Colleen 'o' the Greens

In some dementias the person is left with but a few key words.
In others, actions take hold.

There is no cure for the progressive dementias.
The afflicted person can live for from two to twenty years (the average is eight).
In early stages, some drugs may temper the cognitive and behavioral symptoms. Non-pharmacological interventions can improve quality of life for the patient.
When the neurological impairment worsens, persons are dependent on caregivers and various complications develop. Clients frequently enter the healthcare system as Home Support and advance through to Intermediate and then Extended Care.

Colleen was a very animated happy woman.
She had been a great athelete and in particular a very gifted golfer. I knew none of that when I met her. I just saw that she was bored with what life she had left.

I met Colleen in a Hospital setting. She was in the extended care wing. She was an *eloper* so she was typically in a restraint.
Now judgement or no, I am opposed to physical restraints. I am not sure about chemical restraints either. The Head Nurse would remind me on a daily basis that it was the right of the family to decide such things. I have the right to disagree with that. And I did. And I still do. Noone in our area has ever successfully sued a Hospital for someone falling who might have been restrained. There are, however, several lawsuits pending about restraints improperly (allegedly) used.

I think people have the right to fall. I think even in a dementia if the person wants to walk let them walk. We do so much *fixing* in health care. Maybe they are not meant to BE fixed.

Colleen knew that I hated to see her strapped into a chair.
I would take her out on my breaks. Take her to the washroom so she could actually have the dignity of voiding on the throne rather than in her pants. I could always tell when she couldn't hold it any longer. She would have a tear in her eyes. She was not too talkative but she had a few words. Like: "thank you" and "dear dear".

I did not enjoy working in this Hospital and left as soon as I had other employment. I never went back to visit anyone there. Not physically anyway.

I had an assignment through Hospice at a private Hospital near my home. They asked me to go see a person in the end-of-life room. A good opportunity presented itself on the day they held a carnival for the community. There were pictures and memory books of all residents along with events for kids and families. The idea was that people would come for the carnival and stay to intermingle with the elders.

I walked into the dining room at lunchtime and heard an unmistakable voice shouting "ME! ME! ME! ME!"
In the corner where they put the "feed" clients (it is out of view of the other residents as it is not a lovely sight) sat Colleen.
She was bobbing her head at me wildly. I went over and sat beside her and asked the workers if I could feed her. The chef had given her food a palette look. He knew she had been a painter.

The Nurse in charge of the dining room let me remove her from the table as soon as she finished. I wheeled her out to the carnival.
There were happy kids everywhere. Lots of animals and more than a few performers. Colleen was babbling ME ME ME over and over again and motioning with her head. (Her arms were under a restraint.)

We wheeled past the action, past the tables of goodies, past the displays of crafts, past the books of lives where old blue grannies sat showing off to the very last table. Colleen suddenly hooted.
I stopped and looked at a very well-worn book. It was alot bigger than the others. Noone at all was even near us. It didnt look like anyone HAD been.

I pulled up a chair and sat beside Colleen and opened the book.
We looked at the whole thing. It took 2 hours.
It was press clippings and newspaper stories following her career as a pro golfer. She had been exceptional right from a small girl.
I saw pictures of her in her teens and in her 70s.
The last of the book was dedicated to her art career.
When we turned the last page the sun was going down.
The last of the party-goers had long since gone and the rest of the tables were dismantled. I looked across the lawn to the main building and saw dinner preparations.

Colleen and I went in. I did not get to see the other fella. He went on to eternity just fine without my help. Colleen gave me a kiss when I left and said: "You! You!"

I read her obituary not long ago.
It did not catch her spirit at all.
She was a great woman.
God bless you my dear.
*You* were.
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Memory performs the impossible for man; holds together past and present, gives continuity and dignity to human life. - Mark Van Doren