Special Friends

And a bittersweet Goodbye

I recently had a conversation with someone who reminded me of one of the many jobs I've held and abandoned throughout life. He's a resident in my rural community who often helps homeowners with small jobs like yard cleanup. He exudes good intentions to please, has a challenge expressing himself, and will always be limited in his work options. But he joyfully embraces life with a broad smile and an innate desire to please. A few hours with him sent me back to Santa Barbara, where, without any qualifications, I was hired to be the activities director of a convalescent home where I enjoyed the company of many people much like him.

Activities at the facility, where a broad range of people languished in hospital-sized rooms, were limited to a weekly coffee get-together in the community room. They were a varied lot – from physically or mentally disabled to elderly and frail folks needing some care. The residents were attended by nurses aides and managed by a Registered Nurse who would qualify perfectly to play Nurse Ratched in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." The staff was grateful she seldom left her closed-door office.

However, within this admittedly dismal environment, I found a purpose and became a disruptor of daily routine. I did prohibited things - such as escorting residents on walks down the halls, holding chair exercises in the community room, and sneaking out the backdoor with a couple of ambulatory guests for a smoke, a short walk down the street, or (in one case) a visit to the nearby ice cream shop. It was, of course, rule-breaking like this that eventually got me fired.

The facility was home to dozens of residents (a specious term implying they chose to spend the rest of their days confined to hallways and austere rooms). The chat with the neighbor I mentioned reminded me of a few favorites from those years I'd like to tell you about.

Rex was well over 50 years old and, I was told, a victim of alcohol-related brain damage. Far too much, for far too long, and dementia and physical disability descended. Rex often stood in the center of the community room and shuffled from one foot to another, marching in place. He held his right hand up to his lips and mocked having a cigarette, occasionally trying (and failing) to put a sentence together. I thought a real walk might do some good, and I got him to follow me on my daily rounds. I also invited him outside to the courtyard, where I gave him a cigarette. He reveled in smoking and, on occasion, tried to eat the cigarette before I snatched it away. He'd laugh about that like the joke was on me.

He'd follow me to Nancy's room, stand at the door like a rocking sentry and wait. She was a tiny birdlike woman who I never saw out of bed. She'd lie on her left side and gaze out the window, rolling to her back for our daily chat. She wore a pink robe that matched her pink complexion and silver-blond curls. Every day – as if it was our first together – she'd greet me in her British-born accent with, "I'm a 96-year-old nanny, I am. I took such care of them all, don't you know." Then Nancy would tell me about some of the children she'd loved and cared for – still cared for from her hospital bed thousands of miles and decades away.  

Rex and I continued down the hall and eventually encountered George, an elder man from Greece confined to a wheelchair. At his side (also wheelchair bound) was Petey – a child of about 12 years old born with Muscular Dystrophy. He had very little control of his arms and legs, his head tilted to the right, and his eyes always focused on his best friend, George. They were constant companions, George guiding Petey's wheelchair up and down the halls. They had conversations only the two of them would understand – George speaking Greek to his young friend and Petey mumbling responses that only George understood. There was laughter and love across more than one divide.

I had another companion who brightened my workdays – her name was Gracie. A 50-some-year-old woman, about five feet tall and slight, born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. She was talkative – sometimes nonstop. She'd roam the halls, visiting all the drinking fountains, mumbling to herself, and frequently leaving behind her false teeth. On occasion, she'd shout out curses intended for no one in particular. The Manor staff had her dressed in baggy clothes that hung from her body like old sheets. So, one day I smuggled her out a backdoor and took her shopping for secondhand clothes that would better match her childlike spirit. Most Wednesdays, we'd sneak out and go to the ice cream parlor only a block away. The crew there loved her. Gracie would remove her false teeth and down a bowl of chocolate swirl with two or three enormous spoonfuls. They'd make bets about how many bites she'd take, and the loser paid for her ice cream. Gracie laughed and let loose a few of her favorite words.

She'd go with me when I went to Carol's room to help her out of bed and behind a walker. Carol had Parkinson's Disease well before there were drugs to help control the shaking and unsteadiness. She'd been made bedridden by Head Nurse, who feared a lawsuit should Carol fall. I started pushing Carol to our regular exercise class in a wheelchair and learned that she was longing to walk. So, we did. Up and down the hall outside her room, carefully guiding a walker and safely returning to bed. On our unauthorized strolls, she'd told me about her career as a middle school teacher and, with a faint smile on her lips, how much she missed 'her' children.

Another of my favorites was Anita. About 30 years old and born with birth disabilities that made her unable to walk. Her arms short as a young child's. I'd pop my head into her room, and we'd chat – but even that was hard for her because Anita was always placed on her stomach. Consequently, she had to push her small voice out through lungs compressed by her heavy body. I coerced an orderly (who had a little crush on me) to get her into a wheelchair for our daily gathering in the community room. Anita giggled with excitement and sang along with the rest of us.

I knew that, ultimately, rule-breaking would (not for the first time) catch up with me. One day, Head Nurse ordered me into the office she seldom left and laid out the gravity and consequences of my job performance (walking, singing, exercising, laughing with residents). Fired. Immediately.

It's been more than 40 years since I was an unqualified activities director at the Manor, but I can still see, hear, and value the folks I've just told you about. We laughed together and made good ‘trouble.’ Regardless of ability, appearance, or disability, there's much to be learned from people wherever life takes them - if we accept them as they are.

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Thanks for your time and attention - and for your feedback each week. Let me know your thoughts at darby@darbypatterson.com

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