Ten-Finger Exercises

kinda punk day

I made it, but barely, to the piano concert last night that Bill really wanted to go to. The performer has been one of our church musicians for a few years and is moving to Texas to teach at the University. She had included one of his favorite pieces and was disappointed that he couldn't be there.

I'd taken a nap and almost didn't wake up to go at all, and even then got there a little late. Bill would have enjoyed it more than I did. I prefer brass or strings to piano. The instrument itself is an expensive full grand which Eleanor will leave with us for another year until she can afford to move it. The acoustics of the church are less than perfect, I'm sure, but the concert failed to touch me in the way music does so many. I'm sorry about that. I wish it meant more to me.

I had trouble sleeping then last night, and felt tired and draggy all day, even a little queasy by tonight when I realized I'd only had yogurt and a bagel to eat.

The only exciting thing of my day was a visit to a volatile patient whom I had not yet met. I went with a social worker who helped admit him last week. He is an ex-con, who, because of his disease, can hardly speak.

He was obviously in pain, so our first move was to try to call the nurse. He handed the social worker his phone, making an angry gesture at it and shaking his head. It turned out that the area code for hospice had not been entered into the memory, so it wouldn't work. He thought the social worker had somehow erased his caregiver's number when she was there Friday, because he hadn't been able to reach him over the weekend, and he was angry about that too. He called her a bitch.

She carefully entered the numbers again, correctly, made the call, and found out what to do until the nurse could get there.

The patient had handed us the box that his pain patches came in, and there were several empty papers. I looked more carefully and saw a new one also. The nurse told us to have him put it on, and the social worker had to get it open for him. The caregiver put it on him, holding it for 30 seconds as the directions said. We all wished it would work instantly, but of course it wouldn't.

I told him I knew he was Catholic, and he said, "raised that way." He was no longer, and he had no interest in having a priest. That's a necessary question, because many people who have been raised in a faith, no matter how long ago and far away they are from it, want to see a priest before they die. Not him.

I asked if he believed there was anything after this life, and he pointed emphatically down while looking me in the eye. Stupidly, I said, "Hell?" Oops, wrong answer. He shook his head angrily. "You're buried in the ground and that's it, right?" Yes, that was it. He looked less angry.

I tried a couple of other questions, about family contacts, and anything else we might be able to help with. There was nothing. With difficulty he asked, "What exactly is hospice?" I explained that it was to help people who are dying live out their lives as comfortably as possible. He had heard that before when he was admitted, but might not remember. Who could tell what he remembered? He dropped his head to his hands in a gesture that looked like resignation.

Finding it difficult to communicate with the man, we asked the caregiver if he knew of anything we could do. He said we should get out and leave the man alone, and he walked us out the door.

Later when the nurse went to visit, she asked him to pull his pillow over beside him to rest his arm on while she took his blood pressure, and there was a gun under the pillow! She left quickly. It will be interesting to see what happens next. It's illegal for a felon to have a gun. Even if it weren't, we will still discharge him because of the threat he is to our safety. Imagine getting called out at night to treat him? Between pain meds, alcohol that was in sight, and now a gun-- no thanks. But still, it's sad.

Well, sorry, that wasn't the pleasant blog about the spa weekend. Maybe tomorrow, if I'm not too busy with a dog. The owner of the shih tzu didn't call back or email me again, so I'm not sure what's up there. But I think I'll bring the boxer home with me and take him to his vet appointment Thursday to be neutered. I didn't want to be the one to have to do that, but I don't want him sitting in a cage all week either. I just didn't feel good enough tonight to deal with it.