Page 21 of Insidious Heart
“Ok, so I have to study, but…”Jeez, I hate lying to her. “A friend from class is coming over to study with me.”
“A friend from class?”
“Yeah, uhm, his name—”
“Hisname? Oh my god, Stevie.” She smirks at me. “Are you trying to tell me you have a study date?”
“Yes?”God, I suck at this. “I mean, it might not be a date, so it’s not a big deal, but my friend is coming over so I won’t be able to go to your party.”
“Promise me you’ll try to have fun with…”
“Leon,” I blurt like an idiot.
Something Linnie must agree with because she frowns for a beat. “Well, promise me you’ll try to have fun with Leon, and I’ll forgive you.”
I nod as I blow out a relieved breath. “I’ll try.”
“And, you have to at least look over the catalog so I can earn more free shit at my party.”
* * *
After twenty minutesof looking atSecret Passionsnewest line of sex toys, blindly ordering a dildo Linnie is going to pick out for me—which is terrifying since I’m sure she’ll pick one from their newsupernaturalcollection just to get a rise out of me—then making up all kinds of details about my imaginary study partner, Leon, I officially started my shift.
My shift that is finally an hour away from over.
I made my rounds, helped with mid-afternoon meds, and got through my scheduled showers without too much hassle. Dinner went pretty smoothly, except for having Mr. Morelli spit puréed peas at me several times, and we were able to get most of the residents to participate in their activities before bedtime routines.
Rolling Meadows may be a shitty town, a rundown and scary place to live, and no, the only nursing home in it isn’t much better, but those of us who have been around a long time genuinely care about our residents, and that’s why we implemented a pretty neat activity plan for them.
Since we’re on the lockdown unit with nothing but Alzheimer’s or dementia residents that are flight risks, we see a lot of sundowning.
Typically around the time school lets out, everyone gets restless and behavioral. It’s something about a subconscious recognition of what they used to do at that time of day, whether it was waiting for their kids or spouses to come home from school or work, leaving work themselves or starting their own evening routines.
So, a few of us got together and decided that maybe a way to avoid anything major—like having a ninety-four-year-old woman wrestle me to the ground of her bedroom before trying to rip all my hair out—we made a plan. It’s nothing crazy or revolutionary, lots of nursing homes do it, but we started giving everyone tasks that cater to what they struggle with most.
A few of the ladies that are more maternal and had kids like Mrs. Sanderson are in charge of rounding everyone up for med times, meal times, and any other group activity. A few ladies that were housewives their entire lives gather and fold laundry, set or clear the tables, and even do light housework that their physical abilities allow.
We have a few men that worked in a trade skill or hard labor at times, so they get little projects to work on like tightening table legs or replacing light bulbs, all with a nurse or CNA close by to supervise. Gentlemen like Mr. Riggs help organize and run things like bingo or movie nights, and sometimes he even throws together what turns into quite an interesting play or musical.
For the most part it works, even if we have a few residents that are deep into their diagnosis, some bordering on catatonic, but they’re included however we can include them. And even with all of our efforts—short staffed or not—it isn’t always successful.
Like right now.
“Stevie! Stevie, I’m telling you. A man came in and stole my baby!”
“I’m sure Jolene is around here somewhere…” I grunt from under the bed.
Once again, Mrs. Sanderson’s babydoll has gone missing, and—once again—I’ve been put in charge of finding it.
Well, no oneactuallyput me in charge of finding Jolene, but I have a soft spot for Margie. And yes, maybe the soft spot is because even though she has Alzheimer’s, Mrs. Sanderson remembers who I am, at least by name and face. But it’s also because of her story.
Each of our residents has a story, a life that they once lived just like anyone else. We usually learn about them from family members when they admit their loved one, but more often than not it’s from photos and personal belongings that accompany them to their current reality. And for Margie, her story is heartbreaking.
Her sister was the one who brought her here, a younger sister that was too elderly herself to keep chasing Margie around, but before Jolene—yes, her babydoll is named after her sister—passed away, I was able to learn all about Mrs. Sanderson.
She was a housewife married to her high school sweetheart all of her life, right up until he died nine years ago. They lived in Denver, had a little ranch house with a white picket fence, and were rather comfortable on what her husband made as an accountant. And while all of that seems pretty perfect, it wasn’t always like that for Margie.
Before she married Arthur, she lived at home with her parents and baby sister, and from what Jolene told me, their home life was awful. Their father was an alcoholic and extremely abusive, and he went after his daughters on a regular basis. Margie always tried to protect Jolene though, always took the brunt of the beatings in order to keep her safe, and when Margie and Arthur got married, she took her baby sister with them and kept Jolene there until she was old enough to move out on her own.
