The residents in the village have fairly active social lives. It's a great thing, and something I'm trying to make more people aware of - there are far too many older people remaining in their huge family homes, unable to cook and clean for themselves properly, and camped alone in front of the tv, with only daytime soap stars for company.
Contrast that to our village. The less active among them head into the communal lounge areas, or meet in each others' apartments for a cup of tea and a catch-up. Even the meal times are a social event. Nobody is ever lonely in this place unless they want to be.
A few people socialise outside the village, and it's mainly the younger, fitter ones. Ted puts a bet on the horses now and then, and toddles off to church every Sunday. Ransa is a regular volunteer of some sort (I'm not sure where, but she mentions "reading to the ladies", so perhaps it's a nursing home). We always know when Elsie is going out for the day, because she will refuse to drink any liquids at breakfast time. Wouldn't want to have to locate a public toilet during an errand, would we?
Doris, the amputee, should probably be one person who doesn't venture far. But she is a real social butterfly. She has a veritable army of friends who are either visiting for Sunday lunch, or taking her out for coffee. Her favourite café is one in a neighbouring suburb; I know which one, because she brings me their home-made chocolates after every outing there.
Then we have the bus trips. Once a month we book a bus and take them on some outing. The destinations are always somewhere obscure or else sound boring - the only way to gather interest is to take them somewhere they haven't been, and everyone has been to see most local tourist attractions over the course of the last 75 years.
One month they were going to see some heritage garden, then heading for a picnic on a beach boardwalk. Yawn yawn, so I wasn't too upset that I had to stay at the village while Carlotta got to go. The morning was a hectic foodfight in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches to go, thermoses of coffee, and all manner of takeaway delicacies in plastic containers.
By contrast, once the bus left, the place was quiet and very calm. Lunch was a sandwich platter - no messing around with cutlery or desserts - all very cruisy and peaceful. Until the bus returned, and the chatter was like an electric current.
Nora had suffered a Terrible Accident, oh wasn't it terrible, did you see it? and was it terrible? and on and on and on went the village grapevine. I sought out Carlotta to get the scoop.
Nora, it emerged, had merely tripped up the bus stairs, right after the first stop. I don't make light of her injuries - she is old and frail, and took a large amount of skin from her shins, making quite a mess with the blood - but she would certainly survive. But the Oscar-winning performance was from dearest Marjorie, who happened to be sitting in the front seat and witnessed the calamity unfold.
Carlotta had been helping "herd" other residents towards the bus and didn't get to see the fall. The first she knew of it was the moan and the heap at the bottom of the bus door. And then Marjorie began her refrain. "She went down! Down like a sack of potatoes! It was awful! She looked just like a sack of potatoes!"
Marjorie, of course, promptly forgot what she'd seen. People were all discussing that Marjorie had witnessed the event, but when asked what happened to Nora, she just gave them a blank stare. It didn't matter how many people asked, she hadn't a clue what they were asking about. It was only later in the week that someone else commented they'd had a fall, "but not nearly as badly as poor Nora on the bus!", that Marjorie seemed to awaken.
"She went down! Down like a sack of potatoes!" yelled Marjorie from her solo spot at the corner table. "We're having baked potatoes for lunch today. That's what she looked like, just like a sack of potatoes."
Showing posts with label Marjorie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marjorie. Show all posts
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Spanish Chicken
Scene: Lounge room, 10am. Mrs Sanders is in there, staring at the silent TV, while the radio blares an unrelated noise beside it. I've found her in here in the past with only one or the other turned on. She becomes quite agitated, asking me to turn them both on, because "they work together". But today, they're both on, so she'll be fine.
I've become used to starting all interactions with her in a similar way. It tends to go over easier if you throw on an enormous smile and look thrilled to see her. So this is how I usually begin these days.
"Hello Sunshine! I've brought you some tea! And a biscuit!"
"Ohhh! Thank you pet!" (beams with happiness)
Skip forward a couple of hours, to lunch time. We always serve their lunch as they arrive, and then take orders for the following day. Every day there is a roast of some description, plus a casserole-type item as an alternative. No matter what they call it, it's casserole. But the word "casserole" seems to imply it's boring, so the caterers get creative. We have Navarin of Lamb (lamb and herb casserole), Meditteranean Chicken (chicken casserole), Beef Chasseure (beef casserole). You get the idea. It's more exotic and interesting if you change the word away from casserole, etc. For the less "refined" residents, foreign words in their food are completely useless, because they have no idea what we're offering. We usually translate it back from Mexican Pork Hot Pot to just plain old Casserole, for them. Marjorie is one of the ones I always translate it for.
So today I start like always, with a huge smile. "Hello Mrs Sanders!"
"Hello Pet!" (beams with happiness)
"Here's your lunch, Mrs Sanders."
"YOU CAN PUT IT THERE! (screaming, pointing to the floor) HE'S HOT! (motions to an apparently nasty person in the empty chair beside her)"
"Alright then, I'll put the plate here at this chair." (she grabs the plate and scowls.)
It's obviously almost Time for her visit to hospital. When she's like that we generally just try to appease her and keep her happy. Forward five minutes. I took her order last, considering she was in such a volatile mood.
"Mrs Sanders, would you like Pork Casserole or Spanish Roast Chicken for lunch tomorrow?"
"...SPANISH???!!!!!!!!!!!"
She was just furiously angry now. I stepped backwards. She's never ever indicated she might hit me or anyone else. It's just a conditioned reaction to expect violence from someone so angry, I guess.
Marjorie was spluttering and almost had steam coming out her ears. "The Spanish are in my wardrobe!!!!!!!!!!!" she yelled.
I was fairly confident that indicated her decision as being the Pork Casserole. Before I got a chance to simply tick that and move away, her face relaxed its fury and she took on a determined look.
...I'll have Spain."
I've become used to starting all interactions with her in a similar way. It tends to go over easier if you throw on an enormous smile and look thrilled to see her. So this is how I usually begin these days.
"Hello Sunshine! I've brought you some tea! And a biscuit!"
"Ohhh! Thank you pet!" (beams with happiness)
Skip forward a couple of hours, to lunch time. We always serve their lunch as they arrive, and then take orders for the following day. Every day there is a roast of some description, plus a casserole-type item as an alternative. No matter what they call it, it's casserole. But the word "casserole" seems to imply it's boring, so the caterers get creative. We have Navarin of Lamb (lamb and herb casserole), Meditteranean Chicken (chicken casserole), Beef Chasseure (beef casserole). You get the idea. It's more exotic and interesting if you change the word away from casserole, etc. For the less "refined" residents, foreign words in their food are completely useless, because they have no idea what we're offering. We usually translate it back from Mexican Pork Hot Pot to just plain old Casserole, for them. Marjorie is one of the ones I always translate it for.
So today I start like always, with a huge smile. "Hello Mrs Sanders!"
"Hello Pet!" (beams with happiness)
"Here's your lunch, Mrs Sanders."
"YOU CAN PUT IT THERE! (screaming, pointing to the floor) HE'S HOT! (motions to an apparently nasty person in the empty chair beside her)"
"Alright then, I'll put the plate here at this chair." (she grabs the plate and scowls.)
It's obviously almost Time for her visit to hospital. When she's like that we generally just try to appease her and keep her happy. Forward five minutes. I took her order last, considering she was in such a volatile mood.
"Mrs Sanders, would you like Pork Casserole or Spanish Roast Chicken for lunch tomorrow?"
"...SPANISH???!!!!!!!!!!!"
She was just furiously angry now. I stepped backwards. She's never ever indicated she might hit me or anyone else. It's just a conditioned reaction to expect violence from someone so angry, I guess.
Marjorie was spluttering and almost had steam coming out her ears. "The Spanish are in my wardrobe!!!!!!!!!!!" she yelled.
I was fairly confident that indicated her decision as being the Pork Casserole. Before I got a chance to simply tick that and move away, her face relaxed its fury and she took on a determined look.
...I'll have Spain."
Movie day
Every Sunday afternoon the residents have a Movie Day. This is a major social event. It is also one of the few times that anyone ever uses the Royale's lounge room, as it's the biggest of the four lounges. The residents congregate there and they show a DVD on the big screen tv. The movies are usually golden oldies, but occasionally they show popular mild modern movies, say, The Bridges of Madison County or whatever. Then they have tea and coffee and something exciting, like chocolate biscuits or scones, etc. It's an action-packed afternoon.
This anecdote I wasn't actually present for. It was related to me by Carlotta, who is a Tongan lady who works with me in the kitchen. Carlotta is reliability personified. She's worked there for fifteen years and all the residents love her. She knows what she's doing and nothing bothers her. She is also built like a professional weightlifter.
Apparently this Sunday, Marjorie took it upon herself to attend the movie. I'm not sure that she usually does, considering she'd have been just as happy alone in the other lounge, but I'm guessing one of the carers encouraged her to go. Marjorie has a walking frame (Zimmer) that I refer to as her car. She has told me emphatically several times that she can't walk without it. Indeed, she is a large heavy-set lady who is usually quite unsteady on her feet. A couple of times she's forgotten to bring it to dinner and I've had to rescue her as she's hung onto the doorway of the dining room. She's heavy, all right. It feels rather bizarre holding the arm of someone that you know you can never possibly stop from falling if they actually stumble.
The Royale building has a huge wrap-around verandah at the front, and about 15 stairs leading to its grand threshhold. Yes, you guessed it, Marjorie tried to take her walker up those stairs. The upshot of it is she got all the way to the top with the walker, but then tripped up the last couple of stairs, and fell forwards scraping her shins badly and ending in a heap on the verandah. Arabella and Caroline, two of the personal carers, found her there as they were bringing some of the other residents to the movie.
Arabella and Caroline are both of Chinese background and are studying here on student visas. That's common to almost every single carer: they are all from overseas, all under 21, and all students. Putting it into more accurate terms, Australians are lazy snobs and do not want to work in a service job. Cry foul all you like, it's the truth. There are 3 kitchen staff who are Australian (I'm the first) and the other two are semi-retired women in their 50s. Every time Celia has advertised for staff she has Chinese, Korean, and Indian people apply, and nobody else. Anyway, Arabella and Caroline are both tiny diminutive scraps of humanity. Truly lovely girls with hearts of gold, but a fresh breeze would blow them over. So they heaved and tugged and pulled, but there was no way on earth the two of them could get poor Marjorie to her feet, even when Marjorie was trying to help.
(I wish I'd been there just to see those two girls attempt to get her off the floor. It would have been hilarious.)
So as Marjorie sat there marooned on the verandah, one of them ran to get Carlotta to help. Even with Carlotta and her strong arms it was proving a difficult task. Carlotta said, "Why don't we swing her legs around and onto the second step, so that we can help her up that way?"
So they did that, but as they tried to help Marjorie up she started yelling. "I'm not going down there!" she screamed. "I want to go and see the movie! You can't make me go back down there! My walker is up here! I'm going this way!" and the woman who could not get herself off the floor used surprising strength to stop them spinning her around towards the stairs.
Ever tried reasoning with a 2 year old having a tantrum? I don't think this would have been far off. Marjorie told me it took them another fifteen minutes to calm her down and get her to cooperate. The movie was delayed. I've no idea whether Marjorie even knew what it was about, let alone enjoyed her day.
Marjorie's now showing everyone her battle scars. "I had a heavy fall yesterday!" she exclaims to anyone who'll listen, lifting her pants leg to reveal an assortment of bandages and sticking plasters. I made the mistake of replying, "Oh, you poor thing," when she told me... I was greeted with a furious, "I'M NOT POOR! I'M MRS SANDERS!!"
...Uh... yes. Of course.
This anecdote I wasn't actually present for. It was related to me by Carlotta, who is a Tongan lady who works with me in the kitchen. Carlotta is reliability personified. She's worked there for fifteen years and all the residents love her. She knows what she's doing and nothing bothers her. She is also built like a professional weightlifter.
Apparently this Sunday, Marjorie took it upon herself to attend the movie. I'm not sure that she usually does, considering she'd have been just as happy alone in the other lounge, but I'm guessing one of the carers encouraged her to go. Marjorie has a walking frame (Zimmer) that I refer to as her car. She has told me emphatically several times that she can't walk without it. Indeed, she is a large heavy-set lady who is usually quite unsteady on her feet. A couple of times she's forgotten to bring it to dinner and I've had to rescue her as she's hung onto the doorway of the dining room. She's heavy, all right. It feels rather bizarre holding the arm of someone that you know you can never possibly stop from falling if they actually stumble.
The Royale building has a huge wrap-around verandah at the front, and about 15 stairs leading to its grand threshhold. Yes, you guessed it, Marjorie tried to take her walker up those stairs. The upshot of it is she got all the way to the top with the walker, but then tripped up the last couple of stairs, and fell forwards scraping her shins badly and ending in a heap on the verandah. Arabella and Caroline, two of the personal carers, found her there as they were bringing some of the other residents to the movie.
Arabella and Caroline are both of Chinese background and are studying here on student visas. That's common to almost every single carer: they are all from overseas, all under 21, and all students. Putting it into more accurate terms, Australians are lazy snobs and do not want to work in a service job. Cry foul all you like, it's the truth. There are 3 kitchen staff who are Australian (I'm the first) and the other two are semi-retired women in their 50s. Every time Celia has advertised for staff she has Chinese, Korean, and Indian people apply, and nobody else. Anyway, Arabella and Caroline are both tiny diminutive scraps of humanity. Truly lovely girls with hearts of gold, but a fresh breeze would blow them over. So they heaved and tugged and pulled, but there was no way on earth the two of them could get poor Marjorie to her feet, even when Marjorie was trying to help.
(I wish I'd been there just to see those two girls attempt to get her off the floor. It would have been hilarious.)
So as Marjorie sat there marooned on the verandah, one of them ran to get Carlotta to help. Even with Carlotta and her strong arms it was proving a difficult task. Carlotta said, "Why don't we swing her legs around and onto the second step, so that we can help her up that way?"
So they did that, but as they tried to help Marjorie up she started yelling. "I'm not going down there!" she screamed. "I want to go and see the movie! You can't make me go back down there! My walker is up here! I'm going this way!" and the woman who could not get herself off the floor used surprising strength to stop them spinning her around towards the stairs.
Ever tried reasoning with a 2 year old having a tantrum? I don't think this would have been far off. Marjorie told me it took them another fifteen minutes to calm her down and get her to cooperate. The movie was delayed. I've no idea whether Marjorie even knew what it was about, let alone enjoyed her day.
Marjorie's now showing everyone her battle scars. "I had a heavy fall yesterday!" she exclaims to anyone who'll listen, lifting her pants leg to reveal an assortment of bandages and sticking plasters. I made the mistake of replying, "Oh, you poor thing," when she told me... I was greeted with a furious, "I'M NOT POOR! I'M MRS SANDERS!!"
...Uh... yes. Of course.
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."
Marjorie, Part 2
Most of the residents here have apartments that look like a home. Large or small, they're filled with personal items and homely furniture. Marjorie's doesn't. It is one of the few that seems truly like a hostel room. She has a reasonably nice wrap-around bookshelf in one corner; however only two of the six shelves are used. The others just stare back empty. She has a handful of pictureframes of the two children who never visit. She has never mentioned them - another staff member claims they're simply not close to their mother. There's no phone. Everything else in the room is arranged perfectly. The shoes are all on a rack, even though she only wears one pair. There's a huge decorative foil-covered chocolate she was given at Christmas, in the shape of Santa. It's untouched: it has simply become another belonging that sits perpetually on her counter. It's where it "belongs", and I'm sure if she were invited to eat it, she'd tell you it belongs there.
It may sound a little depressing to hear of the barren and impersonal state of her tiny single room in Miller House. If Marjorie actually truly understood her life I'd be sad for her. But she smiles almost every day, off in her own world. I can't feel sorry for someone who's not lacking anything in their own happiness. She's also completely unusual here. She strictly-speaking can't really care for herself and belongs in a higher-care institution. But I think the management couldn't face putting her into a nursing home full of indifferent and impersonal companions. She's happy here, so while we can cope, she can stay.
As I've noted, Marjorie has electric shock therapy every three weeks. Today one of the carers was getting ready to take her to the hospital for her therapy, and after lunch Marjorie appeared back at the door, and said she was ready to go. The carer asked her to use the toilet first. Marjorie then asked to use the staff one. The carer said no, she had to use her own. Marjorie wouldn't go into her room. This went back and forth with Marjorie looking more and more distressed. She kept saying she couldn't go in there. Finally... "The Americans are working in my bathroom!!!"
I've still no idea how the carer solved that one.
Some days I'm glad I'm just a kitchenhand.
It may sound a little depressing to hear of the barren and impersonal state of her tiny single room in Miller House. If Marjorie actually truly understood her life I'd be sad for her. But she smiles almost every day, off in her own world. I can't feel sorry for someone who's not lacking anything in their own happiness. She's also completely unusual here. She strictly-speaking can't really care for herself and belongs in a higher-care institution. But I think the management couldn't face putting her into a nursing home full of indifferent and impersonal companions. She's happy here, so while we can cope, she can stay.
As I've noted, Marjorie has electric shock therapy every three weeks. Today one of the carers was getting ready to take her to the hospital for her therapy, and after lunch Marjorie appeared back at the door, and said she was ready to go. The carer asked her to use the toilet first. Marjorie then asked to use the staff one. The carer said no, she had to use her own. Marjorie wouldn't go into her room. This went back and forth with Marjorie looking more and more distressed. She kept saying she couldn't go in there. Finally... "The Americans are working in my bathroom!!!"
I've still no idea how the carer solved that one.
Some days I'm glad I'm just a kitchenhand.
The thrill of cricket
Another pearler from the land of the retired people otherwise known as My Work.
Today half the staff went for first aid certification. We commandeered one of the residents' communal lounge rooms. (Marjorie would have been annoyed. Her normal daytime ritual from 8 until 5 is to sit in there and stare.)
It was pretty heavy going actually. I was only refreshing mine because it's expired, but most of the others had never had any exposure to first aid at all - typical were enquiries about putting butter onto burns and spoons into the mouths of epileptics (don't ever use either!). To his credit the teacher made much fun of the fact that "Grandma's advice was always terrible" and managed to get a laugh from most of the ill-informed. Add to the discovery all the acronyms to remember (EAR, RICE, CPR, and all the others) and I think we were all pretty grateful for the lunch break.
Forget the residents - we normally have this unspoken rule that if they're eating in there, we don't. Screw that. I sat down with a plate of veal cordon bleu and stir-fried vegies and began stuffing my face.
The discussion at the table next to me was somewhat interesting. Someone commented on Dizzy's double century. Yes, for the non-cricket people, that's 200 runs, and Jason "Dizzy" Gillespie recently managed 201 not out, which is an amazing achievement. Now unlike the glory days of the 80s and 90s, not everyone in this country can name the Australian cricket team members. So a fair few of her dining companions were intrigued by whom this big-scorer was.
Doris translated "Dizzy" into Jason Gillespie, which unfortunately left most of them still in the dark about the mystery man. Doris is, of course, a veritable expert on everything. I say that in all honesty - the lady has the most phenomenal memory.
"Isn't he a young man?" one of them asked (I think it was Ester, who's an absolute darling, but looks as if she's about 150 years old). Doris to the rescue. "He's thirty-one" she supplied emphatically. Doris probably knew his star sign, favourite colour and where he went to school, as well. At about this time, Dawn had migrated from her table to theirs, to join in the discussion. "I like him. He's a nice looking young man." Mumbled agreement from Ester, who had apparently seen him before and thought he was indeed a nice looking man. "Of course, he used to have long hair," says Dawn, and I could almost hear their jaws hit the floor. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, elderly people still regard long-haired men as Beatnik leftovers who are not to be respected in the least.
"He's much better looking now that he's cut off his hair," insisted Dawn. Dawn is a little old lady who's on the round side and who dresses in cardigans a lot and whose chin is rarely high enough off her chest for you to look her in the face. I had a sudden visual of her camped in front of her tv and drooling over the sexy, sexy, sexy young man in the cricket whites and the baggy green cap. It was becoming difficult to concentrate on my food without exploding in laughter. It was time to make an exit.
I stood up and began to collect my cutlery to move into the kitchen, and meanwhile they were all still discussing that he was quite a good looking man. Then Ester dropped the bomb.
"Is he married?"
I stifled the giggles as best I could. Praise be to the being which gave old people poor hearing.
Today half the staff went for first aid certification. We commandeered one of the residents' communal lounge rooms. (Marjorie would have been annoyed. Her normal daytime ritual from 8 until 5 is to sit in there and stare.)
It was pretty heavy going actually. I was only refreshing mine because it's expired, but most of the others had never had any exposure to first aid at all - typical were enquiries about putting butter onto burns and spoons into the mouths of epileptics (don't ever use either!). To his credit the teacher made much fun of the fact that "Grandma's advice was always terrible" and managed to get a laugh from most of the ill-informed. Add to the discovery all the acronyms to remember (EAR, RICE, CPR, and all the others) and I think we were all pretty grateful for the lunch break.
Forget the residents - we normally have this unspoken rule that if they're eating in there, we don't. Screw that. I sat down with a plate of veal cordon bleu and stir-fried vegies and began stuffing my face.
The discussion at the table next to me was somewhat interesting. Someone commented on Dizzy's double century. Yes, for the non-cricket people, that's 200 runs, and Jason "Dizzy" Gillespie recently managed 201 not out, which is an amazing achievement. Now unlike the glory days of the 80s and 90s, not everyone in this country can name the Australian cricket team members. So a fair few of her dining companions were intrigued by whom this big-scorer was.
Doris translated "Dizzy" into Jason Gillespie, which unfortunately left most of them still in the dark about the mystery man. Doris is, of course, a veritable expert on everything. I say that in all honesty - the lady has the most phenomenal memory.
"Isn't he a young man?" one of them asked (I think it was Ester, who's an absolute darling, but looks as if she's about 150 years old). Doris to the rescue. "He's thirty-one" she supplied emphatically. Doris probably knew his star sign, favourite colour and where he went to school, as well. At about this time, Dawn had migrated from her table to theirs, to join in the discussion. "I like him. He's a nice looking young man." Mumbled agreement from Ester, who had apparently seen him before and thought he was indeed a nice looking man. "Of course, he used to have long hair," says Dawn, and I could almost hear their jaws hit the floor. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, elderly people still regard long-haired men as Beatnik leftovers who are not to be respected in the least.
"He's much better looking now that he's cut off his hair," insisted Dawn. Dawn is a little old lady who's on the round side and who dresses in cardigans a lot and whose chin is rarely high enough off her chest for you to look her in the face. I had a sudden visual of her camped in front of her tv and drooling over the sexy, sexy, sexy young man in the cricket whites and the baggy green cap. It was becoming difficult to concentrate on my food without exploding in laughter. It was time to make an exit.
I stood up and began to collect my cutlery to move into the kitchen, and meanwhile they were all still discussing that he was quite a good looking man. Then Ester dropped the bomb.
"Is he married?"
I stifled the giggles as best I could. Praise be to the being which gave old people poor hearing.
Meet Marjorie
There's a new man in the village named Pete. He's a lovely man. On the first day I met him, he had placed a folded piece of paper on his breakfast tray, covered in elderly fancy handwriting. It read, "Thank you to all the staff for your warm welcome and your hard work. I am sure we will have happy years here. From Peter Alfred Morgan." Anyway, he and another new resident needed somewhere to sit, so we placed them at the large table and moved Marjorie onto the smaller one. Marjorie has always sat alone. She has bad days that scare other people.
Every three weeks she goes to hospital to have electric shock therapy. I was aghast when I found out. Surely they don't use this barbaric practice in this day and age? But she needs it. Marjorie runs on a perfect three-week schedule. For the few days before she's due, there are Bad Days. After the treatment, she is this smiling and lovely creature (albeit, the elevator never has reached the top floor).
Marjorie is like sunshine most of the time. She greets me with her face lit up, saying, "Hello, pet!" Mind you, until someone engages her in conversation, she sits alone in the lounge room and stares. The television is usually off. Sometimes when I take her a cup of tea, she asks me to put on the music. Some days she tells me with glee that the Americans are here. Can I hear them? she asks. She looks at the ceiling, hearing a non-existant fleet of fighter jets overhead. She is fond of dunking a biscuit into tea with lots of milk. That's the way I do it, too. You'd be surprised at the amount of times you can discuss butternut cookies and white tea. I could bring up the same exact sentence every night, and she'd happily discuss it again.
Most mealtimes she comes in right on time, sits down, places her napkin upright between the salt and pepper shakers, Eats dinner, Drinks Tea, and Leaves, all executed in fifteen minutes at the most. We make sure her tablets are there before the tea, or else someone has to chase her. She smiles and tells us some imagined incident from today. Some days, her table neighbours (that only she can see) are Hot. That means they're nasty, or bad news, or something - I'm not quite sure how, but it is evident by the look on her face it's a most unsavoury adjective. When she starts this I usually place a glass of water in front of her invisible "neighbour"; Marjorie snatches the drink away from "them" with irritation and drinks it, just so that they can't have it. Some days she'll eat the dessert. Some days it obviously interferes with her Fixed Agenda (see Sit, Eat, Tea, Leave above). One day she loudly and rudely told me I could give the dessert to the dog. Whose dog, I have no idea. She's never mentioned one before.
On Tuesday it was evident it was almost Time. She entered the dining room all flustered, sat down at the table, then removed all the cutlery and arranged it on the other placemat, stood up, and moved to the other chair. I've no idea why she moved, but you don't argue with Marjorie; we're happy if she does her usual Sit, Eat, Tea, Leave. When I went in with her meal there was no sunshine. "My name is MRS SANDERS!" she shouted at me. I supposed I wouldn't be allowed to call her Marjorie that day like I usually do. I just cheerfully put the plate down and said, "Well, Mrs Sanders, here's your lunch!" and the cloud disappeared and the sun came out on her face. She told me with an exasperated smile, "They're keeping me up all night working on the pipes." (They? Pipes? H-okay.) She rolled her eyes and began to eat her food.
Afterwards, the timid and kindhearted Arabella offered her a bowl of caramel pudding cake with custard, and she just yelled at Arabella, "Why don't YOU eat it!!!" This was a new one. Arabella didn't know whether to wet her pants in shock or burst out laughing.
...I know there will be more about Marjorie. She has new stories to tell me daily. The weird ones, I remember.
Arabella did eat the pudding.
Every three weeks she goes to hospital to have electric shock therapy. I was aghast when I found out. Surely they don't use this barbaric practice in this day and age? But she needs it. Marjorie runs on a perfect three-week schedule. For the few days before she's due, there are Bad Days. After the treatment, she is this smiling and lovely creature (albeit, the elevator never has reached the top floor).
Marjorie is like sunshine most of the time. She greets me with her face lit up, saying, "Hello, pet!" Mind you, until someone engages her in conversation, she sits alone in the lounge room and stares. The television is usually off. Sometimes when I take her a cup of tea, she asks me to put on the music. Some days she tells me with glee that the Americans are here. Can I hear them? she asks. She looks at the ceiling, hearing a non-existant fleet of fighter jets overhead. She is fond of dunking a biscuit into tea with lots of milk. That's the way I do it, too. You'd be surprised at the amount of times you can discuss butternut cookies and white tea. I could bring up the same exact sentence every night, and she'd happily discuss it again.
Most mealtimes she comes in right on time, sits down, places her napkin upright between the salt and pepper shakers, Eats dinner, Drinks Tea, and Leaves, all executed in fifteen minutes at the most. We make sure her tablets are there before the tea, or else someone has to chase her. She smiles and tells us some imagined incident from today. Some days, her table neighbours (that only she can see) are Hot. That means they're nasty, or bad news, or something - I'm not quite sure how, but it is evident by the look on her face it's a most unsavoury adjective. When she starts this I usually place a glass of water in front of her invisible "neighbour"; Marjorie snatches the drink away from "them" with irritation and drinks it, just so that they can't have it. Some days she'll eat the dessert. Some days it obviously interferes with her Fixed Agenda (see Sit, Eat, Tea, Leave above). One day she loudly and rudely told me I could give the dessert to the dog. Whose dog, I have no idea. She's never mentioned one before.
On Tuesday it was evident it was almost Time. She entered the dining room all flustered, sat down at the table, then removed all the cutlery and arranged it on the other placemat, stood up, and moved to the other chair. I've no idea why she moved, but you don't argue with Marjorie; we're happy if she does her usual Sit, Eat, Tea, Leave. When I went in with her meal there was no sunshine. "My name is MRS SANDERS!" she shouted at me. I supposed I wouldn't be allowed to call her Marjorie that day like I usually do. I just cheerfully put the plate down and said, "Well, Mrs Sanders, here's your lunch!" and the cloud disappeared and the sun came out on her face. She told me with an exasperated smile, "They're keeping me up all night working on the pipes." (They? Pipes? H-okay.) She rolled her eyes and began to eat her food.
Afterwards, the timid and kindhearted Arabella offered her a bowl of caramel pudding cake with custard, and she just yelled at Arabella, "Why don't YOU eat it!!!" This was a new one. Arabella didn't know whether to wet her pants in shock or burst out laughing.
...I know there will be more about Marjorie. She has new stories to tell me daily. The weird ones, I remember.
Arabella did eat the pudding.
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