“Help! My Wheelchair’s Been Stolen With Me In It!”

April 8, 2009

Or so I imagine Dorothy was saying today. I met Dorothy today for the first time, and she came to me without instructions. Or, I should say, I went to her, and she had no instructions. I knocked on her door at the assisted living facility at the appointed time, but no one answered. An elderly lady wandering the hallway asked if I was looking for Dorothy, no doubt because I was looking confused. When I said yes, she pointed me towards Dorothy, who was parked in the lobby in the wheelchair in front of the tropical fish tank. I saw no handler with her, so I walked up to her and said, “Hi, are you Dorothy?”

The 91 year old looked up at me as if I had two heads. I tried again, a little louder, because I do know she doesn’t hear very well on one side. “Dorothy, hi, I’m Monique.” I smiled.

Dorothy looked at me as if I still had two heads.

Just to ensure I was talking to the right Dorothy I went to the front desk and explained my predicament to a member of the staff. “I was sent here to see Dorothy. Is that her? And did they leave any instructions?”

Turns out it was Dorothy, and no one had mentioned to the front desk that a stranger was going to come in and look after Dorothy for a few hours. However, there was a big binder in Dorothy’s room that might offer some information.

And so it did. It had meticulous notes on what Dorothy had eaten every day for the past five months, and the times she’d been prayed over, and when she slept. It didn’t really tell me what they wanted me to do.

So I went back out to the lobby and asked Dorothy if she’d like to go for a walk. I meant I’d walk and she’d sit, but I didn’t think I needed to explain that. She tried to say something, and though I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say, it didn’t sound like a protest.

“Okay,” I said, “We’re going outside for a walk!”

It may have been a look of terror in Dorothy’s eyes. I’m not really sure. It was there, and then gone again. Besides, I couldn’t see from my position behind the wheelchair.

One of the residents sitting in the lobby waved to us as we left. Friendly bunch of people. I could have been kidnapping Dorothy, and no one would have noticed. I could have loaded her in my car and driven away, and several hours later perhaps someone would say, “Has anyone seen Dorothy lately?”

I’m sure Dorothy was wondering how much money her family could get their hands on quickly for the ransom, but she didn’t complain too much. Then again, I’m not sure she could have complained at all, so perhaps internally she was screaming for help. I got us stuck going through the doors only once, when the wheelchair wouldn’t go over the doorframe, but I backed up and tried again. I couldn’t bang her around too much since she has a problem with pain, as in, she feels a lot of it, so I made some attempt at being gentle.

I steered her down the sidewalk and around the building, attempting to make small talk. “Nice day out today.”

Dorothy: “Aaahhhhh?”

“Yes, I think it’s very nice out. How do you feel today?”

Dorothy: “Eeek.”

As we rounded the last corner Dorothy spoke up, with real words: “Upstairs.”

I repeated, “Upstairs? You want to go upstairs?”

Dorothy: “Upstairs.”

We went back in the front door and I stopped at the front desk again. “Dorothy says she wants to go upstairs. Is there anything going on up there?”

The desk attendant said, “Noooo, maybe she just wants to look around.”

So Dorothy and I took the elevator up to the second floor and wandered the hallways. She pointed at one doorway in much excitement, a resident’s room, but I couldn’t tell what she wanted, or if she wanted anything, or if she just liked the looks of the place. One resident’s room had a nameplate saying “Fred Astaire.” I’ve often wondered what happened to him.

Then I sat down next to Dorothy and tried to figure out what we should do next. She looked at my nametag and said, “Monique.” Wow. She said my name! And she smiled! I think she was getting used to the concept of being kidnapped.

One of the helpful people who worked there wandered by, and the two of us engaged Dorothy in a conversation consisting of the following:

“Do you want to go back to your room?”

“Urrgghh.”

“Are you tired?”

“Ahhhhh.”

Then the helpful staff person said to me, “She usually just sits in her room all day, so she might be tired by now.”

Well, yes, thanks for mentioning it. We’d been out exploring the entire facility and now they tell me she doesn’t get out much? I don’t care. We had fun.

I returned Dorothy to her room, and called for an attendant to put her back into bed. You don’t want an inexperienced volunteer picking up a frail 91 year old who’s in considerable pain. They’ve got experts for these sorts of things.

Dorothy slept. I fielded calls from hospice. The family had called and asked if I could feed her when lunch arrived. Like did they think I’d stand by and refuse to feed her? What kind of kidnapper do I look like?

Lunch arrived and I didn’t wake Dorothy up. How could I wake her up? She was so cute, sleeping.

Once she did wake up it took us an hour to have lunch.

“Would you like some juice?”

“Eeeeek!” With a hand up to ward off demons, or bad juice.

“Want some of this?”

“What is it?”

Like I knew. Some sort of beef with pasta. But once she tried it she liked it. I’d either feed her, or load the fork with food and she’d try it herself. Cauliflower also received the “Eeeeek!” raised hand sign, and so did the cranberry juice. Occasionally she’d stick her hand in the plate. I don’t know why, or what she was trying to tell me, but I’d remove her hand and wipe it clean. Once she grabbed my hand and held it, and smiled at me.

Then she coughed and spit up food all over herself.

How cute is that?

When I left I thanked her for letting me visit her, and I think she breathed a sigh of relief. It’s always good when the kidnapper leaves without making good on their threats.