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So yesterday we moved Gloria from Watsonville Community to Pacific Coast Manor, a "skilled nursing facility." I'm pissed off at Watsonville Community. They had given her Halidol Wednesday night because she was anxious and trying to leave. Okay, I understand treating the anxiety medically, but the Halidol did not wear off for about eighteen hours. She was somnolent and could not keep her eyes open. But she was not calm. She was just as anxious and just as frightened and just as determined to leave: she kept saying, in this tiny, tiny voice, "help, help, I want to go, I need to go." But she was too drugged out to even hear me telling her I was there and she was going to go home as soon as she was strong enough.
Today, in the morning, she still seemed out of it. However, by lunch time, when her son Tom (my favorite archaeologist) showed up with his dogs (one at a time), she perked up and started demanding to practice walking. I had been telling her that she would go home when she was strong enough to do her own walking and getting in and out of chairs and beds and stuff, and she has apparently taken this to hear, because she spent the rest of the day determinedly practicing. One of the aides is a worry wort: he kept having conniptions whenever she tried to stand up ("you'll fall! That;s very dangerous!" -- in a thick accent -- Shanghainese, Tom thought, but I think Korean: whatever it is, there are a lot of people at the nursing home who seem to have the same accent, which is only interesting because it's noticeable, if you know what I mean). But other than that, they're very homeward-oriented there. The people are competent, pleasant, engaged, and most of all, there's enough of them. The place does not smell of pee or disinfectant. It's a little noisy with all the people moving around and clattering trays and things, but it's not excruciating. The halls are full of patients wheeling and walkering around, which I think is a good sign.
There's a resident at the place whose name is Jeannette Rankin. She would have been born when the famous one was already famous.
So anyway, I spent a lot of today helping Gloria practice walking. She was happy to listen to the classical guitarist in the morning, but what we thought was cowboy music turned out to be "cowboy church" in the afternoon, with a whole lot of bragging about how this guy had prayed for this that and the other and it had come to pass, so she didn't want to stick around for it and just wanted to walk some more. She was able to say a few more cogent things today, too, and some wry smiles, very Gloria.
Oh, and her ancient old dog disappeared while she was at the hospital -- we think the coyotes ate her, most likely.
Belle of Portgual is in bloom. Here's an old picture:
Today, in the morning, she still seemed out of it. However, by lunch time, when her son Tom (my favorite archaeologist) showed up with his dogs (one at a time), she perked up and started demanding to practice walking. I had been telling her that she would go home when she was strong enough to do her own walking and getting in and out of chairs and beds and stuff, and she has apparently taken this to hear, because she spent the rest of the day determinedly practicing. One of the aides is a worry wort: he kept having conniptions whenever she tried to stand up ("you'll fall! That;s very dangerous!" -- in a thick accent -- Shanghainese, Tom thought, but I think Korean: whatever it is, there are a lot of people at the nursing home who seem to have the same accent, which is only interesting because it's noticeable, if you know what I mean). But other than that, they're very homeward-oriented there. The people are competent, pleasant, engaged, and most of all, there's enough of them. The place does not smell of pee or disinfectant. It's a little noisy with all the people moving around and clattering trays and things, but it's not excruciating. The halls are full of patients wheeling and walkering around, which I think is a good sign.
There's a resident at the place whose name is Jeannette Rankin. She would have been born when the famous one was already famous.
So anyway, I spent a lot of today helping Gloria practice walking. She was happy to listen to the classical guitarist in the morning, but what we thought was cowboy music turned out to be "cowboy church" in the afternoon, with a whole lot of bragging about how this guy had prayed for this that and the other and it had come to pass, so she didn't want to stick around for it and just wanted to walk some more. She was able to say a few more cogent things today, too, and some wry smiles, very Gloria.
Oh, and her ancient old dog disappeared while she was at the hospital -- we think the coyotes ate her, most likely.
Belle of Portgual is in bloom. Here's an old picture: