Robert’s dead.
I was 19 or so when I began hospice work. If you don’t know what hospice is, I’ll tell you. Hospice is a healthcare benefit every U.S. citizen is entitled to. It’s a form of healthcare, paid for by the U.S. government, designed to ease the financial, emotional, and physical burden of dying people. If a doctor says, in writing, that he or she thinks you have less than six months to live, you’re entitled to hospice benefits. Since my dad owns senior living communities, he founded a hospice company to complement the services he offers in those communities. I worked for his company.
I was a hospice caregiver. A hospice caregiver is basically a person who provides physical care for the dying patient. If humans were cars, hospice caregivers would be car detailers. What I’m trying to say is, my main responsibility was to give the dying people showers.
When I wasn’t working in hospice, I was going to college. I arranged my classes so that I could go to school Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. I was a hospice caregiver on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I was one of the only males who worked for the company at the time. Caring for dying people is delicate work and I guess that’s why it seems that women are more apt to do it. Bathing patients is the most physically demanding aspect of hospice care. So it became the unspoken agreement that I’d shower all the patients while the women did most of the other care.
I showed up to work every Tuesday and Thursday ready to shower anywhere between 6 and 8 dying people.
I didn’t recognize what a significant role I played in their lives at that time in my life. I just grabbed the shower supplies and began working.
After listening to updates from the head nurse, I’d stop and grab the shower chair.
And since you’ve probably never given a dying person a shower, I’m guessing you don’t know what a shower chair is. I wouldn’t know what it was had I never worked in a nursing home either. Anyway, I can tell you what a shower chair is too. A shower chair is a chair that rolls on wheels. You know, the kind on an office chair. It’s made of PVC pipe, plastic mesh, and a plastic toilet seat, in case a patient needs to go. No one tells you this but when you’re dying, sometimes you lose control of your bowels and bladder. I cleaned many bowel movements and bladder movements off of shower floors in those days.
The shower schedule was predetermined by the head hospice nurse. All I had to do was show up, shower the patients, and repeat until everyone on the schedule was showered.
Some patients still understood the concept of a shower. Others didn’t. Some patients tried to refuse their shower while others welcomed it. I never knew what I was walking into.
About halfway through my yearlong hospice career, I was assigned a patient named Robert.
By the time I met him, Robert lost his ability to speak. He was, more or less, aware of what was going on around him, he just lost his ability to connect his thoughts to words.
When I met him, he lived in the secure dementia unit. I knew it was where he’d live the rest of his life. He’d spend however much time he had left on earth in a wheelchair confined to that hallway, community dining room, and studio apartment which he shared with another demented roommate.
It was almost always after lunch by the time I got to Robert to give him his shower. I’d usually already showered at least 3 other patients and knew I had at least 3 more to give after finishing with him.
I’d walk into the community dining room where Robert usually sat among all the other demented patients watching television in their high-back wheelchairs.
He’d look up at me with eager eyes, the way a child looks up at his art teacher hoping for praise.
I’d greet him, then politely ask him to lift his feet from the ground so I could wheel him to his room to prepare for his shower.
Once in the room, I’d prepare the bathroom the way a restaurant cook sets up his station before the start of a busy dinner rush. Everything had to be in its correct place before I could begin.
I’d start to undress him; undo the velcro on his big chunky geriatric shoes; pull his food stained t-shirt over his head.
With remnants of spaghetti sauce caked on his thick mustache and in the corners of his mouth, he’d try to follow along as I gave him instructions to follow. My goal was to make the experience as pleasant as possible.
Once he was out of his wheelchair and in the shower chair, I’d check the temperature of the water one last time before rolling him in.
As soon as the water fell on his skin, he was calm.
In those moments, he found peace and so did I.
I took pride in giving my patients my best effort.
Once I’d completely bathed him, it was time to get him dressed and ready for the rest of his day. Although the actual shower itself was nearing an end, I knew my work was far from over. The showers themselves took between 30 to 40 minutes but the entire process took closer to an hour.
Since he couldn’t speak, there was no way for him to thank me. I just assumed he appreciated it and did my best regardless.
And I tried my best to appreciate how easy he made the whole process.
I think Robert was my patient for about 3 months. Twice a week, Robert and I spent about an hour together in that intimate situation. In those one on one moments, we trusted each other completely.
Although we spent so much time together, I can’t say I got to know him any better than I did after giving him his first few showers. I got to know how he’d react given certain circumstances but after a while, I felt I knew all there was to know about him, given the constraints of our relationship, and his inability to speak.
Finally, one afternoon, while I was showering another patient, the head nurse poked her head in the bathroom door and said she had an update for me.
“Everything ok?” I said.
“Yes. Just wanted to let you know Robert’s no longer with us,” she said.
I thanked her but said nothing else.
I turned around, went back into the bathroom, and continued showering my patient.
And I smiled as I finished all my other showers for the day.