Odgen

CHAPTER ONE. OGDEN

His name was Ogden. He was 95. I was 10. In a valiant attempt to be a mother and to also make a living, my mother would bring Ogden to our house and sit him in the chair by the windows in the front living room. I remember that I didn’t want to sit in Ogden’s chair with its green velvety upholstery, after his visits. This reaction made me feel bad. I remember the feeling very well.

I was curious about Ogden, but also afraid. As he was old. His hair was white. He walked very slowly using a walker with wheels, needing the aid of my mother, his private duty nurse. My mother would joyfully announce to the household, “Come meet Ogden guys!,” making sure his legs were firmly against the chair as she sat him down. As he slowly, carefully sat I could sense his fear. I didn’t know then what made him so afraid, but now I know. I know now about the fear of falling when debilitated, and know the fine-tuned challenges of living in a body no longer in synch with your mind. The mind still thinks it knows the subtle balancing and everyday calculations of sitting in an unfamiliar chair. But this knowledge is no longer fully translated into the sequence and precision of normal movements. After you have fallen and felt your dignity crash to the floor after miscalculating this basic act, you face a bigger fear: your mortality. As a girl I could sense that fear in Ogden, it raised the fear in me–of what I did not know about life.

At 10 years old my mother was already teaching me the foundations of nursing. Since then, 25 years of nursing has exposed me 10,000 times to life and mortality in all its ways. To know not just the technical side of birth and healing, disease and dying, but in particular the human aspects: each person’s courage and frailties, generosities and foolishness—to know how we look after each other’s’ hopes and grief’s and hearts and not just their social security numbers intertwined with medical record numbers attached to insurance policies. To know these things, I’ve come to see, is the nurses job. To learn how to touch the passing humanity of a crash victim in the middle of the night, whose life bleeds from him while his unknowing family sleeps. To visit and pray with the shell shocked family, and to discuss at such a time of numbing pain their choice to use his organs to save others’ lives. To encourage the post-operative transplant patient, who has withstood years of agonizing waiting, to see if the new organ will be accepted. To find some way to add to the fading lives of terminal patients I’ve come to know dearly over many years of nursing them. It is the cycle of such experiences, repeated so many times over a nurse’s career, face to face, skin to skin, word to word, prayer to prayer, that has guided me from that time of my first fear of Ogden, this ageing human in my living room.

The fear I first felt towards Ogden awoke a curiosity. As my mother gingerly came and guided me to Ogden after settling him into the chair in our living room, her standing between us made me feel safe. As I stepped closer I could smell him… A mixture of soap and urine … He had lots of moles; crusty like on his face, as a child I remember thinking they resembled craters on the sides of his mouth… I touched my own mouth in response feeling a wonder of awe… thinking about what this aging process in life would make me look like someday … I remember wanting to touch the wrinkles on his face, the deep defined lines on the sides of his mouth. I remember thinking while watching and observing my mother, wiping his mouth with a tissue as he was constantly drooling, how can she do that?! It disgusted me to the point of almost gagging. Yet at the same time I felt happiness that someone—someone—was actually wiping the drool off of his face.

It was at this moment that I remember having some clarity as I looked into Ogden’s eyes. They were still, as blue and clear as they must have been when he himself was 10 years old. The sparkle of them! His eyes were the place where I could see into his youth, his personhood, and sense his soul. It was my first encounter with compassion for an elderly person, for this aging condition, about which I remained ignorant.

Witnessing his eyes, seeing the “Ogden” in him, awoke something in my growing mind as much as it stirred my sentiments. I was confused about this new ‘knowing’ I suddenly gained. But even at 10 I remember the sense that I was on to something. He was afraid of me too, as he suffered from dementia. He was in and out, though parts of his mental abilities were fully intact. The nurse, who stood there between us, my mother, my teacher, was the buffer between Ogden and the world that grew confusing to him. She was also connecting my heart and compassion to him, and to my future career. She was doing the work that nurses do…

Nurses are the angels who are the acting buffer in people’s lives, who reveal compassion and love, and understanding of life’s most real and most common and most extreme situations. The reality of being human with drool, snot and shit

Advertisements
Standard

We don’t have intercourse …

Story #3
Of course her name was Mary, everyone it seems has the name of Mary over 90…
this was her fourth admission for the same thing, back again for a UTI. IV antibiotics, the big guns, she is febrile and shaking like a leaf, worried about sepsis seeping in like a thief in the night, especially with the elderly.
So as I am assessing and examining her I am asking her questions … “Mary, do you wipe front to back? “ she replied “well of course I do, doesn’t everybody ?” I then ask “ Mary do you and your husband still have intercourse?” Trying to find out the cause for Mary’s recurrent UTI’s …. she says “ hold on a minute” and in her very cute stooped posture, walking ever so astutely towards the door where her husband (who is also in his 90’s) is standing on the other side waiting for me to finish her assessment. She opens the door and with a very loud voice (as they are both deaf as doornails) “Frank ?? Fraaaaannnnk? Do we still have intercourse?”
Well Upon hearing this question Frank becomes so angry ! His fists clenched and his face has turned beet red… veins popping out of his forehead …. his reply “Mary ! How many times do I have to tell you ? We have Blue Cross, Blue Sheild!”
Mary then shuts the door on him turns around to look at me “ohhh I always forget” … in her exasperated tone and expression she says as she is walking back towards me “ no we don’t have intercourse, we have Blue cross Blue Sheild”
I peed my pants

Standard

Tears are our prayers

He wore a “Ruddy” complexion with bloodshot eyes, his hands were so tremulous, shaking so fiercely that I expected to feel a breeze. It was a futile attempt to hide, there was just nothing he could do but admit it … with down trodden eyes, and a hopeless despair that I could “feel” his shame… as if shame is tangible, an emotion that could be cut through with a knife. If only I could … for I would, because it’s so painful… for both of us to bear … trying to capture and then to harness some kind of hope in a seemingly hopeless situation.

Encouraging the tears that fell from his soul, explaining they were his prayers, that he was making more room for the torrential storm of guilty, somnolent rage that is devouring him. It’s all that can be done, the only way through is through it … to feel the pain of the loss of what he loved truly as I watched the realization on his bewildered, abandoned face, I knew then he knew that what he loved so much is precisely what ails him.

Standard

Acceptance

Breaking the chain of shame

It’s always twelve steps forward thirteen steps back …. the intertwining relationship that the see saw ride of depression,anxiety and general well being of the mind in our fellow humans suffering with these ailments…

no one is immune … Life is hard, beautiful, mysterious, glorious and grueling for all of us … we don’t get a choice of what’s handed to us … we have to accept it all

In this realm of social media we all are guilty of hiding under our veils desperately, passionately revealing what we can about “what is good” in our lives

My epiphany of late, is the fact that it doesn’t do anyone justice to just share what’s good … as it is indeed in the sharing of what isn’t good in our lives that connects us as fellow human beings … the sharing that we should do with one another that helps to alleviate the burden of shame in our lives … it’s how we can love one another better …

for it’s the shame that paralyzes us

In this sick spiraling down viciousness of our society with sex abuse, addiction, depression, rape, violence and hate

It is in the admitting to ourselves and eachother that there is no reason to be ashamed as all of these “diseases” are a part of what it is to live in the world…

like I said none of us are immune.

The healing comes with truth and honesty to rise above the affliction of what ails us “shame”

Standard