I abhor violence even when the perpetrator is a generally
sweet man who behaves much like my husband did last year; he wears several
shirts at once, “shops” for clothing in other folks’ rooms, used to smile at me
and hold my hand as I led him from my husband’s room. “I just want to go home,”
he'd say, “I could take that car,” he would add, pointing outside the window.
But he punched Bob and me and he hit several staff members
in a 10 day spree before he was admitted to the psychiatric hospital. The
tension is palpably reduced.
While the above is true, the feeling of safety and comfort I
previously felt about my husband’s life has been permanently modified by this
experience. The tone of the staff is altered to providing what the residents
need, not to engaging them in a playful, respectful manner. “I’d like to Velcro
your shorts to the chair,” I overheard one worker say to another wanderer. Or, “I
gave you juice before. We’re eating in a half hour,” to a woman who forgot she
drank earlier. “I went over to her and asked her what she wanted, but she didn’t
say anything,” as another worker returned from the circle of lounge chairs to
hide behind the kitchen counter, logging something into the computer. Where are
the dolls, the balls, the staff with a playful spirit? Where is someone sitting
to read to the people, to interact with them? To smile at them? To make them
feel at home and welcome????
“You will have to move, I need to set the table
for dinner,” spoken to two women engaged in conversation with each other at
3:45 in the afternoon. When the worker achieved his goal and the women wandered
off, he placed forty empty glasses, 20 napkins
and silverware on the tables, only to have them rearranged by another resident,
for his own internal reasons.
For the staff, the work has become a chore; for the residents, the place has become merely a wait station, for me, reality has reduced my naivete.www.facebook.com
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