by Darian Anderson

Liberty Ridge is a nursing center that reeks of urine, the smell of necrosis on a portly shaped woman’s coccyx, and freshly made feces. There are women and men who range from a mere 90 pounds to a grand total of 280 pounds. In other words — dead weight.  Some are pale as a porcelain doll while others are dark as the night sky. Some are fragile as china ware while others are self-destructive.  The elderly all share a commonality — residency at Liberty Ridge. Some stay until God calls them home while others leave after regaining strength and independence.

I received my Nursing Assistant license on February 9, 2018, in the hopes of serving the elderly community with generosity and compassion. Working at Liberty Ridge has prompted in me a surge of patience and also an understanding of each patient’s condition. Although it is frustrating from the sexual innuendos, consistent messes, deathly-scented feces, and back-wrenching hardships, I dearly love those residents. Every one of them finds the good in each day, and I cannot fathom how they do so.  They look at me with deep-set, protruding lids, upturned and downturned eyes with life in them. The residents in long-term care were brought there to die alone in a dimly lit room. The residents laugh at death as he stands in front of them because they have Nursing Assistants who care for them even in the final hour.

On a typical day, I walk into the entrance of Liberty Ridge in a pit of sweat from the consistent heat that blows out of Misty, my Chevrolet Cruze. I slowly walk in, dreading the amount of drenched diapers to be changed. I dread the unusual positions the residents have lain in far too long. I hear the consistent beeps of a white call light that each Nursing Assistant pretends to be oblivious to. I hear a slight whisper of a resident who is bound to a wheelchair begging for someone to kill her. The residents’ beds are positioned at 90 degrees so they can hack up green phlegm. Their lined sweat pants are below the knees to save nursing assistants any time or effort in changing the drenched diapers.  This place would appear as a freak show to anyone who is not familiar with the long-term care side. I was thrown in on this side of Liberty Ridge because no one wanted to deal with such helpless people.

There are two different sides of Liberty Ridge that are based upon care … The Skilled Care and also Long-Term Care.  On the Skilled Care unit, it is peaceful. There are not many tantrums being thrown because of not having five packets of Splenda with a black coffee.  There are not consistent anger and frustration from a small, bony woman with gray sleek hair about why her children, Rebecca and Milton, never called on her 97th birthday or even placed bright red balloons on her wheelchair.  The residents quietly make their way to the frostbitten bathroom without shouting “Nurse” to pull down their trousers or to lift them effortlessly out of a wheelchair. The residents on this side are high functioning with very few limitations. They do not have to worry about lashing out against their roommate when the sun retires behind the puffy white clouds. The mere difference of skilled care, is the time limit of living in such a small dimly lit room with a crazed roommate. The skilled are admitted every week only to get better and to have a swift departure.

On the long-term side, there are women and men who have crumbs from their previous meals attached to their cardigans and slacks. The corners of their eyes are crusty from the night before. They are dependent upon the nursing assistants who wash the dirt off their bodies. On the long-term side, none of the residents are able to leave. They are not able to sit at the edge of the bed, brush their teeth without sliding out of the wheelchair, or even comprehend literature after thirty seconds. The elderly on this side will lash out in a fit of rage simply because Liberty Ridge is not in Colorado, where their red old cottage is. Sicknesses erupt on the long-term side. There are cases of C-Diff that wreak havoc in the facility. There is consistent ringing of the emergency bells and shouts for ice. The long-term side has people who cannot take care of themselves.  The residents are sent to the long-term side to spend the rest of their lives.  The patients are needy because no family member will change a wound dressing, feed intently, or even tell a story of their first love.

There was a blind man who sat perched in his chair chewing a wad of Juicy Fruit Gum as I placed his food in front of him. I told him of the pureed meat that looks of baby food and the mashed potatoes that were  packed into a dome on his tray. His face crinkled in disgust at the foods that I listed. I asked him what we should start with–  He abruptly murmured “ Mashed Potatoes”. This blind man that I fed mashed potatoes to was profiled as a mean blind man. He did not like anyone.  I always thought there was more to the story. The other Nursing Assistants did not shave him as sleek as a baby’s bottom or describe to him how blue the sky was in Lynchburg. Maybe it was because they packed his mouth filled with Mashed Potatoes to avoid his lonely attempts for a conversation.  Frankly, I enjoyed sitting with the witty man who always made sly remarks within our conversations. He would always exclaim in a raspy voice, “You are throwing your life away with me for a military man.” After I finished feeding him, I convinced him to drink his white milk for his health. He always kisses my hand, asking when I would be back to feed him once again.

A portly woman with bent-up joints sat in her bed in the morning waiting to be transferred to her wheelchair. She always smiled brightly at me as if nothing could change how she was feeling. The portly woman had cerebral palsy. Her bright blue eyes glistened in the light as she told of her struggles in life. Never once did she mention cerebral palsy as one of them. She talked about being left at the altar, her mani-pedi with Sue that went awfully wrong, and the view of her room that left her stunned each morning. The portly woman was particular about everything. Frankly, I admired her particularity. It made is easier to truly get to know her. At dinner she would always have milk, water, and cranberry juice that was diluted with water and three packets of regular white sugar. She had vanilla ice-cream almost every night as a dessert. She sat with her three table mates who tried to order anyone who would listen around like their slaves.  I loved being around this woman who found joy in the little things. I was always stuck with the duty of lifting her with the Hoyer Lift. Over time, I began to value the job of being able to make someone feel so much joy. She always exclaimed excitedly, “Green on top and purple on the bottom.” She would refer to the Hoyer straps as specific colors to aid in my success. She had such a helpful spirit. Despite this condition, she never forgot what tasks she wanted to be completed or the dresses she wanted to parade around in.

 

In a room to the far corner of the hallway, there was a woman who very seldom spoke a word. One of the primary things I remembered was snot running down her wrinkly face. She liked it cold in her room even though the air made it prone for her to have a runny nose. This woman was the first person I met on my first official day. She smiled at me like a Shitzu with only its bottom teeth. I thought it was the most genuine smile of them all. She reminded me of Henry the Shih Tzu, my best friend.  Henry was my first friend as a child, who ensured that I was okay. He snuggled up to me on the nights I would cry myself to sleep from the bullies on Bus 26. This woman whose hair was spread out made me feel comfort. She only whispered phrases like“Shower, okay, not hungry, and goodnight.” I never quite fathomed how such a woman could make me feel secure without even knowing her, let alone reminding me once of man’s best friend.

I am not their blood. I think that is simply okay at Liberty Ridge.  A set of hereditary traits does not make someone family. It is the willingness to help one another even when all you want to do is turn a blind eye. Each resident has a different story to tell. In the midst of it, they might give you some bullshit spew of advice that does not align with your morals. My advice is to listen. Maybe you will discover a story in their strained voices when they tell you “Do not marry the first boy that treats you decently.” When they decide to show some vulnerability, do not ignore them or tell them in a pit of sweat “Everything will be okay.” In their tear encrusted eyes, it is not okay that their blush pink culottes are uneven before supper. Lastly, allow them to give you a bone crushing hug because it may just be a ‘tired’ soul giving their goodbyes.