Making Rounds with Oscar: The Extraordinary Gift of an Ordinary Cat - By David Dosa Page 0,28

she was probably seething inside. Aside from her own pride, injured by the accusation that she didn’t run a tight ship, I knew that she felt even worse for the aides.

“I need to go outside for a cigarette,” Mary said. She walked back into the nurse’s office and spent several minutes searching for her pack. When she emerged without her coat, I could tell that she had already calmed down.

“Seriously, Mary, doesn’t that get on your nerves?”

She sighed. “It’s hard to believe sometimes, but I’ve worked here for almost ten years, and at a lot of other nursing homes before that. At this point in my career, I can pretty much put every family member I meet into one of four categories: those who are angry, those who feel guilty, those who are afraid, and those who are all three. We try to work with everyone to eventually accept this,” she said, holding up her hands to encompass the ward, the residents, and the finality of it all. “In time, most of them do. Sometimes we just can’t get them to accept this reality quickly enough.”

“So, what is Barbara Strahan?” I asked. “Which category does she fall into?”

“She probably just feels guilty.”

Mary paused to consider what to say.

“You know, David, Saul probably hasn’t worn those slippers in the last half year anyway. But if I don’t find them immediately, she’ll be speaking with my boss.”

“Have you tried talking with her?”

“In one ear, out the other.”

“Sometimes, I don’t know how you do it,” I said. “At least, as physicians, we get to come and go.”

“Actually, the ones who feel guilty, like Barbara, are easier to deal with than some of the others. You just have to develop a thick skin. They usually just yell at us about silly things and most of them calm down eventually. Barbara will probably even come down here and apologize for her behavior before she leaves. Some of the other family members can be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Well, as I said, there are families who are afraid of the disease and what it does. I get it. But they’re usually the ones who are the most in denial. They’ll come in here and question everything. If we change a resident’s diet, they’ll ask a million questions about why. Those cases end up being harder because you feel so sorry for the family. When they finally get it, what’s actually happening to their mother or father, they look like they’ve been beaten with a two-by-four.”

Mary sighed again.

“I’m sorry that you can’t smoke in here,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” she said, and smiled. “Finally, there are the angry ones who blame us for everything. Just last week, I had a daughter ask me why her mother was in one of those walkers. When I told her it was because she had fallen down a couple of times, she said that I didn’t want her mother to get better! ‘You probably want her out of here so you can have her bed,’ she said.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish.”

I understand how hard it is to see a loved one fail the way so many of these patients do. Quite frankly, I have no idea how I’d handle taking care of a parent or spouse with dementia. Maybe I’d be the same, casting about and blaming everyone, but from the outside looking in, I’m always perplexed at how some people accuse those who are merely trying to help. Our conversation was interrupted as Louise came wandering toward the front desk pushing her own walker. Mary noticed her first. “Your fan club has arrived,” she said.

I got up from the desk and walked around to greet Louise. A hearty smile came to her face before she spoke.

“She says, ‘You’re so tall,’” Mary translated behind me.

I gave Louise a quick hug and she giggled. Then she wandered back down the hallway.

“She gets around pretty well,” I said as she left.

“Mobility is not her problem,” Mary replied. “She’s always visiting the other patients, whether they know it or not.”

Suddenly, Mary jumped up and raced down the hallway. She caught Louise a few doors down and rifled through the basket on the front of her walker. A few moments later, Mary returned to the desk carrying an assortment of articles.

She presented me with a beige sweater, a doctor’s stethoscope—and a pair of men’s slippers.

“Mrs. Chambers,” she said, “our resident kleptomaniac.”

She placed the stethoscope and sweater on the desk.

“This stethoscope belongs to a medical student who was up here working last