"Your Coat is the Color of Being Alive"

Death has been a pretty constant companion around Russell House these days. Something about the change from summer into fall, the weather getting greyer, the air crisper, has turned my mind toward the deaths of some of my favorite residents.
I never thought I'd have a job where I had to deal with death on a regular basis. But this place is often the last place many of my residents live. Death is inevitable.
People die in different ways at Russell House.
Babs clung to life with everything in her neurotic heart, finally tiring, slipping away when nobody was looking.
Sandy had a great day before she died. For weeks, Sandy ate no more than a bite of food at meals. That night, she ate a full dinner and laughed at the antics of the staff. As a woman who often refused care, never letting people touch her, we all found it strange when she let us brush her hair, wash her face and brush her teeth. She went to bed warm, in a beautiful set of blue pajamas that she picked out herself. And then she slipped away in her sleep, alone, but unafraid. A good death.
Nora declined suddenly, yelling for her daughter from her favorite chair in the living room for days. She hated going to bed, never wanted to be alone. We knew she was dying when she asked to lie down in her room. She died with her family around her, her breathing growing shallow, her daughter shedding quiet tears and drinking cup after cup of coffee.
As I write this tonight, one of my favorite residents is surrounded by his family as well. Harry was (is? I'm having a hard time not speaking about him in the past tense) charming. He didn't talk much, but loved to whistle while I sang songs from the Wizard of Oz. He also spilled things. Almost everything, really, at every meal. The center table of the dining room, where he sat, was indicative of this penchant, all the water glasses, cutlery and bowls of soup pushed as far away from Harry as possible. But the Harry that I remember isn't really there tonight. I think he is slipping away. He is curled in the fetal position, breathing, but barely, his eyes half closed. I stayed after work for awhile to hold his hand, only leaving when his son (who looks so much like him, it almost made me cry) came into the room with his wife. The caregivers bowed out, leaving the family alone with Harry.
It's hard to find hope sometimes in all these deaths. It's hard not to focus on mortality and sadness, to embrace the joy. But even in their deaths, my residents are teaching me to embrace every moment I have.
Until next time, friends. Live well.

"Who Got Flowers?"

If questioned, I would be hard pressed to think of a "good thing" about having Alzheimer's disease. Until last week, I wouldn't have an answer. But I think I've found the smallest silver lining in this insidious disease.
Last week was Jan's birthday. Her kids sent her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, which we set up in the living room (we often do this so that everyone can enjoy a little color, and flowers make the residents smile). Every time Jan saw the flowers, she would turn to one of the caregivers and ask, "Who got flowers?"
"Those are yours, Jan. It's your birthday!"
"Well, so it is! Happy Birthday to me!"
We sang "Happy Birthday" at least six times that day, the residents often starting choruses of the song any time Jan's birthday was mentioned. It was kind of a beautiful series of moments.
So, last week, it wasn't just Jan's birthday. For her and for everyone at Russell House, it was her birthday over and over again that day. And the happiness that they felt did not diminish with each new discovery.
Until next time, love eachother and live well.

"I Wanted to Draw a Picture of Reno!"

All over Russell House, you will see art done by the residents. And even though most of it looks juvenile, there is a sense that these pictures were drawn by people with a deep sense of themselves, and a love for the world around them.
In Atlanta, a group called Art Without Boundaries is using art, music and other forms of creativity to help Alzheimer's suffers.
And it's working.
I've seen the amazing results of music and art on the residents of Russell House. Teresa loves to sing, and no matter what has happened throughout the day, a song will put a smile on her face.
Art, however, is not without its funny moments. On one of the collage posters made by the residents, there is a scrap of paper featuring the following poem:

Peter peter pumpkin-eater
Got drunk a lot
and is still paying for it.

Until next time, friends. Live well.

"I Found Some Candy!"

Here is an approximate transcript of a conversation I had with a resident tonight after bedtime:

Me: What's up, Keith? What are you doing out of bed?
Keith: There's a purple lurple glurple in there. It's been glopping around all night.
Me: Oh really?
Keith: Is it a fish? It's a fish. I can tell. There's copper in the doors. We have a lot to do about this today. For the nation.

This type of speech is known as aphasia, sometimes known by caregivers as "word salad". This side effect of Alzheimer's is one of the most interesting parts of my job. Because I can listen to this type of speech all night, wondering what they are really trying to say.

"He's a Nice Baby"

I don't often work the night shift at Russell House, but I really enjoy it every time I do. There are a few people who wander at night. They come into the living room, occupying recliners and watching old reruns of "I Love Lucy" (boy, does that lady get up to some hilarious highjinx!). Inevitably, someone asks for food. Last week, I made Violet a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The review? "I've had better."

But really, what makes me happiest about the night shift is that when the residents are half-asleep, you get a glimpse of what they used to be like, and I think, a little of what's really in their hearts.

For example, while I was doing bed checks tonight (we check the residents every two hours, making sure they are dry and repositioning those that are not capable of moving) I lightly touched Teresa on the shoulder to wake her. This is a woman who, during the day, will often randomly mutter "Shut up, bitch," and paces the hallways counting steps in sets of twelve. But when I woke her up tonight, she breathed sleepily and smiled. She rolled over and opened one eye, saying "What wrong honey? Did you have a bad dream?" Then she scooted over, and pulled back the covers, patting the space beside her on the twin bed, "Here, you can snuggle in with me." I'm not a person who is really given to sentimentality, but I found my eyes welling up as I hugged her and told her that I was just in to check on her. She reminded me so much of my mother, and the nights when I was young, and I would crawl into bed with her after a nightmare.

It's easy to forget that the people I spend my days caring for have lived lives outside of Russell House. They, too, were once caregivers, and being reminded of that at night makes for some of the most poignant moments of my job.