Well, Hopefully I Don't End Up with TB
Today I was ruefully informed by a co-worker that one of the residents at the home I've lately been working at a few times a week has pneumonia, and quite possibly also has TB. I just stared at her over the counter, allowing my jaw to drop for dramatic effect. "You're fucking kidding me."
"Oh no!" she chirps, eyebrows raised and jaw cocked to the side.
You expect this scenario in this setting, a group home, still you don't really expect it. The person who might possibly be infected was very sick last week, and I suppose thankfully, also very anti-social and isolating a lot in his room. So today when he politely and cheerfully asked me to play Monopoly with him, I did not want to refuse him. Acceptance in this setting, especially after a "bad week" means a lot, and I didn't want to risk alienating him. I agreed to play.
The Monopoly money was in a giant scrambled mess in the box, so I took on organizing it into stacks while he set up the rest of the game pieces. He mockingly threatened to upset the piles I was making several times. I would volley back in a "stern" manner, "Yeah, try it" or "See what happens." After everything was set up and I had chosen the Scotty Dog game piece and he a horse, we realized there were no dice. We checked some other game boxes, still nada.
Secretly I was relieved. I didn't really want to have to turn or move away from him if he started coughing. He seemed nonplussed by the whole thing, and mildly satisfied that at least we had organized the money and the game pieces. We might play tomorrow.
Later I had to run out to the store to get chocolate milk for him. He wanted to come, but I suggested that it would probably be better to wait til after he gets his test tomorrow, in case he has an infection. He protested a little, "I can sit in the back", to which I had to respond, "But you probably shouldn't go out around people until you know if you're contagious." He understood. He handed me five dollars and explained in detail the location of the milk he wanted.
The store is a rinky-dinky some-of-everything kind of very small town New England store, but is almost iconic in the eyes of the residents at this home. It's a life-line of sorts, cigarettes, sweets, junk food, a deli, even an odd assortment of movies to rent or buy, and all within walking distance (though not in this weather - 15 degrees with a wicked wind.) The staff at the store know them and are patient with their occasionally curious behavior.
As I walked through the short, cluttered aisles I felt simultaneous comfort and constriction, warmth and depression. Cold beer, day-old donuts, a few used Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steel books, clothes pins, scented candles, lighters, fudge, WD40.
Walking out to the car, chocolate milk in hand, I had a brief flashback to age 18, working at a plant farm in this same vicinity. Remembering the odd combination of isolation and independence. Wondering if any of the residents, the 20-somethings in particular, felt any of that sense.
The road back was incredibly dark, the night incredibly cold. I have only one more day of work left at this house, tomorrrow, before I start the new job next week. The attachment I feel is unexpected. Everyone seemed so content tonight, just staying warm, watching Jeopardy, being themselves.
Tonight the vampire resident, as he eyed me cutting cooked pork into tiny pieces for a shepard's pie, remarked that I was "cooking Chinese-y" then laughed in his deep, warm giggle. He calls me "Miss" when dinner is being served, and "Senorita" when he is just being playful.
I'll miss being called Miss.
"Oh no!" she chirps, eyebrows raised and jaw cocked to the side.
You expect this scenario in this setting, a group home, still you don't really expect it. The person who might possibly be infected was very sick last week, and I suppose thankfully, also very anti-social and isolating a lot in his room. So today when he politely and cheerfully asked me to play Monopoly with him, I did not want to refuse him. Acceptance in this setting, especially after a "bad week" means a lot, and I didn't want to risk alienating him. I agreed to play.
The Monopoly money was in a giant scrambled mess in the box, so I took on organizing it into stacks while he set up the rest of the game pieces. He mockingly threatened to upset the piles I was making several times. I would volley back in a "stern" manner, "Yeah, try it" or "See what happens." After everything was set up and I had chosen the Scotty Dog game piece and he a horse, we realized there were no dice. We checked some other game boxes, still nada.
Secretly I was relieved. I didn't really want to have to turn or move away from him if he started coughing. He seemed nonplussed by the whole thing, and mildly satisfied that at least we had organized the money and the game pieces. We might play tomorrow.
Later I had to run out to the store to get chocolate milk for him. He wanted to come, but I suggested that it would probably be better to wait til after he gets his test tomorrow, in case he has an infection. He protested a little, "I can sit in the back", to which I had to respond, "But you probably shouldn't go out around people until you know if you're contagious." He understood. He handed me five dollars and explained in detail the location of the milk he wanted.
The store is a rinky-dinky some-of-everything kind of very small town New England store, but is almost iconic in the eyes of the residents at this home. It's a life-line of sorts, cigarettes, sweets, junk food, a deli, even an odd assortment of movies to rent or buy, and all within walking distance (though not in this weather - 15 degrees with a wicked wind.) The staff at the store know them and are patient with their occasionally curious behavior.
As I walked through the short, cluttered aisles I felt simultaneous comfort and constriction, warmth and depression. Cold beer, day-old donuts, a few used Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steel books, clothes pins, scented candles, lighters, fudge, WD40.
Walking out to the car, chocolate milk in hand, I had a brief flashback to age 18, working at a plant farm in this same vicinity. Remembering the odd combination of isolation and independence. Wondering if any of the residents, the 20-somethings in particular, felt any of that sense.
The road back was incredibly dark, the night incredibly cold. I have only one more day of work left at this house, tomorrrow, before I start the new job next week. The attachment I feel is unexpected. Everyone seemed so content tonight, just staying warm, watching Jeopardy, being themselves.
Tonight the vampire resident, as he eyed me cutting cooked pork into tiny pieces for a shepard's pie, remarked that I was "cooking Chinese-y" then laughed in his deep, warm giggle. He calls me "Miss" when dinner is being served, and "Senorita" when he is just being playful.
I'll miss being called Miss.
posted by Black Egg at 10:07 PM
2 Comments:
great description of the store. I felt like I was there! I enjoy those kinds of stores...feeling like there is probably something on the shelf that has been sitting since 1975.
about the TB, unless you were very close to him for extended amts of time, you're probably ok. They'll probably still make you do the whole TB test/chest xray thing. And if you come up positive, it's a bunch of antibiotics for like a year. I hope you come up negative :) As a budding nurse, I'll probably convert to positive at some point in my career. As long as my immune system keeps working, should be ok :P
Still no word on the status of the TB, however it is confirmed that he has bacterial pneumonia, which is contagious. Because this client is being "handled" by several agencies, none of them seem to be able to agree on the proper course of action. I'm fairly certain that the gods of common sense would probably say that he *shouldn't* be sitting in the living room all day coughing incessantly. I'm just thinking happy thoughts and taking garlic pills and vitamin C.
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