A Little Confusion
Our residents talk to one another. They keep an eye on one another. They're neighbors, and bound together in the sunset years of their lives as people who are meeting their remaining days with their dignity clenched in their fists. The residents' cameraderi is, I think, a bit stronger than was the sense of community in my college dormitory. It is more the tone of what I felt in the seminary dormitory-- the feeling that, whether or not you got along with everyone, you're all going through something together.
Given this, I was not surprised when one of our residents, Sarah, stopped by my desk on Friday with a concern for one of her neighbors, Jean. Jean is a thin and exuberantly friendly old lady, who fought off polio as a child and walks on stilted sticks for legs. Sarah asked if Jean had been down to speak with the director or anyone else, and I told her that she hadn't, as far as I knew. Sarah said Jean had a disturbing thing happen in her room, so I told her I would take a message and ask around to see if Jean had talked to anyone in the office.
Each resident has a small lock box with their medication in the room, and the Qualified Medical Assistants (QMAs) visit each room in the morning to administer the residents' medicatioins. They have the key to the box. Sarah told me that Jean had unlocked her room early in the morning, which is what some of the residents do so the QMAs can just come on in. After Jean unlocked the door, a woman she did not recognize came into the room. The woman asked Jean to give her the key to for her medication box--the key, of course, that only the QMAs have.
Jean told her she did not have the key, but the woman was undetered. I guess it went something like this:
"Give me your key, I said," the lady said again.
"I don't have one!" Jean told the woman.
"Yes you do, so let me have it," she pressed.
Jean was by now getting a bit spooked. "I don't know who you are," she told the visitor, "so you better leave right now." And the lady left.
Sarah said that Jean was pretty obviously distraught, and, I thought, with good reason. But, she said, Jean also suffers from some confusion occasionally, so it could have just been that.
Confusion or not, I couldn't help but feel a little creeped out about some lady sneaking around upstairs, past the reception area and into the residents' apartments, terrorizing them and bullying them for their medication. As soon as our director came back into the office, I very solemnly reported the issue to him. He took the news earnestly, and thanked me for reporting it. Then he echoed Sarah's assessment, and told me a little bit more about Jean's confusion. I guess at every resident council meeting she mentions the "four nice young men" who cleaned her apartment only days before, and expresses concern that, though effective cleaners, the men were perhaps unsolicited intruders. Every time she mentions this, the other residents groan and throw their hands in the air. Never, in the one year since the place has been opened, has there been four men come in and clean anything. Maybe, the director guesses, at one point years ago Jean had some men help her with something in her apartment, and she's likely just confusing that with more recent events.
I always thought that, as I gained volumes of years, that some of the older binders would fail from age and use, so that pages would fall unwittingly from between the covers of memory. Another option, I see now, is the dissolution of the bounds we set on the individual episodes of our past, so that all float freely, at times merging without distinction into memories of pure chronological paradox, impossible montages of faces and events.
Given this, I was not surprised when one of our residents, Sarah, stopped by my desk on Friday with a concern for one of her neighbors, Jean. Jean is a thin and exuberantly friendly old lady, who fought off polio as a child and walks on stilted sticks for legs. Sarah asked if Jean had been down to speak with the director or anyone else, and I told her that she hadn't, as far as I knew. Sarah said Jean had a disturbing thing happen in her room, so I told her I would take a message and ask around to see if Jean had talked to anyone in the office.
Each resident has a small lock box with their medication in the room, and the Qualified Medical Assistants (QMAs) visit each room in the morning to administer the residents' medicatioins. They have the key to the box. Sarah told me that Jean had unlocked her room early in the morning, which is what some of the residents do so the QMAs can just come on in. After Jean unlocked the door, a woman she did not recognize came into the room. The woman asked Jean to give her the key to for her medication box--the key, of course, that only the QMAs have.
Jean told her she did not have the key, but the woman was undetered. I guess it went something like this:
"Give me your key, I said," the lady said again.
"I don't have one!" Jean told the woman.
"Yes you do, so let me have it," she pressed.
Jean was by now getting a bit spooked. "I don't know who you are," she told the visitor, "so you better leave right now." And the lady left.
Sarah said that Jean was pretty obviously distraught, and, I thought, with good reason. But, she said, Jean also suffers from some confusion occasionally, so it could have just been that.
Confusion or not, I couldn't help but feel a little creeped out about some lady sneaking around upstairs, past the reception area and into the residents' apartments, terrorizing them and bullying them for their medication. As soon as our director came back into the office, I very solemnly reported the issue to him. He took the news earnestly, and thanked me for reporting it. Then he echoed Sarah's assessment, and told me a little bit more about Jean's confusion. I guess at every resident council meeting she mentions the "four nice young men" who cleaned her apartment only days before, and expresses concern that, though effective cleaners, the men were perhaps unsolicited intruders. Every time she mentions this, the other residents groan and throw their hands in the air. Never, in the one year since the place has been opened, has there been four men come in and clean anything. Maybe, the director guesses, at one point years ago Jean had some men help her with something in her apartment, and she's likely just confusing that with more recent events.
I always thought that, as I gained volumes of years, that some of the older binders would fail from age and use, so that pages would fall unwittingly from between the covers of memory. Another option, I see now, is the dissolution of the bounds we set on the individual episodes of our past, so that all float freely, at times merging without distinction into memories of pure chronological paradox, impossible montages of faces and events.
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