by Jo Owens
Molly reads my face.
“I’ve never met her,” she says, “but I can tell you this: my sister and I, we’re from different planets, you know what I mean? You have a sister?”
I shake my head.
“But you had two kids. Were they alike?”
Is the wind like the sun?
“There
go. Give Nadine a chance.”
Molly puts a string of fake pearls around my neck and reaches into her pocket.
“Look what I found in my stuff when I was cleaning out!”
It’s a watch bracelet, set in an elasticized weave of beads so that Molly can easily stretch it over my wrist…lovely.
“I won it in a Christmas draw and it’s sure the heck not my style. Don’t know why I didn’t get rid of it ages ago, musta been waiting for you, eh, Fran?”
I know darn well Molly has chosen this moment to butter me up deliberately. She wants me to get along with Blaire’s sister.
Molly laughs at my expression.
“I know one thing, Miss Francesca. I’m pretty confident that if you don’t like her, you’ll find a way to get rid of her! I have faith in that. You’ll find a way to get the job done!”
I don’t quite know how to take that comment.
“Oh, it’s not an insult,” Molly says lightly. “I have a mighty admiration for strong-minded women. Planning on becoming one myself! You look great. Gotta fly.”
* * *
Something’s not right with this girl, I can tell you that right away, and I’m not just being a fashion snob. The impression goes beyond the frayed jeans and the pastel windbreaker over the red T-shirt. It even goes beyond the nicotine-stained fingers and the smell of smoke. It’s her eyes.
Oh. She’s stoned. And I’m pretty sure it’s not recreational because Molly would never send me off with someone who was high. Now I get it. I know why Molly really wanted this to work out. Blaire’s sister has mental health issues, Blaire’s looking out for her, and Molly can’t resist playing Mama Fix-It for a work-sister.
It would be funny if I wasn’t being bundled into one of those all-weather ponchos and sent out with Nadine for an excursion.
* * *
Molly is waiting for us expectantly when we get back.
“How’d it go?”
“Fine,” says Nadine. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak.
Molly looks impatient. Apparently she meant me, not Nadine. Good. So I top Nadine on Molly’s mothering priority list. I’m pleased about that. But my bottom is incredibly sore from the inevitable bump I got every time the wheelchair hit a crack in the sidewalk. Nadine took me directly to the churchyard, where I sat with the sun in my eyes while she smoked on the bench until it was time to come home. It was a long, long hour, thank you, Molly, for the watch.
Nadine has swiftly disappeared without saying goodbye. I point to my bed, but Molly is already swinging the lift towards me.
“How are you really?”
She sounds worried. I shrug my shoulders. I’m too tired to care. Molly lowers me to the bed, rolls me on my side and folds the sling under. She’s got a fresh brief. She detaches the tabs on the old one and squeals, “Oh my God, look at your butt!”
Molly dearest, I think reasonably, how can I possibly look at my butt?
“It’s open. Get the nurse,” she snaps to whoever is behind me. I look out the window at my tree, with my bottom exposed, feeling oh-so-grateful to be back in bed with Molly at the helm. Behind me the girls have collected and are clucking like hens.
Forget the companion, what she needs is a Roho.
What the heck is a Roho, I wonder?
She’s got money, she can do both. (I think that’s Blaire.)
Does OT have a spare? We could trial one.
I think the finances are there.
I’m gonna slap a dressing on that, just let me grab my…
D’you think a Roho will help?
Can’t hurt.
Looks like hamburger.
Poor Frannie.
Molly comes around to my side of the bed to talk to my face.
“Poor Frannie, you’ve got a problem with your fanny! Don’t worry, sweetie, the LPN is gonna put a dressing on that, and we’ll see if we can get you a special chair cushion that’ll keep this from happening again.”
I can’t help it. A tear comes rolling down my cheek. But Molly says nothing, just wipes it away with the fat thigh of her thumb.
“It’s okay, sugar. You’ll see. It’ll be okay.”
Sometimes I wish I could just black out.
* * *
By the way, Michi, how are you finding our little lady next door?
You’re talking about Jane? Oh my God. She’s having so much pain during a.m. care. Her arms are so stiff. And her hands are getting really contracted too.
Yeah, the doctor reduced her painkiller. Husband complained that she’s too sedated.
Well, she ain’t now. She’s in pain. She’s calling out “Hey! Hey!” Today she said “Damn you!” as clear as a bell while I was washing her up.
Oh no.
Uh-huh. I feel so mean. I said, “Look, I’m only trying to help you. I’m sorry that it hurts.”
Why are we fighting her into those pants? Can’t she wear dresses?
Family says she’s never worn a dress in her life. They lie: I saw her wedding picture.
Ha ha. I seriously don’t think that counts!
Dear God, when it’s my turn, please give me the good stuff.
Amen.
* * *
The crazy night nurse is back. It isn’t until I see her that I remember she’s been missing.
Julie refuses to work with her. They’ve split the workload and they’re both doing half alone.
It’s a rare night: both Tiny and Alice are sleeping. I’m terrified that the nurse’s rambling will wake them up—I hold my breath while she talks to me.
“Did you ever read the story about the toys that came alive in the nursery when the children went to sleep at night?” she whispers. “Sometimes I think that’s what happens here.”
She gestures with her hand, including all five beds in her circumference.
“When I close the door, Nana slips her feet over the side of the bed and walks over here to talk to you, and Alice and Mary practise a waltz. Some nights you all play poker, and Tiny cheats, so she always wins. And she gossips about us, the way the nurses gossip about you. Apparently…she says, and that’s what I heard, anyway.”
I shrug my shoulders. Why would anyone stay here, if we could walk away. But Cuckoo-girl is ready with the answer.
“You see,” she says, earnestly, “you’re all volunteers who’ve sacrificed your lives to create an opportunity for us to be of service. So you’re the real heroes. But even heroes get bored. Even heroes want to dance.”
Maybe that’s why Cuckoo-girl is so very gentle. When she rolls me on my side, the room never spins and her hands are quick and sure removing my disposable, sliding the new one under my hip in exactly the right place so that the centre line runs up my spine. She arranges the pillows perfectly every time, and her hands smell like lavender. Every breath releases a whiff of fennel, sweet, the kind you get coated in candy, pink-yellow-orange in Indian restaurants. I imagine her sitting at the nursing station in between bells and rounds, keeping awake chewing the licoricey seeds one by one, thinking her next crazy thought. In the shadowy darkness, her presence is surreal, but I am comfortable now, the pillows plumped and cool beneath my cheek, and I fall asleep quickly, dreaming Alice-in-Wonderland-type dreams until Molly’s bracing gale drags me into stark reality at seven o’clock, the start of a new day.
* * *
Lately I’ve been so tired I can barely think straight. Nights haven’t been able to solve Tiny’s nighttime behaviour, and i
t’s affecting Alice, who had been sleeping pretty well before Tiny started waking us all up. Julie and Heather are afraid Alice is going to fall.
Tiny’s restless on day shift too, making many demands for attention. We’ve had group change, which means Michiko and Bettina are working with Tiny…a net loss of patience where Tiny’s endless list of requests is concerned.
Tell me what you want right now, Michiko scolds Tiny. I’m not going to interrupt giving care to someone else to go look for your stuff.
Well…
Look, Tiny. You see that lady in the corner? She’s just as important to me as you are, but she can’t ask for help, so I haven’t touched her yet, and yet I’ve answered your bell four times. You’re taking more than your share!
I’m not that kind of person!
Yes, you are.
But Tiny is far past that kind of logic, and even if Michiko wheels her into the sunroom, it takes Tiny less than three minutes to bring herself back.
Dear? I used to be a nurse.
Michiko rips the tabs off my brief in her impatience. Damn it to hell! she mutters, hurrying to get me up.
Lily is back at work but not in this wing. I saw her in the dining room, but I have no idea how she’s doing. There doesn’t appear to have been any fallout from her misadventure, and I’m conscious of the irony in my gratitude. If I’d been the boss, my younger self would have fired her stat, no questions asked, as I used to counsel you to do with your diner staff. You cut your workers a lot more slack than I ever would have. Reflecting on that doesn’t make me feel very good. Fabby is on vacation, so I don’t know if she is still tired and nauseous. I’m spending a lot of time in bed, being turned side to side, waiting for my bottom to heal.
The aides have stopped talking contract negotiations, so I guess there’s that to be grateful for.
I’ve made up my mind about one thing: if they try to send me out with that stupid companion Nadine, I’m going to refuse to go. I’ll kick. I’ll hit. They can’t make me.
But they can. That’s why my pulse races every time I think about it.
So far it hasn’t come up.
I feel like I’m treading water waiting for a rescue, and I’m getting very tired.
It’s time for something good to happen.
* * *
Did you shower Tiny again?
No, I didn’t. There’s no mistaking the way she’s saying “no,” so if anyone hassles me, I’m going with her right to refuse care.
But she smells.
Yes. Yes, she does. That’s not going to kill anyone. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m just not going to do it. It’s bordering on abuse. Hers and mine! After last week’s performance, I went home and had two stiff shots of Scotch straight out of the bottle and then I cried. Screw that! I didn’t become a vegan to prevent cruelty to animals just to turn around and torture little old ladies. I ain’t doing it!
Don’t mess with Michiko!
That’s right. Damn straight.
Michiko cried? Over a resident?
Huh. So much for “Hard Assed Bitch.”
* * *
Seriously, you guys don’t know how good you have it here. This is paradise.
Funny kind of paradise, if you ask me!
No, seriously. At my other job, we have minimum eight residents to your six, and if someone calls in sick, which we obviously do because we’re exhausted, they don’t replace. We’re expected to pick up, so we usually end up doing eleven or twelve.
But you must have some mobile residents.
No! It’s all end stage dementia, plus we’ve got MS and rheumatoid arthritis, you name it. No mobility, that’s my point, and we’ve got some heavy, heavy people, and no overhead lifts, all Maxi. Try moving those XL people with the Maxi lift, you feel that in your back, believe me, sister. And we serve both breakfast and lunch as well as doing the feeding, and baths and bowel care and getting people ready for activities and outings. By three o’clock, you’re done in. Plus evenings have double the workload you have here.
How in God’s name do you give good care?
Well, we don’t.
What do you cut? Teeth?
I try to get to them at least every second day. Try. It isn’t always possible.
Jesus.
Uh-huh.
My God. I don’t think I’d want to be a care aide if I had to work that way. I mean, where’s the job satisfaction?
Why do you think I’m here? I’m just trying to build up enough hours here that I don’t have to ever go back there!
They’ll miss you—you’re a good nurse.
Huh. Good nurses fry up nice and brown too!
I shudder. I’ve escaped horrors I didn’t even know existed. I think of the loving care I’m given and the respect I’m almost always treated with, and I’m thankful for the pure, sweet luck that brought me here.
I didn’t die; I’m grateful for that too.
But this is nothing like my old life, that’s for sure.
So I guess I could say it’s a funny kind of paradise for me too.
SHIKATA GA NAI
Happy October. It’s group change day.
Camille, one of the ladies who had a single room, died suddenly in the night, and in spite of the fact that a death in extended care should come as a surprise to no one, we are all aflutter here.
In the sunroom after lunch the girls discuss the death. Everyone has a story.
Heather said when she went in there to change her, she noticed her feet were mottling, but she decided to change her anyway, and when she put her on her side, she gave one last breath and that was that.
God, it’s so weird when that happens!
You’ve had someone die on you like that?
Yeah, when I first started. I was doing a night shift.
Nights always seem to get the deaths.
Well, they’re doin’ fifty people, we’ve got six or seven each.
Yeah, that’s true.
I’ve been doing this ten years now and I’ve done lots of palliative care, but I’ve never seen someone actually die.
But that’s good, right, because that means we’ve been able to get the family in and they’re the ones at the bedside.
Yeah, that’s good.
The ideal.
But sometimes there just isn’t time to call. Poor Camille.
You know her family was just in.
No way!
Yup. Coupla weeks ago. From California.
D’you think that’s what gave her the courage to die?
Ha, you believe that?
The girls all talk at once.
Who knows? Maybe!
Oh come on, Camille was long gone, she’d been here what, ten years? There weren’t many tools left in that shed!
You don’t know for sure!
You’d be surprised.
Michiko’s strong voice dominates:
I’ve seen people go after the family gives them permission to go on ahead. Lots of times.
And I’ve seen people hang on long after they shoulda let go, too.
* * *
Later, when Molly and Michiko are putting me back to bed, Molly asks Mich if she really believes that someone could die just because a family member gave them permission.
Yeah, I do. I really do. I know it doesn’t always happen that way, but when it comes down to it, what do we really know? Weird shit happens. Like, my mom came to me in a dream after she died.
She did?
Oh yeah. I had this big trip planned, I had some gigs with my band in England and I was superstoked. Mom and Dad wanted me to go; you know, they thought it would be good for me. But Mom was really sick with her cancer and I struggled with the decision, right?
Of course.
But I went and while I was over there, I h
ad this dream. It totally freaked me out so I called home right away. Dad picked up and I said, “How’s Mom?” and he said, “She’s fine,” and I said, “So can I talk to her?” He said, “Well, she’s too sick to talk right now,” and I said, “Don’t bullshit me, she’s dead, isn’t she?”
And she was?
Yeah, she was. They didn’t want to tell me. They didn’t want to spoil my trip. I said, “Well, if Mom didn’t want me to know she shouldn’t have brought Grandpa to visit me last night, all full of joy and saying shit like ‘All times are equal now,’ and how she’d see me very soon.”
Molly can’t suppress a laugh.
Oh my God, Mich, what did your dad say?
He said, “Shikata ga nai. She must have changed her mind.”
He speaks Japanese? What does that mean?
No, he doesn’t speak much. He’s second generation. But “shikata ga nai” is one of Obasan’s expressions. It kinda means “it can’t be helped.” Poor Dad. A wacky wife and three headstrong daughters—he loves us like crazy, but life is just one long string of shikata ga nai as far as he’s concerned.
Oh my God.
Yup. He said, “Well, baby girl, that’s not on me. You know your mom. She does what she wants.”
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?
Mmm. No.
* * *
I wonder if Michiko misses her mom. Maybe they weren’t close. But they were close enough that Michiko dreamt about her. So maybe they were.
I have never once dreamt about my mother, but I had terrible nightmares for about two years after Angelina went missing. Sometimes I dreamt that I was compelled to train Angelina to jump through a hoop of fire or sit up and beg like a circus dog. She was afraid of the fire, too restless to sit and too proud to beg, and our struggles left me frustrated and repentent for trying to make her perform those silly tasks in the first place. In another vein, there was a horrible recurring nightmare where Angelina would come towards me, smiling, and I’d open my arms filled with love and relief, but at the last moment, she’d place both hands on my shoulders and shove, sending me reeling backwards. But mostly I dreamt of car crashes and snow, and I’d wake up sweating or even screaming.