboards, and they have a repertoire of golden oldie songs and musical pieces that all the residents seem to love. Each time they do a "concert" the residents spend three days talking about the fabulous show and all the songs they sung, and "do you remember going to the theatre to see that show back in 1939," etc.
Dennis sat right in front of the massive loud speakers for this latest concert, so that we could be sure he would hear. Iris sat right at the front so she could see, and so on. The male singer, Charlie, walked up to a few residents after the show. "So ladies, gentlemen, how were we today?"
Gushing praise and acclimation followed. "I thought it was terrific!" exclaimed Dennis. Charlie took a moment to look deservedly chuffed as the others poured more praise onto he and Janet, his wife. Dennis' next statement might have been amusing if it had been said in jest. Unfortunately, he was completely serious and didn't grasp the humour in what he said at all.
"Of course," Dennis continued, "I couldn't hear a thing!"
Charlie didn't quite know what to say. It's not every day that a singer is told he's only terrific when he can't be heard.
The firemen visit
I have learned...
...that a REALLY REALLY LOUD fire alarm is of little use when so many residents are deaf.
It went off this morning at about 8am. We all ran out to find out whether it actually was our property and yep, it was us. No info in the personal care room... no idea what to do really, so I called my aunt at home, who called the manager for me while I rang the fire brigade. I called them mainly to ask about evacuation (it's something of a pain in the backside when you have so many elderly residents, some of whom are unable to walk very far unassisted). The firey remarked with surprise that the back-to-base alarm had not activated at his end. (Disturbing, but it's because there wasn't one.) No smoke anywhere so we were pretty clueless as to what was happening.
And so began the fun of getting them all out of their rooms. I ran to about the first five, knocked, barged in, and told each of them just to come out their front doors so that we knew they weren't inside. Almost none of them had heard the alarm. Those that had heard something hadn't thought to find out what it was, or hadn't clicked that a fire alarm means "get out". Sigh.
I then found that some of the other staff weren't helping me. What the HELL? One was sitting and eating cereal. Another one was setting the dining tables. Good luck to the residents if the building goes up in smoke one day... don't worry, the tables will be set and the staff's stomachs will be full while people die. I managed to get them to help, and I am still surprised that I had to *ask*.
Dennis has a broken arm; Marjorie had a fall yesterday and is wobbly; Mrs Xu had not heard the alarm and had no idea what I wanted (with almost no English) so I managed to explain that she had to sit outside, and when she came out she heard the alarm and finally understood what I wanted. I walked in on one lady on the toilet (door open wide, the poor thing was in a terrible hurry). Two of them were showering. The second one, Pete, was stark naked when I walked into his bedroom. He had the good humour to laugh at my embarrassment.
By this stage the fireys had arrived and residents had congregated on the balconies to watch the "show" as eight of them walked in with gas tanks and wearing full paraphernalia. The fire engine followed them (we're on a long driveway off a back laneway). The fireys all marched around all purpose-like while 30 sets of elderly eyes followed them with keen interest. It was all very entertaining for an otherwise boring Sunday morning. The "terrible fire" was determined to be the shower of the gentleman I'd walked in on, but nobody knew how to turn off the alarm. It's a good thing the manager called me on my mobile just then, to tell the fireys how to disable it ;)
So, no fire. What a let-down! Still, it's better than actually trying to get all those people down to the ground floor if there actually had been a fire that was moving with any speed. Celia (the manager) told me that the alarm went off a week ago too, and that there was a new system going in over the next month. Thank goodness for that.
Once we realised all was good, I started letting the residents know they could go back to their rooms. But they stayed right where they were, despite the rather frosty air (probably about 10 degrees C, which to an elderly person is Arctic). Nora, who is a miniature chainsmoker whose room constantly oozes cigarette smoke, remarked, "They're strapping young men, aren't they?" and leered at them over her balcony. I attempted to make small talk about needing to be fit to climb ladders, but it became apparent their ladder-climbing skill wasn't what she was interested in. When I got back to the kitchen to try something mundane, another staff member was giggling madly. "Ester is perving on the firemen," she said. As I write this, I'm finding this difficult to believe. Ester is the sweetest, perfect 'little old lady' type person, and here she is, starring in two perve anecdotes in a row. I would sooner imagine her baking scones and bottling home-made jam.
"They're all still standing out there and talking about how handsome they are and the great bodies they have. And how they thought that firemen were supposed to be in red suits, not yellow. But how they're very handsome young men anyway who are welcome to visit any Sunday they please. And then they started discussing whether anyone knew how to set the fire alarm off next week."
...that a REALLY REALLY LOUD fire alarm is of little use when so many residents are deaf.
It went off this morning at about 8am. We all ran out to find out whether it actually was our property and yep, it was us. No info in the personal care room... no idea what to do really, so I called my aunt at home, who called the manager for me while I rang the fire brigade. I called them mainly to ask about evacuation (it's something of a pain in the backside when you have so many elderly residents, some of whom are unable to walk very far unassisted). The firey remarked with surprise that the back-to-base alarm had not activated at his end. (Disturbing, but it's because there wasn't one.) No smoke anywhere so we were pretty clueless as to what was happening.
And so began the fun of getting them all out of their rooms. I ran to about the first five, knocked, barged in, and told each of them just to come out their front doors so that we knew they weren't inside. Almost none of them had heard the alarm. Those that had heard something hadn't thought to find out what it was, or hadn't clicked that a fire alarm means "get out". Sigh.
I then found that some of the other staff weren't helping me. What the HELL? One was sitting and eating cereal. Another one was setting the dining tables. Good luck to the residents if the building goes up in smoke one day... don't worry, the tables will be set and the staff's stomachs will be full while people die. I managed to get them to help, and I am still surprised that I had to *ask*.
Dennis has a broken arm; Marjorie had a fall yesterday and is wobbly; Mrs Xu had not heard the alarm and had no idea what I wanted (with almost no English) so I managed to explain that she had to sit outside, and when she came out she heard the alarm and finally understood what I wanted. I walked in on one lady on the toilet (door open wide, the poor thing was in a terrible hurry). Two of them were showering. The second one, Pete, was stark naked when I walked into his bedroom. He had the good humour to laugh at my embarrassment.
By this stage the fireys had arrived and residents had congregated on the balconies to watch the "show" as eight of them walked in with gas tanks and wearing full paraphernalia. The fire engine followed them (we're on a long driveway off a back laneway). The fireys all marched around all purpose-like while 30 sets of elderly eyes followed them with keen interest. It was all very entertaining for an otherwise boring Sunday morning. The "terrible fire" was determined to be the shower of the gentleman I'd walked in on, but nobody knew how to turn off the alarm. It's a good thing the manager called me on my mobile just then, to tell the fireys how to disable it ;)
So, no fire. What a let-down! Still, it's better than actually trying to get all those people down to the ground floor if there actually had been a fire that was moving with any speed. Celia (the manager) told me that the alarm went off a week ago too, and that there was a new system going in over the next month. Thank goodness for that.
Once we realised all was good, I started letting the residents know they could go back to their rooms. But they stayed right where they were, despite the rather frosty air (probably about 10 degrees C, which to an elderly person is Arctic). Nora, who is a miniature chainsmoker whose room constantly oozes cigarette smoke, remarked, "They're strapping young men, aren't they?" and leered at them over her balcony. I attempted to make small talk about needing to be fit to climb ladders, but it became apparent their ladder-climbing skill wasn't what she was interested in. When I got back to the kitchen to try something mundane, another staff member was giggling madly. "Ester is perving on the firemen," she said. As I write this, I'm finding this difficult to believe. Ester is the sweetest, perfect 'little old lady' type person, and here she is, starring in two perve anecdotes in a row. I would sooner imagine her baking scones and bottling home-made jam.
"They're all still standing out there and talking about how handsome they are and the great bodies they have. And how they thought that firemen were supposed to be in red suits, not yellow. But how they're very handsome young men anyway who are welcome to visit any Sunday they please. And then they started discussing whether anyone knew how to set the fire alarm off next week."
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