Generations in the making.
Awkward author selfie. Hello world, it's me in a work polo.
I have been asked, cajoled, and commanded to write a blog detailing the episodes from my workplace. I have written (and abandoned) blogs before, and I’m not making any promises here, but I am going to chronicle more extensively my experiences because I believe they’re important. Sometimes they will be humorous (most likely at my expense), and sometimes they will be sad (most likely at another’s expense). But they will always be honest.
Six months and two days ago, I began a new job in a new industry that was a long, long time coming. I am the Community Relations Director (read: sales, marketing, and external branding) at an assisted living facility, or ALF, in Oregon.
I say a long time coming because the transition from a stable, comfortable, enjoyable, relatively stress-free job into this new position has been a journey that started many years ago. Back in high school (seven-ish years ago? Wow I’m old. Don’t tell my residents I said that) I worked after school and weekends in a retirement home, and that was my first glimpse into long-term care. I worked in the dining hall, and after about a month, I loved it. The first month, however, was pretty traumatic. I was told I needed to lose weight (horrifying to hear as a female, confusing to hear as a naturally thin person), that I was too old to get married, that I should have children soon or it would be too late…well, you get the picture. All of the stereotypical things that elderly people say were said to me. Yikes.
Once I realized that they didn’t mean what they said, or even didn’t realize what they were saying, I developed a thick skin. Once I had that in place (again, took about a month), then I loved it. I loved my job, my co-workers, and most of all, the residents. They tell teachers not to choose a favorite student, and I’d say that same logic applied to me, but you better believe I had favorites.
Two very specific memories stand out to me, and I recalled one of them to the two women who interviewed me for my current position. I used these memories as some of the reasoning to get myself to apply to move out of luxury hotel sales & catering, and into long-term care. I figured if these little bitty memories stood out to me so strongly (I can still clearly picture where I was in the dining room during these encounters; I can still feel the scratch of the awful bow tie we had to wear as a part of our uniform), then they must really mean something to me. And the people in them must have meant something to me; must have really affected my life. And they did. I’ll start with the happy memory.
His name was G.W. That’s all I remember, so I don’t think that gives him away (initial names are more common than I realized). He was in a wheel chair. It was late in the dinner shift, and I was ready to go home, but he was taking his sweet time with his meal. I believe the dining room was almost empty when G. W. and I started chatting. I was squatted down by his chair so he could see my face (I’m pretty tall, especially next to a senior citizen…more on that to come), and he was telling me about his time working on a Tabasco farm. Now, that wasn’t a concept I’d ever heard of before, but I was listening. Or at least, pretending to listen. I was really wondering when he was going to can it so I could wrap things up and get home. Really, that’s what I was thinking. I swear I am supposed to be in this industry; bear with me, I’ll prove it to you. But at the time I wasn’t feeling particularly senior-friendly. The Tabasco farm story turned into him talking about his family, which turned into him diving into another topic, on and on. And I was annoyed, until I remembered something.
G.W. had just come back from a brief stint in the hospital for treatment for something I don’t remember. But I do remember that we thought he might not be able to come back; that he might need more care than we could provide (this facility was independent and not assisted – more on those differences later). Or there was a chance he might not make it out of the hospital. I don’t believe he had family in the area, and I don’t know that anyone had gone to visit him there. All of a sudden it hit me – he’d had an experience most people can’t relate to. He thought he was going to die. And he thought he was going to be forgotten. In telling me these stories, he was leaving traces of G.W. behind, instilled in someone else. And so I sat, and I listened. It couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes all in all, but I’ll never forget it.
This second story is sad, it’s heart-breaking, and I tear up every time I tell it. I don’t imagine that writing it will be any different. You deal with death in long-term care, and that’s just a fact. There’s no way around it. That’s common knowledge going in. What they don’t tell you about are all the other heart-wrenching bits, like the loneliness and the depression and the loss that these people are experiencing, and how you become a part of that.
Again, I can remember the scene clearly. The sweet lady, whose name and face have since blurred in my memory, was buzzing around the dining hall telling all the wait staff, myself included, about how everything needed to be perfect tonight. Her family was coming to dine, and she was giddy and excited and nervous. She had us push two tables together in the back of the dining room for them, and she kept re-adjusting place settings and utensils. She had us bring over a booster seat because they might want to use one, but she wasn’t sure, but she wanted it nearby just in case. And her son might not get the soup, but don’t be offended, he just doesn’t like soup. And could we please make sure there was plenty of coffee? They will all probably want coffee after their trip (I’m not sure how far they were traveling to see her).
You can probably see where this is heading, unfortunately. We brought the drink cart around, but she wanted to wait until her family was there, so she just poured herself a glass of water. We took soup orders, but again, she wanted to wait for her family, and they were just running a little late. Same story with the entrees, and then with dessert. By this time I was furious with this family. How dare they let her sit there, empty-plated, and wait for them? And how dare they make me serve around her with a smile on my face?
As we were beginning to clean up and as the dining room started to clear out, the family showed. Instead of feeling relieved, however, they only made my blood boil more. They rushed in late, they didn’t seem to be apologetic, and they had apparently already eaten. They ordered a dessert or two to go, and whisked the resident off to her apartment with no concern for the fact that she had waited all evening for them and hadn’t eaten. They didn’t stay long, either, as I saw them all depart in the same flurry they’d arrived in before my shift for the night had ended.
I don’t use the word ‘furious’ lightly. I was furious. It broke my heart. She loved them all so well, and had clearly been looking forward to playing the hostess as she perhaps had in the past. But this matriarch had fallen from her post, and had fallen from their sights. They didn’t need her anymore, and a visit to the home was clearly a nuisance. Perhaps you think I am passing rushed judgment on them, and I pray that I am, and that I was wrongly misunderstanding the situation, but I doubt it.
These isolated incidents reminded me several years ago that I have a passion for geriatric care, which isn’t common, especially in people my age. And finally, about a year and a half ago, I decided to do something about it. I began to research companies and jobs, and eventually found this position with this company. I fought for it, and after multiple interviews and weeks of waiting, I got the job. So much has transpired in the past six months and two days, and that is what has driven me to chronicle my experiences. I will transcribe some of the more interesting events from the past, but mostly I will note what I learn and experience in the future. I’m new into this industry, and I’m hungry to become the expert.
Watch out, senior citizens. I’m out to befriend every last one of you.
