from the porches

The Silent Man

The Silent Man slowly wheels himself down a hallway.  Not his hallway.  A hallway leading to who knows where.  My bodyguard and I get the Silent Man's attention and he says, "Take me to my room."  I ask, "Have you eaten?"  He doesn't look up, but instead, keeps his head down to his chest as his body lilts to the left.  "Not yet," he finally utters.

So we push the Silent Man to his room to wait for his lunch.  I sit on his bed, ever so afraid I will set off beeps and blares, but nothing happens.  The Silent Man says, "You seem tentative."  I explain I am afraid he will run over my feet with his wheelchair and I giggle.  But there is no response.  As my bodyguard and I sit on the bed, the Silent Man maneuvers himself around in the tiny cramped room, head to his chest, and pushes his feet and wheels himself into the hallway, bumping against the chest of drawers and the bed frame.

"Shall we leave?" my bodyguard asks.  "No," I reply.  "He's coming back."  We watch and wait for the next few moments and he rolls himself back into the room.  "I'm uncomfortable," the Silent Man says.  So I lock his wheelchair brakes so the Silent Man can partially rise to release pressure on his buttocks.  When that is done, the Silent Man once again wheels himself to the hallway.  The bodyguard and I stay seated on the bed and watch in silence.

I ask a nurse if the Silent Man's lunch is ready and she brings it to the room.  He eats all of the greens with a fork.  I tuck a paper towel into his shirt because I know he will spill green juice all over himself.  I cut his baked potato and douse it with sour cream.  No butter.  There was no butter to be had.  The Silent Man snacks at his potato and then raises his head.  "Take me out of here."

So the bodyguard and I take the Silent Man to the cafeteria where he, once again, begins to eat his lunch.  The Silent Man is unpredictable.  He is explosive at times and grabs my wrist and wrenches it.  I cry silently and sob when I reach the car; therefore, I have vowed to take my bodyguard with me to visit the Silent Man.  It's best that way.  I feel safe that way because the Silent Man is wrapped in his dementia brain, not knowing appropriate behavior.  Lashing out at demons lurking in his brain.

My bodyguard and I leave the Silent Man.  We tell him we love him and I give him a kiss on his head.  There is no response as the Silent Man continues to stab at a too-hard baked potato without butter.

The Mouse in the Car

                                                    

A couple of days ago I had the opportunity to instruct fourth graders at Fort White Elementary School.  I knew the students were focusing on narrative writing; therefore, my lesson was geared toward that.  I still like to use a simple formula for writing a story: Character, setting, problem/plot, try to solve the problem, try to solve the problem, finally, solve the problem.

 

                                                              

I reminded the students to have only one-three characters; heavens forbid, not thirteen friends, in their stories.  I also touched on dialogue.  And then I proceeded to tell the children that my story is a real one that is not yet solved and I needed their help.  The characters are: myself and a mouse.  The setting is my car.  The plot is that I have a mouse in my car and it has to be gotten rid of.  (This is true, by the way).

I went on and told the children that I knew there was a mouse in my car because it had nibbled through a Three Muskateers Bar that I had bought for Truett.  I saw shiny, silver wrapper on the floorboard of my  car and a chunk of the chocolate bar missing.

 

                                          

"Now, how do I get rid of the mouse?" I asked.

One child said, "Put a mouse trap in the car."  I thought about that for a few moments and then I drew a :(  beside that suggestion.  "Why won't that work?" I asked.  Another student said, "Because the mouse knows what a mouse trap looks like and won't go near it."  (Good thinking)

"What is another way to get rid of the mouse?" I questioned.  A student answered gleefuly, "Put gloves on and catch it."  I thought about that for a moment and drew a frowny face beside that suggestion.  "Are you nuts?  It was 13 degrees out there this morning and I am not about to sit in my car with my teeth chattering and me shaking. Good suggestion, just the wrong time of the year."

 

 

                                                        

Patiently, I listened for other solutions when all of a sudden one child raised his hand and said, "Put peanut butter on a rag and leave it in your car overnight.  The mouse will go to eat the peanut butter and will get stuck in it.  Then you can throw him out of your car in the morning." (I love divergent thinking).

DING!  DING! DING!

Just what I wanted to hear.  Problem solved.  However, in the meantime I told the children I will buy moth balls and put them in a mesh bag under the car so the mouse won't come back.  I reminded the children I would sling the mouse in the yard because I don't want to kill any animal...a snake maybe, but not a cute little mouse who likes chocolate.

I touched on dialogue because a good story will have 'talking' in it.  "Does a mouse talk?" I asked.  I heard a lot of "NO's!"  And then I heard, "Yes.  They go squeak.  Perfect.

I enjoyed teaching the lesson.  Now it just has to be written.  Do I have to do it? 

A Seagull's Story

Even though this story is fictional and even though the characters are not human, it is a story based on fact.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful seagull.

She was young and taught younger seagulls in the seagull colony.  Her students were attentive and mostly well-behaved, except for a few which exhibited mobbing behaviour, attacking and harassing other seagull students.  Bullying is the word used today. 

But one day this seagull teacher had a problem. Her unhinging jaws would not open all the way.  She had lockjaw.

So the teacher seagull flew off to the nearest doctor.

Dr. Heron seemed like a nice doctor right off the bat.   That is, until he opened his mouth and vile words spewed out.  "All you teacher gulls deserve to have lockjaw," he said.

"All you teacher gulls squawk and squawk at your students all day long.  Yes, teachers deserve lockjaw!"

Needless to say, the seagull teacher changed doctors and. . .

went back to seagull schooolto teach.

The end.

Bittersweet Visit

I took Clay with me today to visit Truett.  We braved the 45 degree temperatures as we headed to Gainesville.  This little bird is probaby saying, "Let me in.  It's cold out here."

Clay and I had lunch and wasted a little bit of time before we visited Truett at Gainesville Health Care Center.  When we entered Truett's room, he was in the bed, following lunch.  Clay told Truett about his boxing lesson and how he was so out of shape that he injured his legs.  Truett put a smile on his face because Truett used to box in the National Guard in Louisville.

Soon after Clay's story about boxing, Truett became agitated and wanted out of his bed.  Ashley ( an aide) and Truett's nurse calmed him down and we soon left the nursing home with the traditional "I love you" in sign language. 

While there, I asked about Truett's roommate, George J.  Ashley informed me that George had passed away.  I remember months ago, me tapping George on the shoulder to keep him from falling off his bed while eating his lunch.  Soon after, both of George's arms were wrapped in bandages and he was put in a recliner/contained chair.  I assumed George fell and broke both arms.  So sad because I always looked for George in Truett's room and in the dining room.

So so sad.  Ultimately, I would see George in the dining room unable to feed himself.  So sad to still see birthday cards and Christmas cards taped over George's bed, along with cards that read, "You are the best Granddad ever". 

It's odd how I become attached mentally to the dementia/alzheimer patients on floor three at GHCC.  George's family probably doesn't know that.  I wish they knew someone other than nurses cared. 

Heck.  Truett probably isn't even aware that George has gone.  It was a bittersweet visit for me.