The Enduring Human Spirit
Thought-Provoking Stories on Caring for Our Elders
Including Challenging “Questions for Reflection”
Charles Tindell
Idyll Arbor – Smashwords Edition
Idyll Arbor, Inc. Editors: Beverley H. Burlingame and Thomas M. Blaschko
(c) Copyright 2003 Idyll Arbor, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transcribed, in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the publisher.
To the best of our knowledge, the information and recommendations of this book reflect currently accepted practice. Nevertheless, they cannot be considered absolute and universal. Recommendations for a particular client must be considered in light of the client’s needs and condition. The author and publisher disclaim responsibility for any adverse effects resulting directly or indirectly from the suggested practices, from any undetected errors, or from the reader’s misunderstanding of the text.
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Dedicated to:
My wife, Carol
My son, Scott, his wife, Jennifer,
and his children, Julia and Alexander
My son, Andrew, his wife, Lisa,
and his children, Benjamin and Joshua
My son, Robert.
Contents
Ghosts and Spirits, But No Goblins
Actions Speak Louder than Words
Who Cares about Dancing Angels
4000 Hours and 3 Gallons of Blood
A Final Thought from the Author
If you wish to know the road ahead, inquire of those who have traveled it.
— Chinese Proverb
Preface
According to the dictionary, a proverb is “a brief popular epigram or maxim.” The reason I chose to use them throughout this book is that they also can represent the collective wisdom gathered from the life experiences of those who have traveled the journey before us.
The stories within this book are of individuals whose lives are testimonies to the ageless human spirit. As in my previous book, Seeing Beyond the Wrinkles, these stories come from men and women who reside in a nursing home.
I am sure many of you have your own proverbs of life that you have learned from parents, grandparents, relatives, or friends who have already finished or are now on that last part of their pilgrimage in life. Their stories give insights into what it means to meet the challenges of life with courage, faith, wit, and humor. Their wisdom and values are their gifts to us. The stories we share with each other may be considered gifts and they become legacies to future generations. The stories of the men and women in this book are also legacies that we can benefit from and learn from; the stories are their gifts to us.
Harold (Always Aim for the Bull’s-eye), in his eighties and confined to a wheelchair, lived and taught by example his belief that one should shoot for the bull’s-eye. What he meant was that we should live each day to its fullest; that we should never, regardless of age or circumstance, short-change ourselves in experiencing life. He tried to give each day what he called his “best shot.” When he died, he left that philosophy as a legacy for all to embrace.
Lester (A Darn Good Storyteller) was a most unique individual. At the time of his death, at the age of ninety-four, he no longer had any living relatives, and he had outlived most of his friends. The staff and other residents had become his surrogate family. His legacy comes from a question he scrawled on a scrap of paper and gave to a nurse years ago. The nurse now has the note tacked to the bulletin board above her desk, and it serves as a reminder of the reasons she is devoting her life’s work to providing care for the elderly. Lester’s question was “Do you ever visit the old and sick?” If we hear his question as only a haunting cry from a lonely old man, we negate something of Lester, and we lose the opportunity to hear a call to reflect upon and rediscover what all of us share in common as human beings. His question calls us to reflect upon what it means to care for one another as we journey the pathway through life.
Zelma (My Friend Flicka) is an individual who epitomizes the enduring, ageless human spirit. With a positive attitude and a sense of humor, she meets the problems that come with the aging process. While being realistic about what lay ahead, nevertheless, her enthusiasm for living life to the fullest each day is a role model for young and old alike.
The above three individuals (and all the others in this book) encourage us to always aim for the bull’s-eye while reminding us that the basic values of life have no age boundaries.
All the stories you are about to read are based on real people. To respect and protect the privacy of the individuals involved, names and certain particulars of their stories have been changed. While the individuals described are those who live in a nursing home and are sometimes referred to as the “frail elderly,” their courage, strength, and ageless spirits are anything but frail. How they deal with the challenging circumstances within their lives will be appreciated by persons of any age as their stories remind us of what is important in life.
The following pages are filled with truly remarkable individuals, some of whose stories you may want to pin on your bulletin board, and whose legacies you may wish to embrace.
Note: At the end of each section, there are Questions for Reflection. These questions are designed to help all of us who are interested in the elderly (whether we are elderly ourselves or are caretakers, family members, and friends) when considering the important questions of how we want to treat our elders. By asking the questions, we can think about the tough issues involved in maintaining dignity and human rights at the ends of our lives in long-term care, home health care, and other end-of-life situations.
You may wish, as a token of your appreciation, to provide a copy of this book to those who have the responsibility of caring for your loved one.
Everyone is the age of their heart.
— Guatemalan Proverb
Introduction
Who Will Benefit From This Book and How?
The elderly will benefit. They will be affirmed as human beings whose courage, faith, wit, and humor are an inspiration to all ages. They also will be encouraged as they read about Clarence, Elizabeth, Claire, and others, and how they and their peers are dealing with all the challenges life brings in that final phase of one’s journey in life. They will be pleased to have a book to give to their family and friends that speaks for them and their circumstances. They will be able to say, Read this and understand.
Those in their 50’s and 60’s will benefit. They will gain insights about the aging process as it affects their parents, other relatives, and friends. Through stories such as those about Margaret, Sid, and Lyle, they will see that although the Golden Years of Retirement may be a little tarnished, those years cannot tarnish the power of the human spirit. They will be pleased to see the variety of ways in which older people still give of themselves regardless of age or circumstances. In all of this, they will discover positive role modeling for aging being set forth by their elders.
Those in their 30’s and 40’s will benefit. They will gain a better understanding of the physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual challenges their parents and others of that generation face in approaching the retirement years. Through the stories of Audrey, Virgil, Stan, and others, they will see that although wheelchairs and walkers are symbols of a weakening physical condition, they are not necessarily signs of a weakening human spirit. From these people they will learn that the values of yesterday are still valid today.
Teens and young adults will benefit. The stories of Zelma, Herman, Daisy, and Leo, for example, will ask them to see beyond the wrinkles and to peer into the youthful hearts of the elderly. They will understand that they and the elderly share the same need for such things as independence, dignity, and respect. In addition, they will find themselves on common ground with the elderly as those of both generations battle assumptions based on stereotypical images people have of them, whether those assumptions concern young people on skateboards or elderly in wheelchairs. After reading these stories, they will have a better appreciation of the challenges facing their grandparents and great-grandparents and of the positive ways their elders are coping with whatever the years may bring.
All staff (dietary, housekeeping, activities, administration, social services, nursing, etc.) of long-term care facilities or retirement communities will benefit. At the end of each selection of stories, there is a section entitled Questions for Reflection. The questions are designed to encourage, as well as challenge, staff to look at their work differently. How people have been cared for in the past cannot be assumed to be the model for how they are cared for now or in the future. These sections are meant to be a catalyst for discussion. They can be useful for staff training, new staff orientation, team meetings, etc.
Who hears but one bell hears but one sound.
— French Proverb
The Wizard of Oz
A tornado warning had just been issued over the radio and eighty-eight-year-old Herman was ecstatic.
Sirens in the distance could be heard sounding the alarm in adjacent communities. Our facility had taken action according to its Severe Weather Emergency Plan: residents’ window shades had been pulled down and the curtains drawn to reduce the risk of injury by flying glass; those residents who could be moved were moved into the corridors; all residents were being accounted for in each area by a head count; staff were at assigned locations. Everything was going according to procedure — that is, almost everything. The one exception was Herman who was relaxing in his wheelchair, gazing up into the threatening sky and studying the turbulent clouds. He was in front of the building, “parked” at the end of the sidewalk. Herman had never seen a tornado and was determined to have that experience before he reached his approaching eighty-ninth birthday.
Other staff asked me to see if I, as the chaplain, could convince Herman to come inside the building. I said I’d try, but I knew that Herman could be hardheaded and ornerier than a jackass. That isn’t my description but rather his own, and he was quite proud of it.
“This place needs a stubborn SOB just to add some color and character,” he would say in a voice that sounded like a truck rolling slowly down a gravel road. “It’s too dull around here. Don’t you think so?”
Herman could be a cantankerous old cuss to be sure, but a lovable one. One staff member had said of him, “One minute he’d get me so angry I could scream, and the very next minute he’d charm the socks right off me with his grin and the way he winked when he was doing something he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing. How can he can be so infuriating and charming at the same time?”
As I walked out to where Herman was, I noted that he had his pipe in his mouth. I thought to myself, He’s up to his old tricks again. Our facility recently adopted a policy declaring it a non-smoking facility. Those few residents who smoked at the time when the policy went into effect were grandfathered in as the last of the residents who would be allowed to smoke. Herman was one of them. He and the others, however, were permitted to smoke only in a designated area. All other areas, including the outside grounds, were off limits. Herman displayed his disapproval of the policy by always having his pipe with him, and in his mouth whenever he figured staff would cross paths with him. Seeing the pipe in his mouth, a staff person would remind him that smoking was allowed only in the designated area. The trap set, Herman would curtly reply, “Do you see any smoke coming from this pipe?”
“Well, no, I don’t.”
“Ain’t lit, is it?”
“No.”
“Any policy preventing me from having an unlit pipe in my mouth?”
“No.”
“Damn right there isn’t,” he would exclaim triumphantly. “Leave me alone then and go bother some other poor resident.”
There have been occasions when I’ve come upon Herman in a non-smoking area and could smell the burnt tobacco and see white ashes in the bowl of his pipe. “How’re you doing?” I would ask as I glanced at his pipe so Herman would know that I knew what he was up to.
“Doing okay, Boss,” he would reply (for some reason, he always called me Boss) and then he would wink at me as he tapped the bowl of the pipe against his pant leg with one hand while reaching for his tobacco pouch with the other.
Herman, a self-made man, often shared stories of his parents and the struggles they had coming to America from their native land of Latvia. He was proud of his family’s history and their European roots, but he also took a special pride in this country to which his parents had emigrated and in which he had been born. For Herman, ideals such as freedom and independence were not meant to be celebrated only during one or two holidays a year. His parents had taught him to treasure these values, and he considered them so important that he tried to live them every day of his life. They became even more meaningful to Herman as he carried them with him into his later years of life. Confinement to a wheelchair wouldn’t stop him from exercising what he considered to be his God-given rights. Herman was convinced that somewhere in the Constitution of the United States of America there were certain inalienable rights about old men who wanted to smoke their pipes and celebrate their birthdays in any damn way they pleased.
Approaching him that day, the sirens screaming and the clouds tumbling above us, his first words were, “Boss, you ain’t going to tell me I have to come in like all those others have, are you?”
“No,” I replied, quickly reconsidering how I should handle the situation. “I’m just wondering what you’re out here for.” I surveyed the threatening sky. “It looks like pretty stormy weather to me,” I said, hoping that he would get the message.
“Lived in Minnesota damn near all my life,” he growled. “Never have seen one of those tornadoes they’re always talking about. Thought maybe I’ll get to see one today.” Looking up at the clouds swirling about, Herman scratched the back of his head with his pipe stem as he added, “Hell, I don’t think so, though. Some pretty clouds up there; don’t you think?”
Visions of Herman being swept up by a tornado, whisked off in his wheelchair like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, went through my mind. As we talked, a staff person who had been checking the outside grounds for any other residents walked toward us. Herman turned toward me and growled, “Five.” I didn’t realize what he meant until the staff person began to inform him that he should come indoors. Before she got halfway through, he interrupted, pointed the stem of his pipe toward her, and said with a scowl, “You’re the fifth person who’s told me to come in. I’ll come in when I’m damn good and ready.”
The staff person looked at me and then back at Herman, shrugged her shoulders and said in a voice brimming with frustration, “Okay, but we’re going to document this, and if anything happens to …”
“Go ahead and document it,” Herman roared. “I don’t give a damn.”
Exasperated, she stormed away as still another staff person came walking toward us. “Six,” Herman said calmly as he filled his pipe with fresh tobacco. After dismissing number six, he resumed his inspection of the darkening clouds, his eyes squinting. “No, Boss,” he said to me, “I don’t think I’ll see myself one of those tornadoes today. What do you think?”
“I think you might be right,” I replied, hoping he wouldn’t catch the uncertainty in my voice. He didn’t know how hard I was praying that he was right. “I tell you what,” I offered. “I’ll stay out here until it begins to rain and then we’ll go in. What do you say to that? Is it a deal?”
“Oh, oh, here comes number seven,” he said, winking at me.
Some time later Herman finally did go in, but only after it began to rain quite hard and the wind picked up. As he let me wheel him back into the safety of the building, he chuckled and said in his raspy voice, “Well, Boss, how did we do? Ten or eleven?”
“Ten,” I replied, not being able to suppress a smile.
Herman died several months later. At his Service of Remembrance most of those ten staff people were there sharing stories about this stubborn, contentious man who so deeply touched their hearts.
Ghosts and Spirits, But No Goblins
There are ghosts (or spirits, if you prefer) who roam our facility. One is that of Palmer, a former resident, who died six years ago. The other ghost (or spirit) is that of Dottie, a nurse who worked at the nursing home and then, in her later years, lived there as a resident. She died over twenty years ago. Without rattling chains or appearing as apparitions, Dottie and Palmer still find ways to make their presence felt. Their legends continue to grow with each passing year. First, let me tell you about Palmer.
Palmer was a resident for nearly seven years, all of which were lived in the Board and Care building — a living area for individuals who don’t require as much assistance as those in other parts of our facility. Other than being confined to a wheelchair, Palmer bragged he was “as healthy as a horse.” He valued his independence, and he said he’d rather die than be transferred to the Chronic Care Center where “the old and sick ones are.” Palmer never did move because, while still a resident in Board and Care, he died in his sleep two weeks after celebrating his ninety-first birthday.
Residents and staff (especially staff) remembered Palmer as one of those persons who felt he should have a say in every aspect of how the nursing home was run: he instructed the dietary staff how certain meats should be prepared, and he made sure they knew which vegetables were better boiled or steamed; he informed those in housekeeping about the proper way to make a bed, telling them to be sure the corners were neatly tucked in; administration was told which of their policies concerning residents were out of date while, at the same time, advising them of ones that should be implemented; the nurses were informed they needed more training in regard to appropriate times when pills should be given out; nursing aides were given a lecture on how to give baths; the business office was advised that it needed to simplify the billing procedures and to print the billing statements in large print; the chaplain was advised as to the length of Sunday services as well as the necessity for brevity of prayers during noon-day meals. The need for short prayers, as Palmer explained, was because “long prayers make for cold food.”
Palmer’s primary focus, however, was on how the nursing home could save money. “After all,” he would say, “it’s my money. I’m paying for this place.” In particular, his energy was spent in a personal crusade directed toward the overuse of electricity — he felt there were far too many lights left on unnecessarily. Every week Palmer wrote sharply worded notes to the administrator about “this terrible waste of my money.” He even offered to submit a plan on monitoring the use of lights. “Saving electricity saves money,” he pointed out. “Something has to be done,” he had fumed. Palmer didn’t mince his words in telling staff to turn off lights that (he thought) didn’t need to be on. To carry out his campaign, he would wheel throughout the facility, turning off lights wherever he deemed it was necessary. It was rumored, though never verified, that lights were once turned off while a staff member was in a bathroom stall, leaving her in a “peculiar dilemma.” Whether the story is true does not matter, for it became part of the Palmer legend.
One day, Palmer saw me coming out of my office. “Chaplain, ain’t you going to turn off your lights?” he asked as he wheeled up and peered around me into my office.
“What do you mean?” I answered, pretending that I didn’t know what he was getting at. I had hoped that by playing ignorant, he’d go easy on me.
“You’re leaving your office, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I am.” I realized that my ploy wasn’t going to work. I thought about quipping that electricity is only penny cheap, but decided against it. Although Palmer had a sense of humor, when it came to his campaign, it was a different story. That he should “lighten up” a little was another quip that thankfully I decided it would be not wise to use.
“Ain’t nobody going to work in your office while you’re gone, are they?”
“No,” I replied as I awaited my chastisement.
“Well, then,” Palmer strongly suggested, “you should turn off the lights. You know, this whole place wastes too damn much electricity.” He waved his arms around. “All these lights on around here. What do we need them on for?” His voice began to crescendo. “I wonder what the electric bill for this place runs for a year? Pretty damn high, I bet. Do you know how much the bill runs a year?” he screeched.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” I was trying to be very purposeful about keeping my voice calm while just wishing I could go back into my office, shut the door, and turn off the lights.
“I think I’ll see the administrator about that; he should know,” Palmer snarled and then warned. “He damn well better know since he’s supposed to be in charge.”
Without saying good-bye, Palmer turned his wheelchair and sped off in the direction of the administrator’s office. As he wheeled away, I could hear him grousing, “Humph. Too many &*/#@*& lights on around here. &*/#@*& wasteful! Wonder what we pay a year? &*/#@*& administrator damn well better know …”
Right up to the day before he died, Palmer continued to search the facility for lights that, in his opinion, shouldn’t have been on and were just “running up my electric bill.” Staff would mention feeling Palmer’s presence as they walked through a part of the building or entered a room and discovered switched-off lights that normally should have been on. Several months after Palmer died, the administrator and I were walking down a hallway leading to the Chronic Care Center. It was midmorning and, although light was coming into the hallway through windows, the overhead lights weren’t on. We both knew that the ceiling lights needed to be on to provide the added illumination necessary for residents who are visually impaired. As the administrator flipped the light switch on, he glanced around, then looked at me, smiled, and winked. I knew what he meant and of whom he was thinking.
Just as the ghost of Palmer roams our facility switching off lights, Dottie’s ghost makes the rounds seeing to it that staff are providing care to the residents in the manner of which she would approve.
Dottie worked at the nursing home as a head nurse for over thirty years before retiring. She later came back to live as a resident when she was in her eighties. According to staff that took care of Dottie until she died, “the nurse in her” simply couldn’t bear being away from the place. Those who knew her would tell you that she worried that no one could take care of the residents’ needs in the way she knew they should be cared for, especially when it came to their bowel movements, or as she preferred to say, “their business.”
From my conversations with those who worked with Dottie, she had earned the reputation as a head nurse for demanding nothing but perfection from her staff when it came to providing quality care for the residents. She would, for example, stand behind her staff and look over their shoulders to watch as a wound was dressed to make sure it was done properly. If it weren’t done exactly the way she felt it should be, it would have to be done over. She would also give explicit instructions as to the correct way of taking a blood pressure or treating cuts and bruises. Since there were a number of residents who had difficulty swallowing because of strokes, she would have her staff crush all pills that were considered by her to be too large and therefore, might be difficult for older people to swallow.
One of her standard lectures was that crushed pills should be given with enough water, but better still, with a spoonful of applesauce. Dottie preferred the applesauce because, as she would tell her staff, it helped the residents do their business. According to her, if the residents did their business every day, they would be healthier and thus easier to care for while they were at the home. So staunchly did she believe that being healthy and doing one’s business were inseparable that Dottie became obsessive about it when she came to live at the Home.
Those on staff when Dottie was a resident vividly remembered her obsessiveness. One nurse said, “Dottie was never quite sure if her own ‘business’ was adequate and often called upon me to check to see if it was.”
A head nurse told me, “Dottie would peek around the corner of the door into the hall trying to get a nurse’s attention, implying a request to come and look at her business. Once I assured her that it was adequate, she was pleased. A half hour later, however, she would be standing at her doorway again. This time she would have me check on her roommate’s business to make sure it was adequate.”
“And if it was?” I asked.
“Dottie would be assured then that her roommate was healthy and therefore, would have a good day. It was the nurse in her still taking care of residents. And you know, I continue to follow her policy today and I tell new staff to do it as well.”
As a chaplain at the nursing home, I, of course, see staff give pills. I can’t help noticing that the pills are crushed and are always given with water, or juice, and often, with applesauce. One day, while I watched a new staff person give a resident a crushed pill with a sip of water, a nursing aide instructed, “Be sure you have enough water. Even better, use applesauce. The residents prefer taking their pills with it. It’s easier for them. Anyway, that’s how I was trained when I began work here.” When I heard the mention of applesauce, I thought to myself, Dottie would be pleased.
Those who consider themselves “the old timers” soon tell new staff about the ghost of Dottie. Along with the formal orientation staff receive about fire procedures, disposal of hazardous waste, staff benefits, scheduling, and all the other topics new employees expect to be told of, there is the informal orientation done by the old timers who knew Dottie. Besides relating the tale of Dottie and why she now roams the hallways, there is the opportunity for indoctrination whenever there is an unexplained event: Who picked up the soiled washcloth in Mary’s room? Nobody knows. Why, it must have been Dottie. That coffee spill on the table in the nourishment room — who cleaned it up? Dottie, of course. And if there is some sound at night that you can’t quite identify. Well, it could only have been Dottie. If you asked, where does Dottie live, the old timers would tell you that she lives “between the second and third floor of the Chronic Care Center.” Why there? “Because that’s the building where she lived as a resident before she died.” But how can she live “between” the floors? “Because she’s one of our ghosts.”
Once a new staff person has been told the story of Dottie, administered crushed pills with a spoonful of applesauce and, most importantly of all, checked on the business of at least one resident to see if it was adequate, then the old timers are satisfied they can some day retire knowing that the legend of the ghost of Dottie will be passed on to the next generation of staff.
Palmer and Dottie’s ghosts are friendly spirits, but more than that, they are caring spirits. And I, for one, hope they’ll continue to make their presence known at our facility.
By the way, can you imagine what the conversation might be whenever Palmer and Dottie’s paths cross?
“Dottie! Turn off those &*/#@*& lights! We don’t need them on!”
“Now, Palmer, hush! How else are we going to see if Mary’s business is adequate?”
The Gray-Haired Raggedy Anne
Imagine if you will, your wrist and forearm in a vise, and the vise tightened. Not to the point where it becomes painful, but where you know that you cannot extricate yourself without the vise’s cooperation. The only discomfort you might feel would be some numbness in your hand and fingers. And, thankfully, once released, the only telltale marks are the vice’s jaw prints that will disappear in time. As far as any lingering numbness, you only need to vigorously shake your hand to get the circulation going again. If you can imagine all of this, then you are ready for the next step: to move beyond the realm of imagination to reality. And the name of reality is Cora Belle.
Cora Belle has been a resident in the Chronic Care Center for eleven years. She is nearly 100 years old and weighs less than 100 pounds. Anyone walking past her, as she sits slumped in her wheelchair, could easily get the impression that here is a woman who is barely hanging on to life, an individual who is so weak that she would scarcely have the strength to hold a cup of coffee. This perception of Cora Belle seems to be confirmed as you gaze at her frail body. Eyes closed, and chin resting on her chest bone, she looks like a gray-haired Raggedy Anne doll whose stuffing is nearly gone. The only way you know there is life still left is that you can hear her mumbling to herself. You wonder, though, if she’s even aware of her surroundings. As you walk by, however, Raggedy Anne suddenly comes to life and yells, “Com’ere.” If, out of compassion, you respond to what you consider to be no more than a plea for help from a poor, weary, old soul, you’re in for the surprise of your life. For as soon as you’re within reach, your wrist and forearm are seized and locked in a grip that could only be compared to being in a vise.
My initial experience with Cora Belle coincided with my first week on the job as the chaplain. I was walking down the hallway of the first floor in the Chronic Care Center when I heard a yell, “Com’ere.” I had noticed the woman when I walked by, but her head had been down, her face in her hands. It appeared that she was sleeping or, if not, off in her own little world and, I had assumed, didn’t want to be disturbed.
“Hello, there. I’m the chaplain.” No sooner had I introduced myself than her claw-like hands took hold of my arm and wrist. I was startled by her quickness and amazed at the strength of her powerful grip.
“What day is it, anyway?” she asked, her grip tightening. “You’d think that they would treat an old lady like me better. No one cares around here. They treat me like hell. Where can I get a cup of coffee in this damn place?” The words gushed out like water from a broken fire hydrant. “I don’t remember how old I am, but I’m in my nineties. They don’t have to treat me like they do. Can’t get a decent cup of coffee around here. Food is cold. Why can’t they serve some decent food around here? I’ve lost too much weight already. What day is it, anyway? I …”
“It’s Thursday,” I said quickly, knowing that I’d interrupted her, but needing to get a word in edgewise. “I’m sorry about your problems. I’ll see what I can do,” I offered, thinking that she would release me. “Why don’t you let me go and I’ll check about the food.”
“Where am I anyway? How long have I been here? The food is terrible …” She was beginning her litany again without responding to my request. Her grip was as strong as ever as she continued. “Poor old lady like me shouldn’t be treated like this. I don’t have to live here. Is it raining out? When I came here, it was such a nice place. They served hot coffee. Damn fools; they don’t know how to treat us old people. They think they can get away with anything around here. Do you know how old I am?”
“No, I don’t,” I interjected as I calculated how I could get her to release me. I thought about prying her hands off, but decided against that because I wasn’t sure how she might react. Besides, I thought about how that might look to others — having the new chaplain in a wrestling match with a little old lady in a wheelchair, especially if she were screaming her head off. Admittedly, the thought also went through my mind that I might not have been able to pry her fingers loose. I shuddered at the thought of the staff witnessing a wrestling match where it was the chaplain who was screaming his head off. As she continued her rambling, I looked around for staff, but none were in sight. I was beginning to feel trapped. In addition, and it could have been my imagination, my hand felt as if it was getting numb.