'Twas the Week Before Christmas
Bryna the Bearded Collie, and Niña the Great Dane, visit Powhatan Nursing Home with their friends Lynne Corn and Lynne Kreher. With Bryna's long flowing grey and white hair, and Nina's great black bulk, they make quite a sight in the halls of Powhatan. As they did last year, Bryna and Niña will wear special decorations for both Chanukah and Christmas when they go on their visits. Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!
I had brushed Bryna thoroughly last evening. Since it was not that long until Christmas, I put her red ribbon with the jingle bells around her neck, and her Santa hat on her head. It was a close contest as to whether we could make it all the way to the nursing home with that hat still tied on anywhere close to where it belonged. We walked two blocks to the home of Lynne Kreher and her beautiful, black, gentle Great Dane, Nina. Nina was wearing a rope of artificial holly around her neck and chest, with an enormous red ribbon on her back where the roping crossed. She looked stunning. We walked and jingled the rest of the way to the nursing home in the cold night, past homes with lighted reindeer, creches, candy canes, and nutcrackers.
When we got there, the lighted Victorian village of miniature houses, stores, factories, and trains was spread out in full array opposite the visitors' desk. Lynne signed us in while I got our visitors' badges, and then we both took off as many layers as propriety permitted in order to get ready for the blast of heat in the residents' rooms. With a few more adjustments to our dogs' outfits, we headed off. I went first to my very favorite resident, Mrs. D, while Lynne and Nina headed off to another resident.
Mrs. D had revealed herself as a dog lover the moment we first saw her. An attendant was pushing her wheelchair down the hall. When Mrs. D saw the four of us, she beamed, and extended a hand to each dog, palm down. After they sniffed, she politely scratched their chins. Then she looked up and said hello to the two humans.
I discovered then that Mrs. D had lived most of her life on a farm, in fact on a sheep farm. I was ecstatic when I found out that she had herded with her dogs (German shepherds--they were bred to herd sheep, remember?). I explained that I am training Bryna to herd sheep, and we compete in sheepdog trials. Mrs. D was happy to hear this, and at each visit, she enjoyed hearing about our training, and I enjoyed hearing about her work on her farm many years ago, when she sometimes worked her sheep while riding a horse. It was genuinely wonderful to talk to someone who knew exactly what I meant when I said "we're working on outruns now" or "we're having lots of difficulty with squaring flanks."
I think Mrs. D felt especially good to know that she was giving to me at least as much as I was to her in these visits. I often brought her our latest ribbons or some photos. At the next visit, I would find these photos propped on her night stand where she could see them easily. I think I was almost as proud of the honor she gives them as earning the ribbons in the first place. Several months ago, after thinking about the delight she took in seeing pictures of Bryna herding sheep, I decided to contact the computer listserve for German Shepherds. I sent a message to the list manager describing the situation, and explained that if Mrs. D took such delight in seeing pictures of a beardie herding sheep, then her joy would probably be even greater at seeing pictures of her favorite breed herding. I gave him my address and asked him to post my message to the list. I wanted people to mail me pictures of their dogs herding, or any other cute pictures of their dogs that they cared to send.
I got about eight sets of pictures, including a Christmas card of German Shepherd puppies. One woman had no pictures to spare, but she emailed a story about her dog herding. I printed it in very big type so Mrs. D could read it herself. Then I took just a few pictures on each of the next several visits. I didn't try to explain what a listserve was, but just said the pictures came from "my friends" in Colorado, Texas, or wherever. She could hardly believe that people had sent these pictures for her to keep. The information highway and some kind dog-owners helped make an old lady's last days a little brighter.
The four of us joined forces again to meet the four ladies of a group Lynne and I call the "wheelchair corral." Most evenings, we find them out in the hall after their dinner. They have no room for so many wheelchairs in their rooms, so they circle together in the hall. They are all reasonably sound mentally, though one has pretty bad hearing, and another has very, very limited vision. I sat on the floor with Bryna, since we like to spend a long time with such a big group. They all admired the dogs' outfits, and the blind lady felt Bryna's hat. It made them laugh, which is what we hoped. Lynne and I never know whether to ask if they will spend the holidays with families, since some of them seem to have visitors only rarely. As usual, our conversations were superficial, but less disjointed than with many of the other residents whose minds are less sound. They seemed happy just that someone was there, and that there was something interesting to think about.
We stopped in to see Mr. A, a fairly new resident who loves classical music, and whose stereo system has a place of honor in his room. He has serious osteoporosis, and looked out at us from a stooped back. It is hard to be certain, but he looks as if he was once a tall man. He has great good humor, and our dogs both like him quite a bit. We always enjoy visiting him.
Lynne and I split again. I visited Mrs. W, who is failing fast, physically and especially mentally. After two years of visiting, patients like her are the ones who finally let me say to myself, and even to Lynne, "I hope she dies soon." She is a tough lady, but even tough ladies wear out eventually. I suspect that she is in her late 80s. She can no longer hold her mind on a single subject to the end of a sentence. Unfortunately, she realizes this at times, and I can see how frustrated, even angry, she is. But she is always happy I am there, though I now feel completely inadequate to the situation. I stayed about 5-10 min and left.
One reason to leave was a lady across the hall, Mrs. M. Either she is new, or she hasn't been awake on past visits. During all of my time with Mrs. W, with only very brief respites, Mrs. M cried out in a strong voice like a tomcat yowling outside the fence of his lady love, "Heeellp me, pleeease heeellp me." If I lived across from that, I thought, I would either quickly become a defendant in a murder charge, or begin to pray for deafness. I recognized it as the kind of wailing that nurses and attendants have to learn to tune out, since the odds are tremendous that the resident wants no more than attention--no doubt a bother, but in a larger sense, a right as well.
"I am going to stop that, come hell or high water," I thought to myself. Even though it violated a rule or two for volunteers for Fairfax Pets on Wheels, Bryna and I barged uninvited about six feet into the room, through its open door. In a huge, 500 watt smile, and a breezy voice that would do a politician proud, I said "Hi!! How are you?! Would you like a visitor? Would you like to pet my dog?" To my pleasant surprise, she shut up immediately, raised herself from her pillow, and smiled at me. With a slightly surprised look, she said "sure, come on in." While I was there, she talked lucidly about the pets she used to have, reached over to pet Bryna's head, and admired her decorations. I stayed only a short time, but I managed to get all the way down the hall out of earshot without hearing the cat-like crying.
Bryna and I rejoined Lynne and Nina in Mrs. K's room. Mrs. K devours mystery stories, and Lynne had some of her own paperbacks to give her. The two of them have always hit it off very well, and Lynne is like a tonic to Mrs. K. We left Mrs. K's room after wishing her a Merry Christmas. Realizing that the dogs were beginning to be overheated and stressed, we started to think about leaving when we realized that we hadn't seen C. C is a tiny, tiny woman, who adores dogs. Invariably cheerful, she seems to have Alzheimer's, though she retains considerable mobility. We can never predict where to find C, but we never begin the search in her room.
C loves our dogs, and would be crushed to discover that any dog had been in the building without her having an opportunity to pet it. She never seems to need more than a few touches, and she always asks several times what our dogs' names are. And invariably, she always, always says at least twice "My mother always used to say, 'C likes dogs and some people.'" We all laugh, every time--not at the original humor of a joke that is now old, but with the genuine warmth of C's happy memories.
We headed back to the visitors' desk, took off our name tags, signed out, gave the dogs some water, retrieved the dogs' decorations that had started to fall off, put our layers back on, and headed out into the cold air. It felt good to us, and the dogs eemed to think it was wonderful. While we were inside, it had started to snow very lightly. As we jingled our way home, it felt a little more like Christmas.