I liked the family atmosphere at this Nursing Home, but I learned that BetterLife Health Care, the facility I was working at when I met Wilson, was paying more. So I switched. The night after my last night at the nearby nursing home, I was supposed to show up with a pizza. Afterward, we were all going out. Stephanie had come home just as I was leaving.
“Here,” she said, “I’ve got us some munchies and a movie! Let’s spend the evening together!”
“Sorry, I’m doing something with people from work.”
“Okay,” she said, and sat down in front of the TV by herself.
I felt guilty as I left.
But at BetterLife, I wasn’t a charge nurse anymore. At the nursing home I had an interesting position that gave me responsibility and freedom. Now at BetterLife, I was nothing more than a pill pusher. The atmosphere at BetterLife, which had changed corporate hands over the years since Wilson was a patient, was also different. It was no longer ‘laid back’; it now had very strict rules for quality control. Stepping just inside a door to hand a resident his pills one day, I turned around to find the quality control supervisor slapping my med-cart locked.
“Never leave it unattended!” she snapped.
One night an aide was having difficulty getting a resident with dementia to take a shower. The aide got rough while handling the patient. The next day, I asked my supervisor about it.
“I haven’t been here very long,” I said, “and I don’t know the patients as well as this aide does. Was it necessary to get rough in order to ge the patient to take a shower?”
“This is a ‘vulnerable adult’ issue,” my charge nurse responded, “You should have stepped in and stopped that aide. I’ll have to report you.”
I hated going to work. It was hard leaving my babies, but leaving them to go to this place was all the worse. Halfway through a shift one day, I was trying to teach a diabetic woman how to give herself an insulin shot. I drew the insulin into the syringe and attempted to tap it. As I did this, I tried to explain the purpose, but couldn’t think of the word “bubble.” I couldn’t think straight at all. Struggling to concentrate, I stumbled through the rest of the lesson. As soon as I was finished, I went to the director’s office. I had no idea what was going on with me, but I knew I had to leave.
“I can’t do this.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. “I have to go home.” She let me go.
At home, my neighbor suggested I go to her psychologist. I called for an appointment. Because of the apparent crisis, they squeezed me in late that afternoon.
The psychologist rushed around the waiting room. Her hair was disheveled and her face wore a scowl.
“Come this way.”
In her office, she informed me that she and her husband were leaving on vacation that evening, but she had twenty minutes or so to spend with me. I quickly summarized my situation.
“Well, it sounds like you’re suffering from post-partum depression. We’ll have to get you on some medication.”
I squirmed in my seat.
“The main thing here is to keep you working. I’ll send you across the hall to my husband. He’ll take care of the prescription.”
I crossed the hall to his office. Although I knew I was happiest when I was with Haley and I doubted I had post-partum depression, I didn’t mind getting medication. Anything to make me feel better. I left the office with a prescription – and never returned.
That evening, I got drunk with my neighbor and Troy at the home of another neighbor. Her husband, having to work in the morning, stood on the landing and begged us to go away. We stayed until the early hours of the morning.
For the short time I knew her, I thought this woman was a great friend. She professed to be a Christian, but I didn’t hold it against her. More important was that she listened to all my problems and commiserated with me. In support of a person’s right to have whatever they desire, she gave me permission to let go, get drunk, be promiscuous, and have a good time. So I began an affair.
A week later Elmer called, ‘Wilson is on his way home. He’s hitchhiking.”
“No! Tell him not to come home.”
“Well, he’s already left! How come you don’t want him home?”
“I just don’t want him. You shouldn’t have let him leave.”
“He’s a Christian now you know.”
“Yeah, right!”
Wilson arrived a week later. Knowing what I was going to tell him, I hid my kitchen knives. I was afraid he might get mad.
Not being allowed into the house, Wilson stood on the porch staring out across the street. He wore a tan jacket in the cool spring air. His hands were in his pockets.
“I don’t want you to stay here,” I told him. He turned to look at me. His eyes were soft and moist. He looked away, said nothing for a moment, then quietly responded.
“I’m Christian now. I can’t live like I was living anymore. I want you, Andrew and Haley to move with me out to where Elmer is.”
“I’ve got a job and I’m buying this house.”
“I’ll wait for you a little while, but whether you come with me or not, I’m going back.”
“Here,” she said, “I’ve got us some munchies and a movie! Let’s spend the evening together!”
“Sorry, I’m doing something with people from work.”
“Okay,” she said, and sat down in front of the TV by herself.
I felt guilty as I left.
But at BetterLife, I wasn’t a charge nurse anymore. At the nursing home I had an interesting position that gave me responsibility and freedom. Now at BetterLife, I was nothing more than a pill pusher. The atmosphere at BetterLife, which had changed corporate hands over the years since Wilson was a patient, was also different. It was no longer ‘laid back’; it now had very strict rules for quality control. Stepping just inside a door to hand a resident his pills one day, I turned around to find the quality control supervisor slapping my med-cart locked.
“Never leave it unattended!” she snapped.
One night an aide was having difficulty getting a resident with dementia to take a shower. The aide got rough while handling the patient. The next day, I asked my supervisor about it.
“I haven’t been here very long,” I said, “and I don’t know the patients as well as this aide does. Was it necessary to get rough in order to ge the patient to take a shower?”
“This is a ‘vulnerable adult’ issue,” my charge nurse responded, “You should have stepped in and stopped that aide. I’ll have to report you.”
I hated going to work. It was hard leaving my babies, but leaving them to go to this place was all the worse. Halfway through a shift one day, I was trying to teach a diabetic woman how to give herself an insulin shot. I drew the insulin into the syringe and attempted to tap it. As I did this, I tried to explain the purpose, but couldn’t think of the word “bubble.” I couldn’t think straight at all. Struggling to concentrate, I stumbled through the rest of the lesson. As soon as I was finished, I went to the director’s office. I had no idea what was going on with me, but I knew I had to leave.
“I can’t do this.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. “I have to go home.” She let me go.
At home, my neighbor suggested I go to her psychologist. I called for an appointment. Because of the apparent crisis, they squeezed me in late that afternoon.
The psychologist rushed around the waiting room. Her hair was disheveled and her face wore a scowl.
“Come this way.”
In her office, she informed me that she and her husband were leaving on vacation that evening, but she had twenty minutes or so to spend with me. I quickly summarized my situation.
“Well, it sounds like you’re suffering from post-partum depression. We’ll have to get you on some medication.”
I squirmed in my seat.
“The main thing here is to keep you working. I’ll send you across the hall to my husband. He’ll take care of the prescription.”
I crossed the hall to his office. Although I knew I was happiest when I was with Haley and I doubted I had post-partum depression, I didn’t mind getting medication. Anything to make me feel better. I left the office with a prescription – and never returned.
That evening, I got drunk with my neighbor and Troy at the home of another neighbor. Her husband, having to work in the morning, stood on the landing and begged us to go away. We stayed until the early hours of the morning.
For the short time I knew her, I thought this woman was a great friend. She professed to be a Christian, but I didn’t hold it against her. More important was that she listened to all my problems and commiserated with me. In support of a person’s right to have whatever they desire, she gave me permission to let go, get drunk, be promiscuous, and have a good time. So I began an affair.
A week later Elmer called, ‘Wilson is on his way home. He’s hitchhiking.”
“No! Tell him not to come home.”
“Well, he’s already left! How come you don’t want him home?”
“I just don’t want him. You shouldn’t have let him leave.”
“He’s a Christian now you know.”
“Yeah, right!”
Wilson arrived a week later. Knowing what I was going to tell him, I hid my kitchen knives. I was afraid he might get mad.
Not being allowed into the house, Wilson stood on the porch staring out across the street. He wore a tan jacket in the cool spring air. His hands were in his pockets.
“I don’t want you to stay here,” I told him. He turned to look at me. His eyes were soft and moist. He looked away, said nothing for a moment, then quietly responded.
“I’m Christian now. I can’t live like I was living anymore. I want you, Andrew and Haley to move with me out to where Elmer is.”
“I’ve got a job and I’m buying this house.”
“I’ll wait for you a little while, but whether you come with me or not, I’m going back.”
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