"...tormented souls I see around me wherever I move,
and howsoever I turn, and wherever I gaze."
~Dante, "Inferno"
~Dante, "Inferno"
A nursing home is never a happy place. At best, it is sad and vaguely lonely; at worst it is hideously depressing.
My father's nursing home is a "good" one --it is clean and bright, bustling with activity, and the staff is loving and attentive to the residents. It is as fine an example of this type of facility that you are likely to find anywhere, and I am happy that Daddy is receiving exceptional care.
That being said, a locked Alzheimer's ward can be horrendously heart-wrenching. Alzheimer's patients frequently wander, so the door is locked and has key-pad entrance and exit, a task too difficult for the patients to master. It keeps them safe, and that is a good thing. Many of the residents are end-stage, and thus are lost, lying in fetal positions, and apparently unaware of the world around them.
For me, the worst are those who are lost, yet still capable of some type of vocalization. There is Gertie, who giggle disconcertingly in a high-pitched squeal. Then there is Margaret, who moans and cries out "helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme" Most unnerving is Sheila, who shrieks like a banshee, seemingly without the need to breathe. There is no comforting these poor women when they are in this type of crisis, although the staff tries valiantly.
Are they merely acting spontaneously, without any causation, or are they reacting to remote memories? Worse yet, are they railing against the injustice of their disease? Do they somehow see how damned they are, from now until their ultimate death?
Whatever the cause, it all shatters me to hear and be unable to ease their misery. Like a coward, I cut short my visit and run home to sanity.
My father's nursing home is a "good" one --it is clean and bright, bustling with activity, and the staff is loving and attentive to the residents. It is as fine an example of this type of facility that you are likely to find anywhere, and I am happy that Daddy is receiving exceptional care.
That being said, a locked Alzheimer's ward can be horrendously heart-wrenching. Alzheimer's patients frequently wander, so the door is locked and has key-pad entrance and exit, a task too difficult for the patients to master. It keeps them safe, and that is a good thing. Many of the residents are end-stage, and thus are lost, lying in fetal positions, and apparently unaware of the world around them.
For me, the worst are those who are lost, yet still capable of some type of vocalization. There is Gertie, who giggle disconcertingly in a high-pitched squeal. Then there is Margaret, who moans and cries out "helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme" Most unnerving is Sheila, who shrieks like a banshee, seemingly without the need to breathe. There is no comforting these poor women when they are in this type of crisis, although the staff tries valiantly.
Are they merely acting spontaneously, without any causation, or are they reacting to remote memories? Worse yet, are they railing against the injustice of their disease? Do they somehow see how damned they are, from now until their ultimate death?
Whatever the cause, it all shatters me to hear and be unable to ease their misery. Like a coward, I cut short my visit and run home to sanity.
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