A Time For Every Purpose

"To everything there is a season,

a time for every purpose under heaven:

...a time to keep silent..."

Ecclesiastes 3:1,7

Driving to work tonight, I'm fighting the same feeling of dread that has been gripping my spirit for weeks. My CD is blaring, in hopes it will drown out the thoughts going on in my head. Pulling into the parking lot, I take a deep breath as I gather my paraphernalia and get out of the car. For a few moments I stand warily comtemplating the Assisted Living facility, then grudgingly walk to the door and punch in the security code.

The facility isn't an unpleasant place to work. Being only eighteen months old, its modern and up to date Victorian decor of dark greens and deep wines has a soothing effect. Fresh cut flowers adorning many of the tables, filling the air with a heavenly aroma, creates a homey atmosphere for the people who live here.

Most of my co-workers are extremely good, kind-hearted women. Still, even a relatively small staff contains the usual back-stabbers and nit-pickers. They are an unavoidable entity in the female work force today.

The daily duties we have aren't generally physically demanding. Though recently, some of the residents have become more dependent and require a slight amount of physical exertion from us. Still, it is far from the back-breaking work in a skilled nursing facility. There are those nights, though, when calls come from one end of the hallway to the other, upstairs and down. Strong legs and a good pair of shoes help, but don't make the need to prop your legs up later unnessessary.

The most important element in this job is dealing with the emotions of the residents. It can't be done without a great deal of patience. The ability to communicate and interact on a score of different levels is essential in this line of work. Having residents with dementia, paranoia, various physical conditions and early to mid-stage Alzheimer's requires understanding and a great deal of self-control. Residents can go from pleasant to abusive at the drop of a hat. Though most don't normally fluctuate in their personalities, we have our share who do. Being emotionally and mentally prepared for that is a fundamental requirement.

Standing at the time clock, I'm wondering if I'm prepared to do my job tonight. It isn't the building, my coworkers or the residents filling me with dread these past few weeks. It's just life in general. A restless sort of uneasiness has settled on me and I know I am at yet another cross road in my life. Another point in time when I know decisions need to be made about where I will be tomorrow. I have always hated those times in my life when I knew decisions were demanding attention; change being inevitable.

I'm aware I'm going through one of those dry times we all experience in life. When our souls feel shriveled up and we can't for the life us figure out who we are and what our purpose on this earth is. At times like this we look back on happy periods in our lives when things seemed so perfect; wishing those times had never ended and that all was well in our worlds. But life happens to us all; those times when everything seems to be taken out of our hands. Control is something we've lost and wisdom on how to move forward evades us.

I've been in limbo for quite some time now and questions about who I am and what I'm doing race through my head nonstop. Quite a bit has happened in my personal life over the past few years; and with recent events at work and in my private life, my purpose in life has been evasive, to say the least. I know from past experiences that my questions won't find answers by looking for them. Becoming quiet in my spirit and patiently waiting for those answers to be shown to me has always worked in the past. Tonight, I thought, placing my hand in the time clock, I will become quiet.

Around seven, I walk into Ellie's room to help with her shower. Ellie has Alzheimer's and over the past few weeks I've seen her disease advance. Most residents prefer a respectable distance and are not what you would call affectionate. Ellie has always been very huggy-kissy, but is becoming even more so. Even though I've heard from other employees that she's raised her hand to them, she's always been happy to see me; plastering kisses all over my face and squeezing the life out of me whenever she could. But tonight, as I enter her room, I can tell Ellie's different.

She's already in her nightie and robe, and the minute she sees me a scowl crosses her face. She jumps out of her chair and starts yelling, "I'm not taking a shower tonight! Not tonight! I'm too tired!"

I've never been afraid of Ellie despite the warnings, so even though she's angry, I approach her. As soon as I'm close enough, she puts her hands on my arms and shoves; not hard enough to hurt, except for my already injured ego. I know it's time to make one of those split-second decisions. I can turn and walk out, angry that one more person has treated me awful. Or, I can stay; quiet my injured spirit and see if I can help her. I decide to stay.

Approaching her again, I ask if she's OK. Again, she reaches out and shoves me. Determined, I walk up to her again, put my hand on her cheek and gently say her name. She looks into my eyes and searches them, trying hard to recognize me. I stare into hers; taking her hand and squeezing it. The tears start rolling down her cheeks and I know I am once again "familiar" to her.

"I'm so lost, honey," she cries, as she melts into my arms.

"I know, Sweetie," I tell her, gently holding her as she cries.

She slowly pulls away and puts her hands on my face, drawing it to her as she smothers me with a myriad of kisses. "You'll take care of me, honey?"

"Of course I will, Ellie," I tell her, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear.

She smiles her impish crooked smile. "Tomorrow. A shower tomorrow?"

I smile back, knowing we will probably have this same conversation tomorrow. Giving her a good night hug, I answer as I'm leaving the room, "Sure, Sweetie. Tomorrow."

I close Ellie's door and go across the hall to Selma's. Her Alzheimers is also advancing rapidly and most of the time she has no idea where she is or how long she's been there. Selma is a little whisp of a woman; weighing no more than 89 pounds, despite our attempts to fatten her up. She's been crippled since birth; one leg shorter than the other. She gets around very well, but she is fading fast and we've recently had to start helping her with various tasks. Getting ready for bed is one of them.

She didn't hear me knock and I find her in the bedroom, lying on her bed. She's still dressed, resting quietly with the afghan a friend crocheted for her pulled up to her chin. I stand looking down at her for a moment. Her skin is getting that transparent look to it and her breathing sounds more labored and somewhat raspy.

She opens her eyes and looks at me. Smiling, she slowly sits up. "I didn't hear you come in. I was just resting my weary bones."

I smile and sit down next to her. Leaning close to her ear I tell her I'm there to help her get ready for bed.

"Oh, thank you kindly, Madam, but I can get this old body to bed myself."

I tell her I'd like to help her get cleaned up before she goes to sleep. She's had a slight problem with being incontinent and we need to make sure she's clean to avoid unnecessary infections. Again she tells me "thank you", but she can do it herself.

I smile at her and lean over, "You just won't let me spoil you, will you?"

She chuckles and looks at me, "If you'd like to help an old woman get to bed, OK, but I'll never get used to being waited on." She smiles as I start helping her get undressed.

After I finish cleaning her and put her nightie on, she looks at me and says, "I'm ready to die. These tired, hurting bones are ready to go meet their Maker."

I look in her eyes, "I know, Selma."

She reaches out for the first time and takes my hand, squeezing it. "You're a good girl, you know," her smile puts a twinkle in her eyes. "I don't think I've met a kinder person. So good to an old lady."

Holding her hand, I help her into bed and cover her. As I straighten the blankets, Selma puts her hand on mine and says, "Thank you, I'll rest good tonight, now."

I snap the light switch, leaving her in darkness, and step into the hallway, locking her door behind me.

Thinking I might be able to take a break, I hear the pager attached to my belt loop start beeping. I open the cover and see Margy's name displayed on it. She's ready to go to bed, I think, heading for the common area where she was playing cards with some of the other residents. She's just coming around the corner, pushing her walker, when I get there. She looks up at me for a moment and we silently start down the hallway toward her room. Margy and I don't usually have long conversations with each other. We have a quiet understanding and trust of each other that somehow doesn't need to be expressed in words.

Tonight I'm feeling an uneasiness in her and try to start a conversation with her. When I ask if she won any of the card games, she looks up. Her eyes are damp as she fights the tears welling up. "Margy, what's wrong?" I ask.

"I'm so ashamed," she says, starting to cry.

I reach over, touching her arm, "What are you ashamed of, Margy?"

She stops walking and looks at me. Tears are now running down her cheeks. "I messed my pants!"

Margy's a sweet woman, but extremely proud. One of the few residents that only needs a small amount of help, yet, despite her pride, she always conveys her gratitude for what little we do for her. Though her walking and speech are somewhat slower, her mind is still very sharp. She knows where she is and why she's there. Despite that, she becomes highly embarrassed whenever she needs this type of help. She despises losing control of herself.

I smile understandingly at her and say, "Don't be embarrassed, Margy. We'll get you cleaned up in your room; no one will know about it except you and me."

She smiles back and says, "OK."

In her bathroom, I help remove her pants and the soiled depends. "It's not that bad, Margy," I tell her.

She half-smiles as I throw them in the waste can. I get out the wipes, clean her off, and fill the sink with warm water to wash her. She sits on the toilet as I squat in front of her to put on a clean pair of depends and her pajama bottoms. I feel Margy's hand under my chin, as she lifts my face to look into hers. "Thank you, Vickie," she says with tears in her eyes.

I look at her, smiling. "You're welcome, Margy," I tell her, adding, "Thank you."

The rest of my shift has been relatively normal, with no unusual incidences. Trips up and down the hallway answering pages. The usual nightly kitchen raids for my late night snackers. Washing and folding clothes. Setting up the dining room for an early breakfast. Handing out pain meds and sleeping pills. Filling out paper work. Routine.

Leaving, I turn and look at the building I had dreaded entering eight hours ago. It doesn't look quite the same to me now. Thinking about the events of the night, there is a calmness in me that wasn't there before. That hasn't been there for a long time.

Do I have all the answers I'm looking for yet? No. Will I ever fully know who I am and what my purpose is on this earth? Probably not. That will constantly change over the years. Tonight, though, I know why I was here today.

I didn't find the cure for cancer. I didn't save anyone's life. I didn't write the Great American Novel. Nor did I scale Mount Everest. I didn't do anything phenomenal. Nothing noteworthy. I won't be on the six o'clock news. I won't receive any awards.

But, getting in my car to drive home, I know I made a difference tonight. Three women, who may not even remember tomorrow what I did tonight, touched my heart and my soul. They let me know, whether I like the path my life is on right now or not, that today I was here for a reason. There is a time for every purpose under heaven.