The "Dormitory"

As I sit in Gram's room at the "dormitory," I listen to Miss Shirley next door say the words, "Help me" over and over again. It isn't dire. It never is. She can say that a thousand times a night. I think maybe she is just lonely. Of course, the first time I heard her, I panicked! The nurse's aide with me assured me, "That's just Shirley. Just ignore her." That sounds fine, sort of, in theory, but what happens when she really DOES need help? "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" story comes to mind, but it isn't the same. That boy was capable of making choices and needed to be taught a lesson about only calling for help when it really needed. But, dementia patients really can't be held accountable...

This time, I checked on Shirley to be sure she was, indeed, okay. She told me she needed help. Uh huh. Got it. I asked her what I could do for her. She said, "I need help." Okay, I'll word it differently. "What kind of help do you need?" "I need help not to fall." She says this as she is sitting in her recliner, quite comfortable. I dug deeper. As it turns out, she wanted out of her recliner and into her wheelchair. She also needed her shoe put back on. I adjusted her wheelchair for her, and it became very apparent that I would never be able to do this myself. In addition, was I even allowed? What are the laws about this? If I help her and something happens, am I liable? Can someone sue me for trying to help an elderly dementia patient? It's so sad that these are the kinds of things one must think about... I let someone who works here know, and retreated back into Gram's room, a bit disappointed that I couldn't do more. As Shirley waited for help to arrive, she continued. "Help me. Help me. I need help. Somebody help me, please. Please help me." It goes against every instinct to sit idly by while someone calls for help! Then, she got more specific. "I need a man to help me. I need a man to help me. Or a boy. I need a boy to help me. But not a small boy. I need a big boy. I need a big boy to help me." Miss Shirley is a bit bigger, herself, and knows a small boy will not be able to help her make the transfer to her wheelchair. As the director explained to me earlier, "Shirley is a 'two-person lift.'" In the midst of the angst, I had to laugh a little at poor Shirley requesting help from a man or a big boy...

The morale of THIS tale? Miss Shirley got help into her chair, into the bathroom, got her eye drops, etc. She hasn't made a peep since...