A Tuesday in a Nursing Home
I wake up around 7:30, which is early for me. Tuesdays are chiropractor days, and if I’m leaving the building I’ve learned to start getting ready about three hours ahead of time. It’s a little like going through airport security every time I go somewhere, except the line is invisible and I can’t see how many people are in front of me.
The first hour and a half is mostly spent on my phone. I check Facebook, watch YouTube, answer messages, and keep an eye on the clock. There isn’t much point in turning my call light on yet. The aides are busy with the “feeders,” the residents who need help eating. Some just need a little assistance. Some are fed one bite at a time. By the time they’re finished it’s usually around nine, and that’s when I let them know I have an appointment and need to be in the lobby by 10:30.
They already know, or at least they should. Somewhere there’s a schedule with my appointment on it, probably a computer too. I’ve just learned that the thing written down and the thing that happens aren’t always the same thing, so I mention it anyway. Then I wait.
While I wait, I flatten the bed with the remote. It controls almost everything: the back raises and lowers, the legs go up and down, and the whole bed tilts. I usually sleep with my head a little lower than my feet because the traction feels good on my back.
When the aides come in, deodorant comes first, then my shirt and pants. Getting dressed happens before the Hoyer lift, while I’m still in bed. Once that’s done, they roll me onto my left side and feed a purple nylon sling underneath me from the right. Then they roll me back over it and pull the other half through. Two straps come up behind my shoulders and two more come together between my legs before they clip into the Hoyer lift. The outside of the sling tightens first, my butt comes up last, and in a few seconds I’m hanging in a sort of hammock with my legs dangling and my backside about five feet off the floor.
People sometimes ask what that’s like. Mostly I watch the clips and make sure my legs are where they’re supposed to be. The lift is mechanical and predictable, no more exciting than an elevator. While I’m hanging there they put my shoes on because it’s the easiest time to reach my feet. Then they lower me into the chair.
Lowering me into the chair isn’t quite the end of it. I’m sitting, but I’m not all the way back. To fix that I lean forward as far as I can, brace myself with my right hand and left elbow, and one or two aides grab the waistband of my pants from behind and pull while I push with my legs. Around here that’s called a “boost.” It usually leaves my pants somewhere around my rib cage.
Before I leave I grab my backpack. The front pocket has become a little survival kit: an Apple Pencil, flashlight, laser pointer, pen, pencil, Kindle, scissors, a microfiber cloth, three pairs of glasses, extra ZYN, and enough cash for a Pepsi if I decide I want one later. The main pocket stays mostly empty for whatever comes home with me that day, whether it’s mail from the front desk, groceries, or sometimes a bag of candy for my friend Mike. Once I’m downstairs, going back isn’t a casual decision.
There are two kinds of vans, and I have a favorite.
The good one is a full size wheelchair van with a hydraulic lift on the back. The driver lowers the platform to the ground, I drive onto it, and the lift brings me level with the floor. I drive inside and hit my mark, and the chair is strapped down with four ratchets, one at each corner.
The other is a converted minivan with a fold out ramp. I don’t like that one as much. The ramp is steeper, and as I’m backing down it I always ask the driver to stand behind me in case I tip over. It isn’t something I worry about constantly, but it could happen, and if it does I’d rather there be somebody there than nobody there.
My wheelchair was a gift from the kind people who follow my work on Doug Myself Out. It’s powered by two 300 watt motors, so hills and ramps aren’t much of a problem.
My driver opens the door for me, and I fish my appointment card out of my backpack. It has a barcode on it. I scan in and roll off to the side until they call my name.
My chiropractor is Dr. Ed. Chiropractors are apparently required to have one syllable names. His wife, Dr. Kay, is also a chiropractor, and she usually makes me a cup of coffee from one of those little pods while I wait.
Eventually I squeeze past the display of supplements and into the treatment room. It’s an oasis compared to the strip mall outside. Three matching adjustment tables sit in a row in front of two rows of black chairs. Some people are balancing on inflatable cushions. Others are using the neck stretching devices along the wall. I usually just sit and watch.
There’s almost always a cross section of humanity in there. A pregnant woman. A roofer. A father and son. Everybody waiting for their turn.
When Ed gets to me, the treatment depends on the week. Sometimes he pulls on my legs. Sometimes he uses a percussion gun on the muscles around my joints. Sometimes he leans me forward in my wheelchair so he can get at my mid back. Today he tried something new. He gave me a hug, planted his fist between my shoulder blades, and pulled.
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Something slipped back into place in one instant that managed to be both agony and relief.
I rolled out feeling a little better than I rolled in. Maybe it’s a leap forward.
Every Tuesday, like Sam Beckett, I leave hoping that this leap will be the leap home.
Wherever that is.
The sports bar next door blocks the sidewalk, so I cut across the parking lot instead, picking my way around potholes and traffic. I’m looking for a limited edition ZYN.
The owner and I spend a few minutes talking shop. We both used to own businesses, and conversations between former business owners have a rhythm all their own.
On most Tuesdays we’ll stop at Starbucks or McDonald’s on the way back. One errand doesn’t quite feel like it justifies three hours of preparation.
Not today. The smoke shop was enough.
I watch the traffic slide past the window and brace for the bumps in the road until the nursing home comes back into view.
Back at the nursing home, the process mostly runs in reverse. The van, the ramp, the straps, the elevator, the Hoyer lift. Before long I’m back in my wheelchair.
From there I make the long trip down to the 300 unit to see my friend Mike. He’s moving into an assisted living apartment soon, so we’re practicing with his tablet now. The idea is that once he’s gone, we’ll still be able to stay in touch over Zoom.
Learning how to swipe has been the hardest part. I didn’t realize how many different ways there were to almost swipe.
After he’s gotten it right two or three times, I make the long trip back.
I stop in the day room because it’s one of the quieter places to make my own Zoom call.
This one is the Michigan Statewide Resident Council, which I was recently elected to chair. There are people calling in from nursing homes all over the state as we work through the agenda one item at a time: the Personal Needs Allowance and proposed legislation.
Tomorrow we’re doing tie dye.
That means a little bit of preparation today. I check with the nurses’ station to make sure we’ll have enough plastic basins, then gather rubber bands, bottles of dye, gloves, and plastic tablecloths. The activity itself only lasts an hour or two, but getting a dozen people to the starting line takes longer than most people realize.
Eventually I’m back in bed, flanked by my side tables.
Now I have a little time to do some art.
My current project is a commission from one of the housekeepers: a Harry Potter coaster scrimshawed into a piece of Corian.
