Let's Go Very Fast...
" I wish I could go outside. I would love to go very fast down that hill in this wheelchair." Marjorie lamented. As per her daily routine, she was gazing out the door after lunch at the grassy slope in front of the nursing home.
"That may be why they don't let you out!" I laughed. "There is a highway at the bottom of that slope. And the cars are driving pretty fast."
"Faster than me, that's for sure."
It was a daily exchange, and both she and I knew that the facility was never going to allow her to go speeding off into a busy highway. In the months I had worked with and for Marj, I had learned that she used to be hell-on-wheels, back when her wheels numbered four, and were backed by a lot of horsepower.
"Yeah...I reckon the cops in this town are glad I'm in here now. I used to give them hell. I bet I've paid thousands of dollars in speeding tickets over the years. Back when I had my red Pontiac. I never minded paying though. I had my fun, and they always wore new uniforms. " she chuckled. "I was doing a civic duty actually."
Her chuckle was filled with a tinge of sadness. There were no thrills in here, unless you were the type of person to go into ecstasies over mealtimes or weekly Bingo games. Marjorie wasn't that type of person.
Memories and Pontiacs
An 8x10 photograph in her room showed yesterday's Marjorie. Taken twenty years ago, it showed a woman who was in her seventies. She was seated on the hood of a red Pontiac, smoking a cigarette.
She wore enormous sunglasses, and her clothes were a mix-n-match of the colorful 80's and the past decades. Clearly, she was a lady who fell in love with life every year--from her brilliantly dyed, red bouffant hair-do to the stone-washed jeans.
At 94, she still smoked, but not the 4 packs a day she preferred. When I would take her to the courtyard for a smoke, she would tell stories about her car, a gift from her third husband. She talked about her first airplane trip to Mexico, her son who died years ago in a car crash, and her grandson who placed her here because he couldn't move from Alberta to care for her after the dementia diagnosis.
These things she could remember because they were yesterday. She had trouble sometimes remembering where she was today. But she fought the dementia like a pro, and for the most part, she was lucid.
After lunch though, as the day started winding down towards evening, she would get restless. That's when she was most likely to be confused, (did I just eat?) and most likely to beg to go outside and race down the slope.
Small Compromises and White Lies
"You there...c'mere a minute." Marjorie beckoned me over to the door. It was autumn...the sun was low in the sky and a the dying grass outside was golden. "You aren't allowed to push me down that hill, are you?"
"No ma'am. There is a road down there, and you could be hurt."
"How fast can you push this chair...down the hallway, then?"
"Ah...I don't think we are allowed to do that either."
"I HAVE TO GO THE BATHROOM! RIGHT NOW! HURRY, HURRY!" Marjorie gripped the wheelchair arms with one hand, and her squeezed her knees together.
It was so out-of-character for her that I was startled. Was this a new dementia behavior?
"Well?" she hissed. "What are you waiting for? Go very fast! BEFORE I WET MYSELF!!"
Dementia or no, Marjorie had discovered a way to go fast. She hunkered down, and I said a small prayer of thanks that she only weighed 100 pounds fully dressed. The charge nurse didn't even look up as we flew past the nurse's station.
I ran as fast as I could down the hall, and Marjorie laughed. I was never so glad that her room was near the far end. My sneakers squeaked on the waxed tile as we dodged Mr. Kemp and his walker. He threw some curses at us as we passed by.
I didn't even slow down to turn in the door. We took it on one wheel.
Safely in her room, she slapped the wheelchair with glee. "Not quite as fast as the old days, but it beats creeping like a snail all the time."
"So, do you need to use the bathroom?" I asked, panting slightly.
"Hell no."she winked. "When I do...I'll let you know. "
For the next few weeks, this was Marjorie's favorite game. At first, the other aides and nurses were puzzled by her new outbursts. Then they just grumbled in annoyance.
"She doesn't even need to go when we get there. Maybe it is just attention-seeking. "
Because it was harmless, no one complained to the nurses, and the nurses never called the doctor. It had become one of Marjorie's "quirks". Did any of them understand her need for speed?
As Fast as The Wind, Okay?
Marjorie began to feel sick near the end of October. While being transferred to the whirlpool tub, she had stumbled a bit and cut her hip on the corner of the towel rack. In spite of being treated both topically and with antibiotics, the wound refused to heal. Infection set in.
I suspected that the end was near one Sunday, when Marjorie had cunningly arranged for the longest trip she could possible make inside the nursing home. While we were busy helping people away from their finished lunches, she had wheeled herself (much more slowly than usual) to the far end of the opposite hall. Soon, she began hollering out her need to go the bathroom.
One of the aides threw up her hands and laughed. "Don't look at me. She's your hall! Besides, I HAVE to see that Ms. Leon gets a shower today sometime. "
When I reached Marjorie, she was ready. "Let's go fast!" she urged.
To me, the hallway looked twelve miles long, but I rolled the chair back and forth to pick up some momentum. I realized it was a lot lighter these days. Summoning up energy I really needed to save for the rest of the shift, I started running.
We sped into the common area, and the nurse looked up from her desk. "Go Marjorie, GO!" she cheered! "You are flying, lady!"
On her own hall though, Marjorie signaled me with a wave. "Slow down, just a bit..."
"Okay. You all right?"
"I am. Don't stop, just don't go so fast. I don't want to get to the end that quickly."
We fell back into the equivalent of cruise control for the rest of the journey. After we arrived in her room, she wanted to lie down. An hour or so later, her call bell sounded in the otherwise quiet hall. Marjorie rarely, if ever, used her call bell. The nurse glanced at the board.
"I'll go." she said, quietly.
Before long, the ambulance zoomed up the drive and stopped near the entrance. The red lights flashed across the faces of confused and curious residents.
"Am I sick again?" asked Ms. Leon, twisting her hands in agitation.
"No, honey. You are just fine." we reassured her.
They wheeled Marjorie down the hall on the stretcher. Her small body was engulfed by straps and blankets and the tubing for the oxygen. She lifted a hand slightly at us as she passed by. The nurse held the door open, and as Marjorie exited the nursing home for the last time, she pushed the mask aside and said:
"Now, when we go down that hill, let's go as fast as the wind, okay?"
The nurse caught one of the paramedics by the sleeve and whispered something to him. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. The ambulance shot out of the narrow, circle drive, blasted the sirens, and disappeared in a blur of red lights. Was that the slight sound of squalling tires we heard as they made the turn onto the highway?
It wasn't a red Pontiac, but it could go very fast. It could go as fast as the wind.
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