Tonight I went to dinner and sat with a nice group. On the way to the table, I spotted Henrietta. She is over a hundred years old and she dines in a wheelchair. But she doesn't look, act or talk like a hundred year old. She is clear as a bell, talks in a clear voice and is a lot of fun. Tonight, several of her tablemates were missing. She was alone. I asked her if she was alone and she offered that she didn't know if any of her people would show up or not. I said that I had already promised to have dinner at another table but I would come over and eat dessert with her.
I grabbed up my chocolate cake and headed over to Henrietta. One tablemate had shown up but she had left early and so she was sitting alone. I sat and we talked.
We had something in common: we both had had pneumonia as children. She had it when she was nine. She remembers that her mother and the doctor went into the other room to talk. They were whispering so that she couldn't hear but she heard the doctor say "If she wakes up, I think she'll pull through".
When I was a new born, at two months, I had pneumonia. The doctors gave me pennecilan and put me in an incubator. They told my father not to expect me to be alive in the morning.
After we were through eating but before we were through talking, Henrietta's caretaker came to wheel her back to her room. I offered to do it.
When we were through, I got behind the wheelchair and released the brakes. "Do you know how to work one of these?" Henrietta asked. "Hah! I wheeled more chairs than you have sat in when I was a cab driver. I'll show you how we handled these things!"
And away we went, briskly wheeling around tables, between the regular chairs, nearly running people over. Henrietta was loving it. So was everyone still left in the dining room.
I took her up to her apartment and got her in. She transferred to a wheeled walker. I left to walk the dog.
All in all, fun for everyone.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Bess
Bess had a major stroke but she is a gamer. One side of her face is distorted but her eyes still dance with a sparkle that cheers you up every time you see her.
The other day, she was sitting alone in the hallway, when I happened by. She beckoned me to her side and I kneeled down on the floor so that I could be at the same height.
The doctors checked out my hearing for my commercial driving license and told me that my hearing was fine. I told them that they were lying. It seems to me I am having a harder and harder time of hearing people. Or at the very least, understanding what they are saying. I have taken to leaning in, turning my head and trying to hear. Is it possible to squint your ear?
Bess looked around and made sure that no one was nearby. "Did you hear about the boys that bought their ninety year old father a girl? You know, a call girl or whatever?" I had heard a joke that started out vaguely like this, but to be honest I had forgotten the punch line. "So this beautiful girl goes and knocks on his door and he answers it. ' Yes, young lady, what can I do for you?' and she says 'Your sons sent me over to offer you super sex'. And the ninety year old says 'Then, I'll take the soup.'
Bess laughed and she was so happy to tell the story and tell it right. I admitted that I had heard it, forgotten it and was glad she told me the joke. I did love it.
It should be The Official Joke' of New Pointe.
My boss told me the other day that Bess used to be a singer with big bands back in the day. I intend to get the story out of her if I have to waterboard her. I bet it will take about fifteen seconds of tickling.
The other day, she was sitting alone in the hallway, when I happened by. She beckoned me to her side and I kneeled down on the floor so that I could be at the same height.
The doctors checked out my hearing for my commercial driving license and told me that my hearing was fine. I told them that they were lying. It seems to me I am having a harder and harder time of hearing people. Or at the very least, understanding what they are saying. I have taken to leaning in, turning my head and trying to hear. Is it possible to squint your ear?
Bess looked around and made sure that no one was nearby. "Did you hear about the boys that bought their ninety year old father a girl? You know, a call girl or whatever?" I had heard a joke that started out vaguely like this, but to be honest I had forgotten the punch line. "So this beautiful girl goes and knocks on his door and he answers it. ' Yes, young lady, what can I do for you?' and she says 'Your sons sent me over to offer you super sex'. And the ninety year old says 'Then, I'll take the soup.'
Bess laughed and she was so happy to tell the story and tell it right. I admitted that I had heard it, forgotten it and was glad she told me the joke. I did love it.
It should be The Official Joke' of New Pointe.
My boss told me the other day that Bess used to be a singer with big bands back in the day. I intend to get the story out of her if I have to waterboard her. I bet it will take about fifteen seconds of tickling.
Food
It is a cliche but a retirement center resembles a kindergarten in some ways. Food is a surprizingly big deal. It isn't the food so much as the whole riggimole that goes with it.
First, there is the gathering for food and that has a choreography all its own. There are those, notably Dale, who rush to be at the front of the line. There is good natured kidding, greeting and acknowledgement. Clearly, some people are checking to see who 'has made it down'. Those not there ar noted and inquiries are made: "Are they getting their meals in the room; are they alright?"
It is not always that they physically can't make it down. Sometimes, they are depressed and don't want to come down. Some are just tired. A few don't want to see anyone and so it is easier to stay in their rooms. There is a lot of clucking that doesn't rise to the level of being able to be heard. "She gets this way. She'll snap out of it."
Food is judged on a scale of one to ten with only one and two, nine and ten used. There is no three to eight involved. Residents will confide to you that the food used to be much worse--or much better. "Tonight's apple pie was very good. If I was hungry, I would have had two pieces." And "Tonight's apple pie was very good. I am glad I wasn't very hungry."
Since food is such a big deal, I will be writting more on it later.
First, there is the gathering for food and that has a choreography all its own. There are those, notably Dale, who rush to be at the front of the line. There is good natured kidding, greeting and acknowledgement. Clearly, some people are checking to see who 'has made it down'. Those not there ar noted and inquiries are made: "Are they getting their meals in the room; are they alright?"
It is not always that they physically can't make it down. Sometimes, they are depressed and don't want to come down. Some are just tired. A few don't want to see anyone and so it is easier to stay in their rooms. There is a lot of clucking that doesn't rise to the level of being able to be heard. "She gets this way. She'll snap out of it."
Food is judged on a scale of one to ten with only one and two, nine and ten used. There is no three to eight involved. Residents will confide to you that the food used to be much worse--or much better. "Tonight's apple pie was very good. If I was hungry, I would have had two pieces." And "Tonight's apple pie was very good. I am glad I wasn't very hungry."
Since food is such a big deal, I will be writting more on it later.
Tim
Tim is a large and imposing looking gent of some years. He has a beautiful full head of white hair. When he stands up he is well over six foot and barrel-chested. He has some mobility issues; he uses a wheeled walker and has a little trouble talking. He has a very slight stutter and I like him a lot.
He was a bus driver for years. He worked a while in administration but he got back behind the wheel for a few years at the end of his career.
But best of all, he was in vaudeville. He was a member of a three man roller skating act. Someone at one of the dining tables told me that and called him over. He rolled over to us and said that his was an opening act "because it had a lot of action." I jumped in "And because you had no scenary and could get off the stage fast." I love reading about vaudeville. He said "The best act was always 'next-to-last'." And I jumped in with "The last act was the worst because they wanted to drive the people out of the audience and empty the seats for the next crowd. The last act was called 'the haircut act' because all the performer saw was the haircuts of the audience as they filed out." Tim lit up; someone remembered.
I intend to corner Tim and get all the details. Vaudeville! You gotta love it!
He was a bus driver for years. He worked a while in administration but he got back behind the wheel for a few years at the end of his career.
But best of all, he was in vaudeville. He was a member of a three man roller skating act. Someone at one of the dining tables told me that and called him over. He rolled over to us and said that his was an opening act "because it had a lot of action." I jumped in "And because you had no scenary and could get off the stage fast." I love reading about vaudeville. He said "The best act was always 'next-to-last'." And I jumped in with "The last act was the worst because they wanted to drive the people out of the audience and empty the seats for the next crowd. The last act was called 'the haircut act' because all the performer saw was the haircuts of the audience as they filed out." Tim lit up; someone remembered.
I intend to corner Tim and get all the details. Vaudeville! You gotta love it!
The argument
Jaime and I took about a dozen of the residents to a waterfront restaurant.
Jaime was sitting at a table with Vera Mae and several others, including her boyfriend Barney. She and Barney got together when her previous boyfriend moved into a nursing home, where he had recentily died. Now, Vera Mae and Barney are an item.
Somehow during the lunch, the subject of where Barney had lived in New Mexico had come up for discussion. Barney said that he had lived in 'Old Town'. Vera Mae asked, naturally, where 'Old Town' was. Barney said 'New Mexico' Vera Mae asked 'Where in New Mexico?' Barney came back with 'Old Town'. Then, they got into it. Like a bad version of 'Who's on first?', they went back and forth with Vera Mae saying 'Old Town isn't a state.' And Barney saying 'No, New Mexico' and Vera Mae asking 'Where in New Mexioc?' and Barney back with 'Old Town' wherein Vera Mae would insist that 'Old Town' wasn't a state. This went on, unabated, for five minutes. Very little variation. Jaime was ready to scream, at the very least or maybe kill.
Later that night, Vera Mae had a heart tremor or maybe fell down or maybe she thought she fell down but the upshot was that she called the hospital and they felt that she should come in immediately for tests. Lots of tests.
So the ambulance came. We get a lot of that here at New Pointe. Seriously, about one a night on average. People fall, their heart beats irregularly or they start bleeding for no reason. The ambulance comes and they go. So Vera Mae went.
In the morning, Barney came up to me like a little boy who had lost his puppy. "My girl is in the hospital." Now I might not be the swiftest but I know what comes next. "Would you like a ride to the hospital to see her?" Barney's puppy was back. We went up the next day. The day after that, we went up and got her and brought her back.
From then on, I was top drawer as far as Barney is concerned. I think he even thanked me in his own way.
And to be honest, it was kinda nice to be able to do such a little thing that meant so much to them.
Jaime was sitting at a table with Vera Mae and several others, including her boyfriend Barney. She and Barney got together when her previous boyfriend moved into a nursing home, where he had recentily died. Now, Vera Mae and Barney are an item.
Somehow during the lunch, the subject of where Barney had lived in New Mexico had come up for discussion. Barney said that he had lived in 'Old Town'. Vera Mae asked, naturally, where 'Old Town' was. Barney said 'New Mexico' Vera Mae asked 'Where in New Mexico?' Barney came back with 'Old Town'. Then, they got into it. Like a bad version of 'Who's on first?', they went back and forth with Vera Mae saying 'Old Town isn't a state.' And Barney saying 'No, New Mexico' and Vera Mae asking 'Where in New Mexioc?' and Barney back with 'Old Town' wherein Vera Mae would insist that 'Old Town' wasn't a state. This went on, unabated, for five minutes. Very little variation. Jaime was ready to scream, at the very least or maybe kill.
Later that night, Vera Mae had a heart tremor or maybe fell down or maybe she thought she fell down but the upshot was that she called the hospital and they felt that she should come in immediately for tests. Lots of tests.
So the ambulance came. We get a lot of that here at New Pointe. Seriously, about one a night on average. People fall, their heart beats irregularly or they start bleeding for no reason. The ambulance comes and they go. So Vera Mae went.
In the morning, Barney came up to me like a little boy who had lost his puppy. "My girl is in the hospital." Now I might not be the swiftest but I know what comes next. "Would you like a ride to the hospital to see her?" Barney's puppy was back. We went up the next day. The day after that, we went up and got her and brought her back.
From then on, I was top drawer as far as Barney is concerned. I think he even thanked me in his own way.
And to be honest, it was kinda nice to be able to do such a little thing that meant so much to them.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Holly and the question of age
Holly is a very elegant and sharp rsident here. We had gone out for doctor's appointments and on the way back there was Holly and Molly Ames in the van. Molly Ames was saying that she was eighty-eight. Holly suddenly barked from the back seat of the van that Molly was only eighty-six. "Shame on you for lying about your age. You are saying you're eighty-eight to get sympathy! You're only eighty-six and you know it."
Sad but true; Molly Ames had been lying. She was only eighty-six.
What was surprizing was the vehemence that Holly had taken after her (I half expected her to put poor eighty-six year old Molly in a headlock and make her fess up.
Age, even lack of it, seems to hold some importance around here.
Sad but true; Molly Ames had been lying. She was only eighty-six.
What was surprizing was the vehemence that Holly had taken after her (I half expected her to put poor eighty-six year old Molly in a headlock and make her fess up.
Age, even lack of it, seems to hold some importance around here.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Della
Della lives next door to me. Age has deformed her. He legs are bowlegged to the point where it is difficult for her to walk. Her head is bent forward and it is a fair amount of effort for her to lift it up to speak to you, but she always makes the effort. Her voice, like herself, is tiny.
For all of this, she is a gamer.
One sunny day, we loaded the 20 passenger bus about two-thirds full and headed off to an event. When we got there, it was clear that there was no room for us--even able-bodied people weren't getting in. Back we went. When we arrived, Della's little voice came out from the front seat "Well, it was fun to get out."
"Getting out" is very important for most of these people. It doesn't matter so much what we do, as long as we do it. A drive to see a sunset can be the highlight of the week.
Della needed my help one evening. Della can't sleep because of various problems, so she gets up two or three times a night, has an Ensure and then she can sleep for an hour or two. She needed me to open the Ensure.
For a product largely aimed at old people, Ensure comes in a box like Forrt Knox. After that, it is wrapped in ten nil plastic and finally, you have to break the safety seal--th operative word here being 'break'. Della was thrilled how I heroically tore through the triple packaging (I think she fully expected me to fly out threw the window ala Superman).
There was a picture in her entry hall. It was obviously old. A little girl of about two was shown and sitting beside her was a small stuffd toy monkey. It would melt your heart so that it would seep out of your toes. It was Della when she was two: "I would cry if I didn't have an animal with me or at the very least a stuffed toy. My parents brought the monkey to the studio."
Inside the living room was another framed picture. At first, I thought it was a painting. It was from the late Sixties. A couple were standing against the front panel of some muscle car of that era. The couple were both wearing sunglasses and standing very erect. The man was tall and handsome. The woman was wearing six inch weggies, those cork high heeled things that women favored when they had a tall husband or boyfriend. Della told me that it was a picture that she had someone blow up and frame. In the expansion of the photo, it took on the pantina of a painting. It was beautiful. I asked Della if it had been taken at Daytona. She was delighted that I knew it was Daytona: "How did you know?" Well, most beaches don't let cars on the sand and that looks like a pretty hot car.
It was her and her husband. She must have been something in her prime and this was a photo from her prime.
It must be nice to have had a great time with someone.
For all of this, she is a gamer.
One sunny day, we loaded the 20 passenger bus about two-thirds full and headed off to an event. When we got there, it was clear that there was no room for us--even able-bodied people weren't getting in. Back we went. When we arrived, Della's little voice came out from the front seat "Well, it was fun to get out."
"Getting out" is very important for most of these people. It doesn't matter so much what we do, as long as we do it. A drive to see a sunset can be the highlight of the week.
Della needed my help one evening. Della can't sleep because of various problems, so she gets up two or three times a night, has an Ensure and then she can sleep for an hour or two. She needed me to open the Ensure.
For a product largely aimed at old people, Ensure comes in a box like Forrt Knox. After that, it is wrapped in ten nil plastic and finally, you have to break the safety seal--th operative word here being 'break'. Della was thrilled how I heroically tore through the triple packaging (I think she fully expected me to fly out threw the window ala Superman).
There was a picture in her entry hall. It was obviously old. A little girl of about two was shown and sitting beside her was a small stuffd toy monkey. It would melt your heart so that it would seep out of your toes. It was Della when she was two: "I would cry if I didn't have an animal with me or at the very least a stuffed toy. My parents brought the monkey to the studio."
Inside the living room was another framed picture. At first, I thought it was a painting. It was from the late Sixties. A couple were standing against the front panel of some muscle car of that era. The couple were both wearing sunglasses and standing very erect. The man was tall and handsome. The woman was wearing six inch weggies, those cork high heeled things that women favored when they had a tall husband or boyfriend. Della told me that it was a picture that she had someone blow up and frame. In the expansion of the photo, it took on the pantina of a painting. It was beautiful. I asked Della if it had been taken at Daytona. She was delighted that I knew it was Daytona: "How did you know?" Well, most beaches don't let cars on the sand and that looks like a pretty hot car.
It was her and her husband. She must have been something in her prime and this was a photo from her prime.
It must be nice to have had a great time with someone.
Slyvia
Slyvia is the keeper of the joint. You would love to have her as a Grandma.
She is as spicy as a good stew and ready for whatever you might dish out. Sarcasim is her favoite accent and she gives as well as she takes.
She was married to a politician and if there is a Republican in the room, she can smell him out like a rat terrier.
She has great stories but the best part is that she doesn't just live in the past.
And around here, she is superior because she can still drive.
She is as spicy as a good stew and ready for whatever you might dish out. Sarcasim is her favoite accent and she gives as well as she takes.
She was married to a politician and if there is a Republican in the room, she can smell him out like a rat terrier.
She has great stories but the best part is that she doesn't just live in the past.
And around here, she is superior because she can still drive.
Stevie
She is old but not as old as she looks. Or acts. There are signs of obvious physical problems. There is a two inch 'indentation' on her skull, under the hairline and near the temple. She has trouble walking and she is bent in several directions. But it is her mental state that is most noticeable. It is noticeable from down the hall, across the room or at the dining table. She has no self-confidence. She constantly apologizes for her behavior when it is certainly no worse and maybe even better than the average. She almost uses an apology as a way of greeting or conversationally like the weather. Nearly always, the first thing out of her mouth is an apology.
The other night, I was writing on the computer and the phone range. It was Stevie. She wanted to know if I was busy. I am the driver here and my hours do not normally extend into the evening. I assured her that I was doing nothing of importance. I had to drag it out of her: her television wasn't working. Could I come up and help her? I live below her, so her request was not much.
I looked at the television. I followed the cable to the outlet and that looked fine. The indicator light on the plug was on. Should be good. So I hit the 'power' button. The TV came to life. Problem solved. Stevie went into full apology storm. "Not a problem; glad to help." She would have none of it. According to her, the real problem was medical: "Normally, I am not like this."
I finally clawed the door open. Went downstairs and was back on the computer when the phone rang again. Stevie's TV was out.
"It's getting late. Have some tea and go to sleep and if the TV isn't working tomorrow, call me and I'll come up and fix it." This seemed like a good idea to Stevie and she adreed that was the very thing to do.
The next day, she approached squaking out apologies. Apparently, giving the TV a rest was exactly the thing and it now worked. A dozen layers of apoogies were laid about and I finally got away by assuring her that my mother had the same problems with her TV. Tiny in the measure of lies, but it worked and Stevie brightened considerably until the weight of her failure simply over-took her and she sat on a bench--retirement centers have lots of benches sprinkled in the lobby, the halls and generally anywhere where old people might have a cause to need a seat for a moment or longer--weary to the end-of-time and puzzled as to why she had such a hard time coping.
I told her what I tell nearly everyone here: "Stop being so hard on yourself. Relax. No one is expecting much and you've earned a rest. Relax."
I must give this speech a dozen times a day.
The other night, I was writing on the computer and the phone range. It was Stevie. She wanted to know if I was busy. I am the driver here and my hours do not normally extend into the evening. I assured her that I was doing nothing of importance. I had to drag it out of her: her television wasn't working. Could I come up and help her? I live below her, so her request was not much.
I looked at the television. I followed the cable to the outlet and that looked fine. The indicator light on the plug was on. Should be good. So I hit the 'power' button. The TV came to life. Problem solved. Stevie went into full apology storm. "Not a problem; glad to help." She would have none of it. According to her, the real problem was medical: "Normally, I am not like this."
I finally clawed the door open. Went downstairs and was back on the computer when the phone rang again. Stevie's TV was out.
"It's getting late. Have some tea and go to sleep and if the TV isn't working tomorrow, call me and I'll come up and fix it." This seemed like a good idea to Stevie and she adreed that was the very thing to do.
The next day, she approached squaking out apologies. Apparently, giving the TV a rest was exactly the thing and it now worked. A dozen layers of apoogies were laid about and I finally got away by assuring her that my mother had the same problems with her TV. Tiny in the measure of lies, but it worked and Stevie brightened considerably until the weight of her failure simply over-took her and she sat on a bench--retirement centers have lots of benches sprinkled in the lobby, the halls and generally anywhere where old people might have a cause to need a seat for a moment or longer--weary to the end-of-time and puzzled as to why she had such a hard time coping.
I told her what I tell nearly everyone here: "Stop being so hard on yourself. Relax. No one is expecting much and you've earned a rest. Relax."
I must give this speech a dozen times a day.
Purpose
At the beginning of 2008, I got a job driving at a retirement center. I was a tour driver and cab driver and it was time to move away from that. Tour driving is high demand and high stress in the summer and nothing in the winter. I had escaped from cab driving ten years ago and definitely did not want to go back to that racket. The retirement center offered a low demand job; I would be driving about three hours a day and about twenty miles a day--at most. More importantly, they offered me a room in the apartment complex and meals. Virtually 'thinkng free' work.
I also dumped my girlfriend of five years (or was she right and it was seven?) when she refused to give up her neurocices for me.
This blog is nothing more than an exercise in recording the stories, the events and the personalities of the people here at New Pointe. I am not even sure that thre is any real reason for writing this down, any more than there is a point to writing anything down.
I also dumped my girlfriend of five years (or was she right and it was seven?) when she refused to give up her neurocices for me.
This blog is nothing more than an exercise in recording the stories, the events and the personalities of the people here at New Pointe. I am not even sure that thre is any real reason for writing this down, any more than there is a point to writing anything down.
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