Little Mini Freak. That's all I have to say.
It's finally happened. I know I've talked before about challenging behaviors at my place of work...yada, yada, yada...on and on and on...And I've talked about really enjoying my work and the people I work with and the people I help to support. I think we do important work and although much of it is mundane, ho-hum, hum-drum domestic crap...it still remains important. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction, as well as exhaustion and occasionally feeling completely grossed out. But hey, that happens at home, too.
So tomorrow I knowingly face one of the most challenging situations that I know. Personally challenging. And it doesn't matter because my job isn't about me and I knew that when I signed up for this gig.
So let me explain in my rather unnecessarily long-winded way. At Ecols, the house that I work at, one of our five individuals was a man on hospice. Profoundly retarded, a paraplegic, blind, non-verbal, with a few other problems, this gentleman still managed to have a great deal of dignity. He was also a kind, gentle soul. And as you can tell by my verb tense, he passed away recently. Friday, to be exact, an hour and a half after I got off shift.
I wasn't his primary care-giver, though I helped as much as I could because as his illness progressed, he was less and less able to help. He was exhausting. That's ok. I don't think any of us, or at least not many of us, resented that.
This gentleman gave me something he never realized. I don't think I can explain it either, but helping to take care of him taught me some unnameable, priceless life lessons. He taught me about dignity and respect in such a profound and intangible way, that makes words completely inadequate for the experience.
I have only worked at Ecols for two months. I have co-workers who worked with this man for much longer, have cared for him much longer, and are hurting right now. I think we all have a sense of relief--some, perhaps, because the load has been lightened considerably, but for the most part, just to know that this man's suffering is finally over. He's been at Death's door about six times over the course of two years. People had been told about six times over the course of two years that he probably only had a couple of days to a couple of weeks to live. But like the Eveready bunny, he just kept on going. Until last Friday.
So the challenge for me, is the memorial service tomorrow. People, I used to cry when the Hallmark commercials would be on the TV. I have hair-trigger tear ducts. I can cry if I'm happy or I can cry if I'm sad. It really doesn't matter which. And I HATE to cry. I don't cry pretty.
I cry easily, but not pretty. I don't cry delicately or softly. I have a choice between sobbing and snotting, or contorting my face while trying to discretely bite my tongue (best thing to deter tears, that and pressing your tongue firmly into the roof of your mouth. Try it, you'll be amazed). Do I, the new-hire, wish to carry on and make a spectacle of myself? About as much as I want to go on a date with Steven Segal.
I have a hormone imbalance. Must be. Menopause? Not yet. The Crying Game has been going on for YEARS, far too many years. I deal with it by avoiding situations that will trigger it. So I always leave the room at the end of a sad movie, discretely busy myself with some domestic chore during tragic newscasts, and as for those commercials, I have to endure Miranda drawing attention to me by calling loudly, "MOM, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" And Mick bellowing, "What, ARE YOU CRYING? LOOK, MOM'S CRYING!" Oh, the crosses I have to bear. The crap I have to put up with.
So I have no choice in this whole memorial thing. I have to go. Because I have a couple of individuals to support. These two people have been house mates of the hospice man for YEARS! And my supervisor wants them to go because they need closure. And she's right. Although I'd rather go to a church service where people speak in tongues and praise the lord while going into ecstatic convulsions or attend an Amway convention or go to a strip club, all in the name of supporting one of our individuals. I wasn't offered multiple choices.
So I have to suck it up. Do my job. Stop thinking about myself. Try that some time. And then you'll realize that we think about ourselves ALL the time. Or most of us. Some of us are saintly, but not most of us.
My comfort is that my co-worker, the one who is hurting the worst over this man's death, REALLY DOES NOTwant to go to the memorial either. She's absolutely dreading it. And as we all know, misery loves company. So our plan is to sit together with our two individuals, toward the back, hopefully. And we are going to pray for behaviors. That's a euphemism for out of control agitation. It can include screaming, scratching, head-pounding, but is not limited to those behaviors. We've been told that we can leave if there are behaviors. I promise we won't pinch our people, but selfishly, we'd be grateful for a good showing of agitation.
It's not all about me. I do know that. This situation has brought that into clear focus. So I will do my job and suck it up. And I won't forget the Kleenex.
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