Accomplished Feet / Accessible Wheels
My journey to appear was planned days in advance, with help from my dedicated caregiver. I had a fair amount of apprehension going into this, having gotten stuck at the bottom of the staircase the very first time I tried using the stairlift a few weeks ago. Getting downstairs wouldn't be the most difficult part of the equation. But with the return trip? Well, I felt a vague foreboding.
First, with transportation on the way, I climbed out of bed and into my (upstairs) manual wheelchair, wherein my caregiver pushed me out to the hallway through the ocean of lush plush ripply warped carpeting. Then, at the top of the stairway, I transferred myself onto the stairlift chair, a potentially dangerous maneuver each and every time, requiring perfect balance and some manner of deft precision. Being precariously perched in such a way it's not my idea of a good time, as it's a long way down to the first landing. But at least in this instance, my caregiver is there spotting me.
Note: The way the stairlift was installed does not leave me much margin for error. If I would have been out there (out of bed) and directly participating during the planning stages, I would have otherwise insisted (as a means to making everything safer and more convenient overall).
The ride down is no big deal, but at the bottom my next wheelchair transfer comes into play. There's supposed to be a grab bar affixed to the wall, giving me something to hold on to. But that hasn't happened yet. So instead, I need to find a clever way to defy gravity, lowering myself a substantial amount down to the secondary manual wheelchair below without anything to hold onto (please note, my legs are more or less a decorative feature). Besides that, quarters are tight, as the available space exactly matches the size of the wheelchair, so a helping hand from a human isn't even an option. On this occasion, I'm able to awkwardly fall into the wheelchair without incident (my caregiver holding it steady, while also holding the door open). It's nearly a two foot drop.
Next, I need to funnel my way through the doorway (without pinching off my fingers) and into the garage (yes, barely enough room to squeeze through). The next obstacle is a filing cabinet dead ahead, requiring me to make a 36 point turn in order to properly orient myself. I wish I could move the cabinet someplace else, but I've been told there's no place else to put it, so there it sits and there it remains (it's now been moved!). The garage is crowded, and I don't have the muscle to do anything about it myself.
Once I'm pointing in the right direction, transferring onto the power wheelchair is no big deal. Hurray for that! The height of both chairs is similar. And thus, I am on my way, heading out for my first social engagement in nearly three months (only slightly worse for the wear).
It's Not the Destination
Upon arrival, I see Josie (an RNA). She smiles, then gives me a hug, while also peppering me with questions regarding my current situation. So far so good. I'll take hugs any way I can get them. A few more employees happen by and greet me kindly, as well.
I take a look around the expanse (the dining room / activities area) noting that changes have taken place since my last visit. New furniture is set in place, and then I also see that they’ve relocated the antique vehicle, the one that formerly (and inconveniently) sat in the middle of the activities room. At least now the broken down piano (unceremoniously situated in the corner) has a companion. I almost decided to bang out a few chords, but I'm not here for that.
I roll past one of the recesses at the opposite end, discovering a familiar employee tucked away, enjoying her lunch.
And wouldn't you believe, it’s Tiffany, and she doesn't look good at all. Normally, she looks plenty good, as in - she's attractive in all the necessary ways you would need to be attracted to somebody if you were hoping to initiate a long-term intimate relationship.
Yes it's true, if I were to build a woman from scratch, someone with whom I'd enjoy spending quality time who'd possibly meet most of my needs (and vice versa), she might well be the blueprint; intelligent, quick-witted, playful, nice looking, compassionate, and emotionally available (yes, and most beneficially, my significant other does own many of these qualities, amongst a plethora of unnamed others - so hooray for that!).
Within the general populace many people do have some combination of those individual attributes in their arsenal, the exception being, playfulness. Yes, I ALWAYS harp on the playfulness aspect. Adults, in general, and for the most part, aren't playful at all! In my exacting estimations, probably no greater than one out of every 500 adults qualify, so whenever I meet someone who fits the bill, I become disproportionately enthusiastic, as well as finding myself enlivened in their presence. Personally, I only happen upon people like her a dozen times each decade. To be certain, she's an anomalous being.
Note: the menfolk seem to have an entirely different set of attributes by default, being from Mars, and all that. Beyond my former best friend (now deceased), I've not had much luck making any substantial guy friends. Nope, I'm not at all sure how to make that equation work, but that's likely on me.
Feeling Each Other Out
“Oh my god, what are you doing here?” She asks, in a slight Valley Girl accent.
Before I can answer, she suddenly realizes why I'm there.
“Oh, the service, you're here for the memorial service aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, she contacted you, right?”
“Yes.” We both know who she's talking about.
I allow her to ask me a barrage of questions regarding my current living situation, before I politely interject.
“You're not okay, are you?” I surmise, sensing she may wish to elaborate.
“No, and you're not going to believe what's happened to me.”
I assume it has something to do with her husband, and of course, it does. Unfortunately.
Back when I was a resident, there was an incident at her home, wherein he struck her across the face while high on drugs. She eventually forgave him, deciding not to press charges. According to Tiffany (not her real name), her husband promised to clean up his act. Which of course, he clearly did not.
She went on to explain that her husband smashed out the windows in their house while in the midst of a drunken rage a few months prior. He eventually physically choked her, as well. Bad stuff, indeed (of course, they have children … ughhh).
And that explains the way she looked. She appeared to be physically haggard and mentally beaten up. So I immediately went into support mode.
Based upon her account, the courts had originally decided to imprison him for 18 months (based upon his terrible doings), but instead of following suit with that line of punishment, they recanted, putting him on intense probation instead (with a restraining order held in place). And understandably, my friend wasn't at all happy with the unfavorable result.
We exchanged contact information and I left Tiffany to finish her lunch. She was in tears (and under normal circumstances I wouldn't have departed so hastily), but I didn't want to exacerbate her fragile emotional state by delving deeper into the details and / or her emotional state (yes, I offered encouragement, while also insisting she seek out therapy, etc.).
Amassing the Assemblage
Meanwhile, a crowd is gathering, so I roll back into the memorial service staging area. Probably about fifty folding chairs are set up, with over half of them being occupied. I recognize very few people, assuming they are immediate family members and direct acquaintances of the deceased.
As an aside, many in number had neck tattoos, with the females wearing excessive amounts of black makeup. I'm not sure if that means anything, and of course, none of that matters. But I'm doing my best to paint the picture / sketch out the scene for you.
On my way over, I spot another friend of mine (Laura) sitting in the second row with her husband (my former roommate and friend, Sam).
If you happen to remember her, both she and her family are the ones who adopted me when I first moved into the nursing home - hanging out with me whenever they would visit, treating me like a longstanding familiar.
Laura and I stay in semi-irregular contact. And in fact, I was the one who told her about the service in the first place, letting her know that I would be attending (she likes to meet up whenever the opportunity presents itself). So she decided to attend. She also invited one of our mutual friends - a blonde woman whose name I can never remember. But truly, by now, it's too late to ask. In any case, the woman smiles a lot, which I find agreeable. Why don't people smile more often these days?
It also seems I have forgotten the names of half the people I see at the nursing home. They remember me by name (I, however, remember their faces and their personal stories … in great detail). In any case, I'll remember their faces forever. Hopefully that's enough.
I spent nearly a dozen minutes talking to Sam. His level of coherence is much improved versus the last time I saw him, months prior. And most importantly, he's able to stay awake and discernibly coherent for the duration of the event, rather than his formerly typical nodding off in an uncontrollable fashion (due to his medications and his illness).
Ceremony
Based upon the busying pace within the room, it seemed as though the service would soon be underway, so I headed towards the back row to position myself accordingly, meeting up (and briefly socializing) with some of my former resident friends prior to the start.
The Endurance Factor
Or
Lights, Camera, Action
Our attention was directed towards the video screen. And upon that screen, images were presented, interlaced with short videos - basically, pictures of the deceased, which were mostly selfies taken by the daughter (Kitchen Girl) - with the dearly departed in tow.
To be certain, each succeeding image was similar (if not identical) to the previous one, repeated again and again. Not only that, 90% of the pictures had been taken within the past calendar year. So no, not much variation whatsoever. Not that that's the goal or objective (yes, on some level I am being insensitive, while also judging unnecessarily). The problem being, the slideshow continued on and on … for 45 minutes. So the captive audience and I sat there, watching silently and respectfully, eyeballs transfixed.
The More You Thunk You Knowed
So, at thirteen images per minute, the contingent easily viewed in excess of 500 images! And now these images are forever imprinted in my brain, until death do I myself depart.
Feelings Muted
Somewhat interestingly, I wasn't feeling the emotions in the room. I mean heck, I wasn't feeling anything at all from anybody - except when I engaged my friends directly (Tiffany and Sam) in conversation earlier.
Insensitive Awkwardness
And while the presentation continued on and on, the director of activities was busily taking photographs of everybody as a group, before defaulting to candid photos of the sorrowful contingent individually. I felt that her doing so was disrespectful to those authentically paying their respects, directly infringing upon, and breeding discomfort in those who were already experiencing difficulty due to their personal loss.
My friend (Laura the Therapist) brought this up to me afterwards. After the fact, I learned others felt this way as well, primarily the older folk in the room.
Then, after the video ran its course, a barely audible preacher dude said some nice and possibly inspiring things about the deceased (despite not knowing her) and even sang a religious song acapella … (well, permanent resident Marty was the only one who sang along, as he's clearly done some of its own Bible belting in the past). Then a few people spoke briefly before the event concluded.
Beyond the length of the ceremony and the intrusive photographing, the event was well organized and put together.
Also, it may be that I didn't personally feel the emotional pull due to all of the death I'd experienced in the past couple of years (myriad residents passing in the night throughout my nursing home stay).
In any case, Vicky (the deceased) laughed easily and often. I enjoyed spending time in her company. She was one of the few residents that willfully attended each and every group activity. She will be missed.
Eats
Oh yeah, food was served, so everybody got busy chewing in the-soon-thereafter.
Killing Time, not Calories
I still had two hours before my ride was scheduled to show up, so I aimlessly roamed around, engaging others socially. Mostly staff members.
I did happen to have a more involved one-on-one discussion with the preacher. He seemed interested in me, as I was in him. I especially appreciate when people of their stripe are open to experience and sharing, while not inclined to convert you to their religion of choice. Being that I am disabled, these conversion attempts happen more often than you might expect. It's almost as though religious folk assume my suffering is due to my lack of godly dedication… as though I'm being punished for not submitting. Or in some cases, they assume that I am unhappy / miserable, due to my disability. But that's my interpretation based on my own experiences. Perhaps that's not really the case across the board.
Welcome Back
Upon returning back home, I had to contend with getting back indoors / getting back upstairs. I was openly disappointed that The Wife Person didn't follow my requested wishes to park her vehicle elsewhere (not the garage). So upon my arrival I was a bit miffed, because inside the garage (my only means to return indoors) the temperature was an easy 12,000° (heat coming off the engine block, et al), and already I was feeling somewhat dehydrated due to the excessive 113° outdoor heat exposure, which includes a general lack of cooling inside the Dial-A-Ride transport vehicle. Needless to say, I finally worked my way back indoors with her help, then cranked down the air conditioning a fair amount.
Post Script
Hours after returning home, I had an epiphany of sorts. Why not have my therapist friend (Laura) speak to my recently traumatized friend (Tiffany)?
It turns out that Laura is (not surprisingly) agreeable to that option, so I am currently working towards that end. We'll see how things play out.
That concludes my real life adventure, which happened to be vitally important on many levels, especially not having been out and about since the stifling everlasting record-breaking summer heat took hold. By the end of September the evenings shall cool off, and by the end of October I'll be free to work my way around the village during the daylight hours, with temperatures plummeting below 100° Fahrenheit… FINALLY!
Take care,
Howard
My journey to appear was planned days in advance, with help from my dedicated caregiver. I had a fair amount of apprehension going into this, having gotten stuck at the bottom of the staircase the very first time I tried using the stairlift a few weeks ago. Getting downstairs wouldn't be the most difficult part of the equation. But with the return trip? Well, I felt a vague foreboding.
First, with transportation on the way, I climbed out of bed and into my (upstairs) manual wheelchair, wherein my caregiver pushed me out to the hallway through the ocean of lush plush ripply warped carpeting. Then, at the top of the stairway, I transferred myself onto the stairlift chair, a potentially dangerous maneuver each and every time, requiring perfect balance and some manner of deft precision. Being precariously perched in such a way it's not my idea of a good time, as it's a long way down to the first landing. But at least in this instance, my caregiver is there spotting me.
Note: The way the stairlift was installed does not leave me much margin for error. If I would have been out there (out of bed) and directly participating during the planning stages, I would have otherwise insisted (as a means to making everything safer and more convenient overall).
The ride down is no big deal, but at the bottom my next wheelchair transfer comes into play. There's supposed to be a grab bar affixed to the wall, giving me something to hold on to. But that hasn't happened yet. So instead, I need to find a clever way to defy gravity, lowering myself a substantial amount down to the secondary manual wheelchair below without anything to hold onto (please note, my legs are more or less a decorative feature). Besides that, quarters are tight, as the available space exactly matches the size of the wheelchair, so a helping hand from a human isn't even an option. On this occasion, I'm able to awkwardly fall into the wheelchair without incident (my caregiver holding it steady, while also holding the door open). It's nearly a two foot drop.
Next, I need to funnel my way through the doorway (without pinching off my fingers) and into the garage (yes, barely enough room to squeeze through). The next obstacle is a filing cabinet dead ahead, requiring me to make a 36 point turn in order to properly orient myself. I wish I could move the cabinet someplace else, but I've been told there's no place else to put it, so there it sits and there it remains (it's now been moved!). The garage is crowded, and I don't have the muscle to do anything about it myself.
Once I'm pointing in the right direction, transferring onto the power wheelchair is no big deal. Hurray for that! The height of both chairs is similar. And thus, I am on my way, heading out for my first social engagement in nearly three months (only slightly worse for the wear).
It's Not the Destination
Upon arrival, I see Josie (an RNA). She smiles, then gives me a hug, while also peppering me with questions regarding my current situation. So far so good. I'll take hugs any way I can get them. A few more employees happen by and greet me kindly, as well.
I take a look around the expanse (the dining room / activities area) noting that changes have taken place since my last visit. New furniture is set in place, and then I also see that they’ve relocated the antique vehicle, the one that formerly (and inconveniently) sat in the middle of the activities room. At least now the broken down piano (unceremoniously situated in the corner) has a companion. I almost decided to bang out a few chords, but I'm not here for that.
I roll past one of the recesses at the opposite end, discovering a familiar employee tucked away, enjoying her lunch.
And wouldn't you believe, it’s Tiffany, and she doesn't look good at all. Normally, she looks plenty good, as in - she's attractive in all the necessary ways you would need to be attracted to somebody if you were hoping to initiate a long-term intimate relationship.
Yes it's true, if I were to build a woman from scratch, someone with whom I'd enjoy spending quality time who'd possibly meet most of my needs (and vice versa), she might well be the blueprint; intelligent, quick-witted, playful, nice looking, compassionate, and emotionally available (yes, and most beneficially, my significant other does own many of these qualities, amongst a plethora of unnamed others - so hooray for that!).
Within the general populace many people do have some combination of those individual attributes in their arsenal, the exception being, playfulness. Yes, I ALWAYS harp on the playfulness aspect. Adults, in general, and for the most part, aren't playful at all! In my exacting estimations, probably no greater than one out of every 500 adults qualify, so whenever I meet someone who fits the bill, I become disproportionately enthusiastic, as well as finding myself enlivened in their presence. Personally, I only happen upon people like her a dozen times each decade. To be certain, she's an anomalous being.
Note: the menfolk seem to have an entirely different set of attributes by default, being from Mars, and all that. Beyond my former best friend (now deceased), I've not had much luck making any substantial guy friends. Nope, I'm not at all sure how to make that equation work, but that's likely on me.
Feeling Each Other Out
“Oh my god, what are you doing here?” She asks, in a slight Valley Girl accent.
Before I can answer, she suddenly realizes why I'm there.
“Oh, the service, you're here for the memorial service aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, she contacted you, right?”
“Yes.” We both know who she's talking about.
I allow her to ask me a barrage of questions regarding my current living situation, before I politely interject.
“You're not okay, are you?” I surmise, sensing she may wish to elaborate.
“No, and you're not going to believe what's happened to me.”
I assume it has something to do with her husband, and of course, it does. Unfortunately.
Back when I was a resident, there was an incident at her home, wherein he struck her across the face while high on drugs. She eventually forgave him, deciding not to press charges. According to Tiffany (not her real name), her husband promised to clean up his act. Which of course, he clearly did not.
She went on to explain that her husband smashed out the windows in their house while in the midst of a drunken rage a few months prior. He eventually physically choked her, as well. Bad stuff, indeed (of course, they have children … ughhh).
And that explains the way she looked. She appeared to be physically haggard and mentally beaten up. So I immediately went into support mode.
Based upon her account, the courts had originally decided to imprison him for 18 months (based upon his terrible doings), but instead of following suit with that line of punishment, they recanted, putting him on intense probation instead (with a restraining order held in place). And understandably, my friend wasn't at all happy with the unfavorable result.
We exchanged contact information and I left Tiffany to finish her lunch. She was in tears (and under normal circumstances I wouldn't have departed so hastily), but I didn't want to exacerbate her fragile emotional state by delving deeper into the details and / or her emotional state (yes, I offered encouragement, while also insisting she seek out therapy, etc.).
Amassing the Assemblage
Meanwhile, a crowd is gathering, so I roll back into the memorial service staging area. Probably about fifty folding chairs are set up, with over half of them being occupied. I recognize very few people, assuming they are immediate family members and direct acquaintances of the deceased.
As an aside, many in number had neck tattoos, with the females wearing excessive amounts of black makeup. I'm not sure if that means anything, and of course, none of that matters. But I'm doing my best to paint the picture / sketch out the scene for you.
On my way over, I spot another friend of mine (Laura) sitting in the second row with her husband (my former roommate and friend, Sam).
If you happen to remember her, both she and her family are the ones who adopted me when I first moved into the nursing home - hanging out with me whenever they would visit, treating me like a longstanding familiar.
Laura and I stay in semi-irregular contact. And in fact, I was the one who told her about the service in the first place, letting her know that I would be attending (she likes to meet up whenever the opportunity presents itself). So she decided to attend. She also invited one of our mutual friends - a blonde woman whose name I can never remember. But truly, by now, it's too late to ask. In any case, the woman smiles a lot, which I find agreeable. Why don't people smile more often these days?
It also seems I have forgotten the names of half the people I see at the nursing home. They remember me by name (I, however, remember their faces and their personal stories … in great detail). In any case, I'll remember their faces forever. Hopefully that's enough.
I spent nearly a dozen minutes talking to Sam. His level of coherence is much improved versus the last time I saw him, months prior. And most importantly, he's able to stay awake and discernibly coherent for the duration of the event, rather than his formerly typical nodding off in an uncontrollable fashion (due to his medications and his illness).
Ceremony
Based upon the busying pace within the room, it seemed as though the service would soon be underway, so I headed towards the back row to position myself accordingly, meeting up (and briefly socializing) with some of my former resident friends prior to the start.
The Endurance Factor
Or
Lights, Camera, Action
Our attention was directed towards the video screen. And upon that screen, images were presented, interlaced with short videos - basically, pictures of the deceased, which were mostly selfies taken by the daughter (Kitchen Girl) - with the dearly departed in tow.
To be certain, each succeeding image was similar (if not identical) to the previous one, repeated again and again. Not only that, 90% of the pictures had been taken within the past calendar year. So no, not much variation whatsoever. Not that that's the goal or objective (yes, on some level I am being insensitive, while also judging unnecessarily). The problem being, the slideshow continued on and on … for 45 minutes. So the captive audience and I sat there, watching silently and respectfully, eyeballs transfixed.
The More You Thunk You Knowed
So, at thirteen images per minute, the contingent easily viewed in excess of 500 images! And now these images are forever imprinted in my brain, until death do I myself depart.
Feelings Muted
Somewhat interestingly, I wasn't feeling the emotions in the room. I mean heck, I wasn't feeling anything at all from anybody - except when I engaged my friends directly (Tiffany and Sam) in conversation earlier.
Insensitive Awkwardness
And while the presentation continued on and on, the director of activities was busily taking photographs of everybody as a group, before defaulting to candid photos of the sorrowful contingent individually. I felt that her doing so was disrespectful to those authentically paying their respects, directly infringing upon, and breeding discomfort in those who were already experiencing difficulty due to their personal loss.
My friend (Laura the Therapist) brought this up to me afterwards. After the fact, I learned others felt this way as well, primarily the older folk in the room.
Then, after the video ran its course, a barely audible preacher dude said some nice and possibly inspiring things about the deceased (despite not knowing her) and even sang a religious song acapella … (well, permanent resident Marty was the only one who sang along, as he's clearly done some of its own Bible belting in the past). Then a few people spoke briefly before the event concluded.
Beyond the length of the ceremony and the intrusive photographing, the event was well organized and put together.
Also, it may be that I didn't personally feel the emotional pull due to all of the death I'd experienced in the past couple of years (myriad residents passing in the night throughout my nursing home stay).
In any case, Vicky (the deceased) laughed easily and often. I enjoyed spending time in her company. She was one of the few residents that willfully attended each and every group activity. She will be missed.
Eats
Oh yeah, food was served, so everybody got busy chewing in the-soon-thereafter.
Killing Time, not Calories
I still had two hours before my ride was scheduled to show up, so I aimlessly roamed around, engaging others socially. Mostly staff members.
I did happen to have a more involved one-on-one discussion with the preacher. He seemed interested in me, as I was in him. I especially appreciate when people of their stripe are open to experience and sharing, while not inclined to convert you to their religion of choice. Being that I am disabled, these conversion attempts happen more often than you might expect. It's almost as though religious folk assume my suffering is due to my lack of godly dedication… as though I'm being punished for not submitting. Or in some cases, they assume that I am unhappy / miserable, due to my disability. But that's my interpretation based on my own experiences. Perhaps that's not really the case across the board.
Welcome Back
Upon returning back home, I had to contend with getting back indoors / getting back upstairs. I was openly disappointed that The Wife Person didn't follow my requested wishes to park her vehicle elsewhere (not the garage). So upon my arrival I was a bit miffed, because inside the garage (my only means to return indoors) the temperature was an easy 12,000° (heat coming off the engine block, et al), and already I was feeling somewhat dehydrated due to the excessive 113° outdoor heat exposure, which includes a general lack of cooling inside the Dial-A-Ride transport vehicle. Needless to say, I finally worked my way back indoors with her help, then cranked down the air conditioning a fair amount.
Post Script
Hours after returning home, I had an epiphany of sorts. Why not have my therapist friend (Laura) speak to my recently traumatized friend (Tiffany)?
It turns out that Laura is (not surprisingly) agreeable to that option, so I am currently working towards that end. We'll see how things play out.
That concludes my real life adventure, which happened to be vitally important on many levels, especially not having been out and about since the stifling everlasting record-breaking summer heat took hold. By the end of September the evenings shall cool off, and by the end of October I'll be free to work my way around the village during the daylight hours, with temperatures plummeting below 100° Fahrenheit… FINALLY!
Take care,
Howard
