Those who aid the elderly do work of angels
It’s been two months since my dad passed away. I’ve had some time to think about his last months; and as usual, when life gives you space, gratitude rises.
My dad was not one to complain, nor did he demand much of anything. As long as he was able to watch the New York Yankees, sit at a piano bench and play the old songs from yesteryear or read the newspaper, he was happy. We used to joke about how well he was navigating his early 90s and his ability to relish in the level of independence he enjoyed. And then, on his 92nd birthday, my dad fell and broke his hip.
Reconciling his transition to a nursing home in the aftermath of hip surgery was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done as a daughter. Each time I walked into his long-term facility, I prepared for a bit more sadness. Would my dad’s eyes be dimmed to joy? Would I sense a feeling of resignation? Would his head be hanging in a wheelchair slumber?
Just outside my dad’s room the nursing staff would be milling about. Often, I saw the nurses administering medications to the residents; calling them by name, fixing their shirt collars, or tending to them in a variety of loving ways. The images before me softened my anxieties. I saw nursing assistants show up to be their residents’ greatest champions. Simple tasks laced with extra care brought immeasurable comfort to those whose quality of life was challenged. The nursing staff provided golden examples of the angelic nature of their work.
Every time I entered my dad’s room, his bed was made with his NY Yankee fleece blanket neatly tucked; the tender care of the staff evident in the wrinkle-free, crisp morning appearance of his bed. The staff knew when my dad was feeling a bit off, or when a cut on his arm needed extra attention. In other words, my dad was really well cared for.
Nursing homes get a bad rap. The negative stories captivate the news cycle. As a nurse who used to work with the elderly, I know how good care is manifested, and I recognize heroes.
Eventually, if we’re given the chance to grow old, the layers of status and worldliness fall away. It’s funny the first question for so many years, “So, what do you do?” becomes obsolete once a walker or wheelchair enter the fray. Fine furniture and fancy dishes lose their luster; while a comfortable recliner and sensible walking shoes become practical treasures. Material assets turn into clutter, and important possessions might include one or two family photos. Things change.
Those who care for the elderly and do it really well should garner the utmost respect. It’s not easy to be consistently intentional with those who make no noise, have no power, and are stripped of worldly esteem. You know that saying that says something like character is measured by what you do when no one is watching? In many cases, no one watches the nursing home employee. But I did. In the aftermath of my dad’s passing, I will forever be grateful for the dining room server who knew my dad liked hot chocolate for lunch. I will carry in my heart the nurse practitioner who knew before I did that my dad was readying himself for life’s end. And for those who provide a rhythm to the days of those who have lost so much, I will be forever in awe. It was these people, after all, who gave my dad the gift of kindness and helped him die amidst the greatest gift of peace. I will always be grateful to them.