Dementia, 2005, by Janine

From MemoryArchive

Who: Janine
What: Nursing Stories
When: December, 2005
Where: Boston, MA

As a nursing student you encounter many people... People with hundreds of stories to share, people who can brighten up your day with a smile, and people who are truly thankful for your hard work. A few weeks ago, working the night shift at Beth Israel Hospital in Boston, I met a woman who met all of the above criteria.

As I walked down the hall and peeked into her room, I stopped and giggled to myself. She was a plump old woman, silver hair, big glasses, and a smile spread across her face. She was lying on top of her blankets with her sneakered feet hanging off the bed. The minute she saw me she jumped up and beckoned for me to pull up a chair. Even though I had five more patients to visit and other tasks to complete, there was something about her that drew me in.

I spoke to her for hours. We talked about everything from her husband to her past struggle with breast cancer. When I stood up to leave, I knew everything from her husband shoe size to her grandmother's secret cookie recipe. She thanked me for the visit and expressed the overwhelming sense of loneliness and fear that accompanied every hospital stay. I told her that I was working again that night and promised her I would stop by to chat some more. As I left, she could not stop thanking me. She thanked me for the time I spent with her, and the sense of relief and comfort I brought to her. As I left work that morning, I could not stop smiling.

That night, I returned to work. As I entered her room, I said hello and smiled. At first she smiled back, but then her face crumbled into a puzzled frown. She asked me if I was her nurse for the night, and it didn't take me long to realize what had happened as I recalled her admitting diagnosis: progressive dementia. So, I sat down and re-introduced myself. That night, she, once again, taught me her grandmother's recipe for the perfect oatmeal cookie and we laughed about stories I had heard less than 24 hours before. Everyday, my heart aches as I envision her face on that second night and realize the pain and suffering she and her family must endure.