Showing posts with label assisted living. Show all posts
Showing posts with label assisted living. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

How I Visit a Friend in a Nursing Home

I went to see my dear Miss S at the nursing home earlier this week.  She was thrilled with my surprise visit. (I have stopped calling in advance because she gets garbled on her dates and times.)  We chatted for more than an hour, mostly about news of people we know and also the NYTimes, which she reads cover to cover everyday.  I'm sure her memory is slipping, but it wasn't very obvious; though, I wasn't testing her either.  She says "that" and "it" for nouns and pronouns for people she can't remember.  And she nods and says, "I know," a lot, even if she probably doesn't.  Still, she knew me on sight and that is still better than I thought it would be.

As I was talking to her, indeed through many of my nursing facility visits with her and my hospice patients, I've made up a mental list of advice.  So here are some informal tips for visiting a nursing home or assisted living facility (for lists aimed specifically at families, see here and here for examples):
  • Dress in layers--many facilities are overheated for the comfort of their cold-sensitive residents.
  • There's almost always a sign-in folder, sometimes a tag to wear.  The receptionist can point you in the right direction, especially because there is something confusingly labyrinthine about even the most straightforward-looking of these facilities.  I always get lost going in and coming out the first few times.
  • Yes, it stinks.  Oftentimes of cleaners, sometimes of soiled diapers and illness.  Take a deep breath before you enter the space and then try not to think on it.
  • And yes, it can be depressing.  People's bodies and minds are in various states of deterioration, which we don't often see because they are in facilities like this.  It can be overwhelming.  It can also seem callous, with numerous residents lined up in hallways, staring off listlessly or moaning or talking to thin air.  The staff is always overworked, shorthanded, and probably underpaid and undertrained, which is just as depressing.  With our current state of medicine, which allows people to live longer lives, even with illness, past the point of when they can remotely care for themselves or be cared for by non-professionals, and our cultural norms that hide away illness and death as well as our societal structure that is dominated by two-person working families (also, there are older parents with younger children who have young children--the sandwich generation!) who can't (and don't have the skills) to care for people at home, these places are a(n oftentimes unpleasant) necessity.  But by visiting, I'm taking a little bit of light and happiness to one person.
  • Locate the public restrooms because it can be awkward or even difficult to use the restroom in the resident's room (rooms are often shared and there is usually medical equipment inside.)  Sometimes the public restrooms are locked and you need to get the key from reception or the nurse's station.
  • Take something to discuss or share--books, magazines, photographs (I find my smartphone is good for that--we can look at several photos together.  I also read or sing from it with patients.) 
  • **Take a small gift--a magazine, hand lotion, snacks (but only if you know that's ok--some residents have restrictions or are on thickeners to avoid choking), seasonal decoration, homemade artwork/pictures for the wall.  I avoid flowers because they need to be cared for/watered and they can die so quickly.   And I always ask at the end of the visit if there is something particular I can bring the next time.  (**This is mainly for my friend, not my hospice patients, though hospice has lotions and blankets and such for us to distribute.)
  • Knock on the door, even if it's open.  And announce yourself.  So, (knock-knock) "Hi friend, it's Jamie!"  If there is a roommate, say hi.  
  • I never wake a sleeping patient (regardless of what Jessica Tandy says in Fried Green Tomatoes!)  I will wait in a common area for awhile, or even sit next to them (good chairs are SO hard to find, just like parking spaces--WHY do they build these beautiful new facilities WITHOUT enough parking???), but often that means I'll leave without a visit.
  • I always ask if it's ok before I sit on the edge of the bed.
  • If a nurse needs to attend to the resident, step outside while assuring them you'll be right back.  Note: don't go too early in the morning--that's get up, breakfasted, and dressed time.  I usually aim for after 11 ish, which gives them time to rest from the morning's brouhaha.  Oftentimes, depending on the health of the patient, after lunch or afternoons are hard because they're tired.  I try not to go at mealtime, though, at my friend's current place, if I'm there anywhere near lunch, they bring me a tray, too, without charge (this is not standard; and I never eat during hospice visits.)
  • It might just be me, but I never hesitate to turn down a missing roommate's tv (which are always on when the roommates are out of the room!!!)  Nursing homes are noisy enough.
  • If possible, get them out of their room--go for a walk, go sit in the common areas, attend an activity together.  Sometimes this takes a little coaxing.  It's also ok just to stay in the comfort and safety of their rooms (especially if you are unsure about their mobility.)
  •  If you run out of ideas for chatting (my friend loves to gossip, but I only ever have so much news!), talk about their pictures or knick-knacks, items on their bulletin board (most rooms have them), community calendar, what they had for their previous meal, what I did last weekend, what the weather is like outside, the last holiday, etc etc etc.  Of course, sitting in companionable silence or even watching tv together as a last resort is just fine.  I don't correct or argue, especially if they misremember or are misinformed about something; I want the visit to be pleasant.  And I just nod and smile when a story is repeated  . . . again and again.
  • I usually aim to stay about an hour (which is too long for many, and too short for some!), always giving a 10-15 minute warning.  Of course, I'm prepared to leave if they're not up for a visit.  Goodbyes are hard and I always feel guilty about leaving them alone again.  My friend is especially lonely and always walks me all the way to the door.
  • BTW, some doors especially on dementia floors have security codes to leave--ask at the nurse's station.
  • I find it's easier to greet with words or a smile everybody I pass, especially other residents--so few of them get outside visitors.  Sometimes they want a quick chat, which is fine.  If they seem confused or won't stop talking, sometimes I have to excuse myself.  If I can't completely understand them, I just smile.
  • If in doubt about anything, ask the staff.  Nicely.  Unless you are the legal guardian, they won't be able to give you privacy-protected medical information for the patient.  But, you can always ask the staff how the resident is doing that day or alert them to any (really pressing) concerns you have. Otherwise, unless it's really important (or falls under my hospice work parameters), I try not to interfere with the care.
  • Go.  When in doubt, go.  Time passes so slowly . . . and so lonely . . . at nursing homes that most residents welcome company and attention.
  • Unless you are sick--meaning any symptoms, not just confirmed fever or flu--gastro and respiratory illnesses spread like wildfire in these places.  Sanitize with alcohol rub or handwashing on the way in and the way out.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Tough Transitions

Imagine you are 90-something years old and have lived in the same home for the last 31 years.  Now, picture that you have been moved, at the insistence of your worried children, to a little space in an assisted living facility.  You don't have most of your pictures or knick knacks, none of your books; your closet is mostly empty except for several robes, which you would never wear in public.  You are required to wear a medic alert beeper and a wristlet with your key and room number.  And there are old people in wheelchairs or with walkers--"white heads"--everywhere.

I went to see my friend Miss S, from my first church, this morning at her new home.  Not that I think she'll ever call it that, even if a staff member insisted the whole place was her home when we were wandering around.  It's actually a very nice place, as they go:  clean, well-lit, decorated, lots of smiling staff.  As a hospice volunteer, I've seen worse.  But it's still a senior home.  The place is impersonal and antiseptic; the workers, while nice, are still paid to be there.  There were lots of half-asleep people lining the sitting rooms; others who passed her smiled and said hi over and over.  I was the only visitor; visitors must be a rare occurrence because they thought I was a service provider not a friend of a resident.

It was all so bittersweet.  It's good to know, as her memory wanes, that she is closer to help, but it is so sad to see her so uprooted, so distraught even.  She misses her stuff; she misses her home.  She misses her car; she misses her independence.  She knows she won't leave this place or a place like it, that she'll be there the rest of her life and will die in a place like that.  She is still totally cognizant of all of this, even as she forgets particulars of our conversation, details we've just discussed.  And though I don't think she's ever felt old before, I think it's dawning on her now.

Of course, this is not to imply that my friend shouldn't be there.  She's had some health challenges and isn't driving anymore.  She hadn't been cooking much and only drinking Ensure.  And now she's beginning to be more than just forgetful.  Her short-term memory has gaps; she's having trouble accessing memories and information stored in her long-term memory, too.  But then she could comment upon the NYTimes article this morning on Afghani women's suicides and the tense political situation between North and South Korea. Though I had to tell her twice in the same conversation that I was coming today; she repeats stories minutes apart.  She couldn't remember how to make the apricot brandy she's made every holiday as long as I've known her (she's saved me the last bottle but it's with her stuff and she's frustrated no one has brought it); she wasn't sure what country her beloved granddaughter-in-law was from.  And that's just what I've noticed in the last week; mind you, this has come on quickly--just a few months ago, it wasn't as obvious.  Her family was right to be concerned and to act, I think.  Even if she said it all made her numb.

I know there are those who bemoan such senior and nursing facilities, believing it's proof that Americans don't love their aging parents.  That's a reactionary response to the fact that Americans live longer with illnesses and disabilities than ever before and their children, often in two-working adult families and often not nearby, can't bring them home and care for them as they might have before.  Take me for example:  even if my parents lived in my very town and not 1800 miles away, and even though I'm a stay-at-home mom and not working, I could not physically care for my parents if they were to become sick or immobilized (no, I'm not planning on putting y'all in the home.)  Nursing homes and such try to address this; they are, in many ways (many, many), imperfect answers to the challenges, especially the less-expensive, lower end places.  And of course, they are usually for-profit institutions, cutting corners whenever possible (I recently read about the place that requires residents to have feeding tubes--that's quicker than spoon feeding!  Clearly, there needs to be more oversight . . . and compassion).  But they are the answer we have now.  And it's not the choice you have to make for your family.  I'm pretty sure I won't want to make it for mine; I think it was probably hard for my parents to put some of my grandparents in nursing homes.  And I imagine my friend's family is both relieved and conflicted and even grieving as well now that they've placed her in the facility.  No one is happy.

So I hope to visit frequently. I mean, I do it with hospice for strangers; I look forward to visiting my friend (and make no mistake, she's neither ill nor in hospice.)  I've even promised her that we'd take her out to lunch sometime soon and bring the kids for a visit (she's known them all their lives, looks on them very fondly)--she was so excited.  I know she's scared about being stuck there, being forgotten in her dependence and isolation.  As much as I can, I hope to help her feel loved, needed, and connected.

Even in that place.

-=-=-=-=-=-
Not Her Recipe for Apricot Brandy (but I bet it's close)

1 1/2 lbs dried apricots
1 quart vodka
1 lb sugar

Place ingredients (DO NOT MIX) in a 1/2 gallon flat topped glass jar.

Turn jar twice a day for 8 days (allowing jar to sit on its top for half a day).

Batch is ready.

You may use the same apricots, more sugar, and vodka added to make another batch, but let second batch sit for 12 to 14 days.