The Weird Kid
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Kiss
I was only a CNA for a couple of months, in fact I never even earned the 'C' in CNA. It's terrible work.
I kissed a patient once. That is not appropriate. The training book tries to teach you it is inappropriate to even use a term of endearment, 'Hon' or 'Dear' because it is demeaning.
She had Alzheimer's. A lot of them did, a whole ward. But she was so different. Anne. She was so pretty, so old. She had been an artist. Her hair was long and gray and she wore lovely knitted caps that her family provided her with.
She was the only Alzheimer's patient who, while not bedridden, was quiet. All the others, they were scared and in apparent pain. They wailed in fear from their beds, they wandered into the courtyard at night in their nightgowns and wet themselves, staying hidden in the bushes for fear and confusion. They were wild-eyed and their bodies were taut and wrenched.
But Anne sat never ever spoke, and never looked afraid. She sat through the days in a wheelchair, body relaxed, hand to cheek. I kissed her cheek in her room, because it was so smooth, and she was so beautiful. I thought it possible with her, that her Alzheimer's did not torture her but simply led her away. And that she lived every day somewhere else, in a memory or a dream. And I felt something like love or gratitude and kissed her.
I wonder if she knew it.
I kissed a patient once. That is not appropriate. The training book tries to teach you it is inappropriate to even use a term of endearment, 'Hon' or 'Dear' because it is demeaning.
She had Alzheimer's. A lot of them did, a whole ward. But she was so different. Anne. She was so pretty, so old. She had been an artist. Her hair was long and gray and she wore lovely knitted caps that her family provided her with.
She was the only Alzheimer's patient who, while not bedridden, was quiet. All the others, they were scared and in apparent pain. They wailed in fear from their beds, they wandered into the courtyard at night in their nightgowns and wet themselves, staying hidden in the bushes for fear and confusion. They were wild-eyed and their bodies were taut and wrenched.
But Anne sat never ever spoke, and never looked afraid. She sat through the days in a wheelchair, body relaxed, hand to cheek. I kissed her cheek in her room, because it was so smooth, and she was so beautiful. I thought it possible with her, that her Alzheimer's did not torture her but simply led her away. And that she lived every day somewhere else, in a memory or a dream. And I felt something like love or gratitude and kissed her.
I wonder if she knew it.
posted by Imez at 9:50 PM
5 Comments:
Thank you.
That's all.
Just thank you.
Yes, those terms of endearment and signs of affection - real killers.
I've worked with equipment vendors or chemical sales reps that were kind and interesting and didn't make me loathe my job, but they were rare. I didn't feel like kissing them, though. Except that one guy. Hm... that one guy...
Okay, not the same thing. At all.
My mom was that same kind of Alzheimer patient. She was in a great place with caregivers that hugged and kissed her on a regular basis. Yes, I think they know. Caring is felt at such a core level. It was a good thing to do. A kiss on the cheek is NEVER the wrong decision. For anyone. Anywhere.
sass- thank you, hon
mignon- Jeez...I'm trying to be poignant, here.
jill- I'm sorry for your loss. It means the world to me to hear, even these years later, that a patient's family would be happy I kissed her. I got the vibe from most family's that they didn't like/trust us. But, it wasn't such a nice place. Thanks.
I know, I'm sorry. You know how it goes. Some days everything needs to be funny.
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