Trusting strangers

I am often in the unique position of being allowed into stranger's homes and getting to see how they operate in their most private space. I am so aware of the need to tread softly until some trust has been built. They are allowing me into their inner sanctum, their refuge from the rest of the world, to travel uncharted territory with them. The weight of that responsibility is profound.

I get to see their family dynamics play out, I get to hear their stories and learn of their histories, and who gets along with who, and who is a good cook. I get to walk alongside people at a very raw time, as emotions run high, fear is often rampant, and my hope is that I can be someone who is safe as it all tumbles out all over the place. Life is messy, figuratively and physically, and that is the reality for all of us, whether we acknowledge it or not. That mess can be embarrassing and scary and to let someone, a stranger, the hired help, see it flowing like lava, splattering every which way, with no way to control it, is the absolute pinnacle of vulnerability.

So I am careful, I am cautious, I move slowly, I explain what I can do to help, I validate their feelings, I empathize about how HUGE all of this must feel, I share some of my own experiences if it seems appropriate. Usually I am met with a huge sigh of relief. Sometimes I get some push back though. People who are not in a place of acceptance of where they have found themselves, people who are angry at the realization of their lack of control over their future, people who are so so afraid of what may lie ahead.

I had one woman scream at me to "get the fuck out." I was quiet for a minute, I asked if I could stay just for a minute...if she decided she really didn't want me around I would leave and she wouldn't hear from me again. I started with acknowledging how infuriating all of this must be, to have people coming and going in her home, telling her how to be safe, what pills to take and when...."Yes, I know how to take care of myself, god damnit! I don't need anyone coming in here telling me what to do."

"I can see that you are so strong, and you have accomplished things in your life that I can only think about."

"Yes, I have!"

"How about I come again in a few days, not to tell you what to do, but just for a visit. I would love to hear more about your years fostering babies. I will bring some good coffee next time...a cup for you and a cup for me. Would that be ok with you?"

"I suppose," rolling her eyes. "My son really wants people in here. I don't need it though! Or want it!"

Building trust is a process....the woman above, we will call her Mrs. McGuire had had the biggest life. Had done so many things I could truly only dream of, and she was so angry. Sometimes violently so. She was often disoriented and trying desperately to hang onto her thoughts and her bearings and it infuriated her when it all unraveled despite using every ounce of her incredible will, that had never failed her in the past. Until this past decade when everything had begun to change and it had gotten more and more difficult to hold the pieces together. She in her gruff, angry ways, had worked her way into my heart. Although I'm sure that fact made her mad too. "I don't need you here!"

The lengths I went to...I never wear scrubs to work. I always show up in my own clothes because I think its a leveler. Im not there as a "professional." Im just there as a person, just like them, and I can pitch in any which way.

Mrs. McGuire had been a career RN, case manager, department supervisor, worked in one of the first AIDS hospice units, had done many years of foster care for children that weren't her own, lived on a small farm that she had raised animals and gardens on...she was a big woman, strong physically and emotionally, and it was the ultimate assault to her strong nature to not be self reliant anymore. To not fully comprehend all that was happening around her.

She refused to allow me to help her shower. We agreed she would do it on her own, and I would hang around in the house in case she needed help. I would check on her and she would be sitting on the toilet with the shower running full force, then come out and tell me the job was done. It was obvious in numerous ways that no shower had been had.

I talked to her family and suggested we make up a big story....she had recently had a health situation come up that required a visit to the dr. My suggestion was that I come for a visit wearing scrubs and tell her I am a nurse sent by her dr for a home visit, and that he had assigned me the task of following up on her health issue, and making sure everything was clean which would require me helping her with a shower. The family was very open to anything that might work. I kept reiterating that I am NOT a nurse, this is just me, pretending, trying to reach our goal of at least one shower a week, preferably two. I really was uncomfortable lying...I rationalized it saying that I was entering into her reality.

Amazingly enough this worked! Her whole attitude was different toward me. I was one of her peers! She joked and laughed with me.....and allowed me to clean her up. This was only possible because each week when I came for our visits, it was like I was a completely new person in her life. I went from coming in as Annette....to coming in as a fellow nurse, every week.

Finally, one of her children decided to move her closer to their home. She would live in a skilled nursing facility. In preparation for this move, we worked with her dr. to get her on some medication that would calm down the agitation, the violence, the anger. Her dose was increased every couple of weeks, and we began to see a happy woman emerge. She made it through the move, and I received videos of her sitting in "circle time" singing along and clapping, getting manicures, eating in the dining room with the other residents.

About 8 weeks after moving, she said she didn't feel good. The nurse helped her to lay down. They checked on her a little later and found that she had passed away. A massive heart attack in her sleep. Her last 8 weeks were spent with one of her children near by, seeing her daily. The medication she was receiving had calmed all of the agitation down and they had been given these 8 weeks of a reprieve. 8 weeks of peace, fun, joy, enjoying each other, not just managing chaos and upset. Those last 8 weeks were a gift. Such an amazing gift.

Her kids gave me a photograph of her when she was young...I have kept it on my fridge for years. I cherish it...she was so complicated, had done so much with her life, and was so mad to have it all be ending. She had relied on her own abilities for all of her life, and when that was taken from her she was enraged and afraid. I get that. I get that so deeply.

Annette