A Bad Day

 

Tuesday, April 19, 2022. A bad day at the Memory Care Facility!

 

I arrived at noon. My daughter slept in her recliner.

Good, I can reorganize her closet and dresser.

I busied myself doing just that, but Shelley never woke from a sound sleep. Why not? Had the medical aides given her a PRN?  (In Latin it stands for pro re nata, and it means, as the thing is needed. For Shelley, it’s usually a sedative)

The aide came in about 12:45 to wake her for lunch. I asked about the PRN, or sedative. The aide didn’t know if she’d had one and said to ask the medical aide. We helped Shelley from the chair, and the lady took her to be fed. I finished my cleaning routine and then went to find her.

After lunch, Shelley and I went to the beauty shop. Gloria, the beautician, comes every Tuesday, and I’d scheduled Shelley’s bangs to be cut. We walked the hallways waiting our turn.

Uh Oh! Oops! Warning! Bizarre situations ahead.

One of the residents began screaming in a European language. She tried to chase a tall, masculine aide. He ran fast; she didn’t. A female aide followed the duo. This female assistant was attempting to calm the upset resident. The male attendant had removed a harmful object from the resident’s room, and the European screeching lady was as mad as a hornet. We could hear the screeching throughout the building. I have no idea what the European said, but she was clearly scorching the male aide for taking her prized object.

Meanwhile, back at the beauty salon, about ten people congregated in the beauty shop’s doorway. Two ladies sat in wheelchairs while several residents sat under hairdryers. Others waited their turns.

I was trying to keep Shelley calm. Screeching lady was still shrieking.

Gloria, the stylist, had her hands full.

She had just finished with Betty, and Betty’s white hair looked beautiful.  Betty, sitting in her wheelchair at the door, kept shouting at Gloria, “I need to pay. I need to pay!”

Gloria responded, “Your daughter already paid.  It’s okay.”

Betty continued. “I need to pay. I need to pay.”

Gloria paused her comb out to resident Maxine and held up cash. “See, Betty? Your daughter has already paid.” She waved the money at Betty.

Betty didn’t move. She kept yelling, “I need to pay.”

Shelley wanted to walk away. I didn’t want to lose our place on Gloria’s list, so I kept rotating her back to the area. The last time I’d had Shelley’s haircut, Mr. Henry lost his place in the queue. He had yelled over and over, “I can’t help it if I needed to pee.”

Another male resident, we’ll call him Big John, watched the proceedings closely. He thought I was breaking into line with Shelley. I assured him we had an appointment, and our little haircut would only take a few minutes. He looked dubious and was prepared to stand his ground. “I’m next,” he said.

At this time, a male, nonresident came into the facility, stopped at the beauty shop door and handed Gloria money.

Big John got up and came toward the nonresident. “I’m next.  I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not here for hair.”  The non-resident held up his hands in a “don’t shoot fashion.” He bowed his head and pointed to it. “See I’m bald, I don’t need a haircut. I'm here to pay for my mother.” He turned around and ran to the exit.

As this took place, we continued to hear the European resident scream in her native language. She really wanted that object.

While this commotion kept up, I got Shelley into the shop’s chair, Gloria was trimming her bangs as Big John approached. Gloria stepped to him to intervene.

“You don’t have an appointment. You must tell your family to make you one.”

He argued with her.

Someone went for help.

A medical aide approached Big John. “Hey, John, this is your first day here in our community, and you aren’t on the schedule. Let’s ask your family to place you on the list for next week.”

All this uproar confused Shelley, so she started howling. I spoke to her in a low voice. “You’re okay. Mom is here.”

Gloria finished and asked, “Do you want any more cut?”

“No, not today.”

Gloria sighed and rolled her eyes. “I understand. Today is a bad day.

My admiration for the aides, including the stylist, went up twenty notches. Dementia is a cruel disease, and people who have it don't always know what they are doing or how they are acting.  All the aides handled disturbed people well. They have a tough job. I'm grateful they do what I can't.

As I drove home, I wished I had two of those PRNs.

All names were changed.