Does she, or doesn't she ... The thin edge of Dignity

By Dick Weinman

As a kid growing up in New York City, I rode the subway everywhere I needed to go – just about every day. And, I saw it in every subway car I rode in on the Independent line, the BMT, the IRT, whichever Borough I had to travel to or through. It held a place of importance displayed at both ends of the each and every car. I couldn’t miss it. It’s imprinted into my memory bank: does she. . . or doesn’t she? One of the twelve most famous slogans in print advertising. Now, some seventy years later, it spurts to life. Surely you remember the do-it-yourself hair coloring phenom, Miss Clairol? Of course, to us prepubescent and teenage boys, the meaning had nothing to do with coloring hair.

Born in 1933, I have sweet memories of youth, boyhood, the teen years, young adulthood, college, marriage, fatherhood, retirement. Then the memories sour. The two trajectories of my life – mine alone and my wife’s – come to a halt: mine, came crashing down; hers slipped away.

My crash was literal – it eventually left me disabled. Ginny’s slippage was metaphorical, a brain suffocated by tangled amyloids – it eventually left her dead.

Since 2005 we had lived in two separate facilities: hers, for old people with Alzheimer’s – now neutrally and vaguely known as Memory Care Centers; mine, an Assisted Living Facility, or ALF. Both institutions of Long Term Care, or LTC.

So what does this tale of life’s traumas have to do with Miss Clairol?

In our conditions, Ginny and my lives depended on other people to get through daily living – to dress, to bathe, to feed, to toilet – almost all the Activities of Daily Living (do you smell an acronym on the way?), or ADLs. Of the many people who we depend on, the most immediate and hands-on person is the Caregiver. Ginny’s Caregivers were “hearts-on” as well. They affectionately cared about her. Thankfully so, because she had little or no awareness of where she was or what her life was like. She communicated every sensory reaction, emotion, or thought – if there was one – by a throaty aarrgh!

I, on the other hand, with a battered, twisted and non-ambulatory body, have a clear mind. I can observe, interpret and analyze; I can speak and write and am connected to the world outside the Institution, engaging in life’s activities, and connecting to the world through social media. I have a voice that speaks words.

I have written about living in my ALF (all ALFs are not alike, but there is a unanimity), alluding to the regimentation, the homogenous life style, caregivers who don’t care, who go through the motions, giving assistance peremptorily, whereas Ginny’s caregivers cared and gave from the outset of her residence until her death. I’m embarrassed that they remember my name from nine years ago, and, when visiting, I had to glance at their name badge.

But where I live, too, caring relationships have been formed. I have had a former caregiver who was going to care for me on a trip to Spain, and one who was my caregiver for a two day appearance in Seattle; there are former caregivers who share with me their educational plans and dreams through Facebook connectivity, and my first care giver from 2006, who responds to the posting s of my blog. These former caregivers have brought their caring into my life.

As do the caregivers now who remember my routines, who answer calls with pleasant voices – more of them than the grouches. The smile and welcoming attitude of the office manager; the friendship of the house keepers; the friendly willingness to help of the maintenance man.

Do these spontaneous actions and assists reveal a caring heart? An innate desire to help people? Do they … or don’t they? Does it matter?

It does in matters of health. Our RN, in addition to being a caring nurse, sensitive to the needs of the residents, also fills-in as a med-aid when none is scheduled. When we are short staffed, she helps the caregivers answer calls, serves in the dining room, washes dishes – these work activities on her days off, not in her job description. How can I not perceive that she cares that people are helped, that the processes of the facility happen?

I return to the slogan in my mind. I revisit the subway ride. Does She . . . Or Doesn’t She?

Yes. I do care if she does.