“Jesus, it’s time to get up,” Nurse Billings said as she
rapped firmly upon the door of a resident room in the Jennings County Care
Facility. After a minute, she rapped again, louder. “Jesus. It is time for all
good residents to be up and moving.”
Nurse Billings, Jenny, turned to me. “He’s cranky in the
mornings.” Then she rapped on the door
again, even louder and firmer now. “Jesus, I’m coming in if you don’t open the
door.”
Behind the closed door a muffled voice grumbled, “I’m up. I’m
up ya’ dang…” The rest was lost.
I was there to follow and observe Nurse Billings, as part of
a project for my Human Relations class at the local community college. The
assignment was to learn about one aspect of care giving and to write a 2,000
word essay. With permission from the County Care facility and a signed waiver,
I had three mornings with Nurse Billings. She showed me how the residents
lived, where they ate, how the meals were prepared with care for their varied
specialized diets. She explained to me how the medications were dispensed. And
she let me follow her daily routine – her rounds, I guess.
“Jesus,” she said again after a period of silence, “Are you
up?”
The door flung open. “Yes. Yes. I’m up” the man inside was
in his mid-50s, his thinning, grey hair slicked back against his scalp, except
for a band of hair that flared up above his right ear. He was dressed in plaid
boxer shorts, black socks and scuffed white tennis shoes. A distended gut, and
the strangest outie-navel I’ve ever seen, hung over the elastic waistband of
his undershorts. His saggy pectorals were pale and ring of thin, curly hairs
ringed his neck. “I’m up. I’m going out for a smoke,” Jesus said as he started
to push past Nurse Billings and me.
“Not like that you aren’t Jesus.” Nurse Billings stood at
the door effectively blocking his way out. “You’re going to put on some pants,
or a robe at least.”
“But,” Jesus said, his voice rising in pitch and volume, “You
don’t understand. I didn’t sleep well. And the television didn’t work all
night. Don’t you understand anything?”
“Yes, Jesus, I do understand. But you can’t go out in your
underthings. If I leave you alone for a minute or two, will you be dressed?”
“No,” he said sullenly. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“If I give you five minutes will you be dressed?” Nurse
Billings tried again.
“NO!” It wasn’t a scream, but nearly so.
“There’s no need for that, Jesus. I’ll give you five minutes
to either put on pants or a robe. Your choice.” Nurse Billings pulled the door
almost closed, leaving it open enough that it didn’t latch. Then she motioned me back a few steps. “We’ll
give him five minutes, then I’ll go back in and help him put on his robe. It’s
usually like this.”
“Why,” I asked curiously, “why do you call him He-soos? He doesn’t appear to be Hispanic.”
Nurse Billings smiled and laughed a short one syllable laugh
that was almost a sigh. “Actually, we don’t really know his name. I call him,
Jesus – not He-soos – some of the
other nurses call him Mr. Man. He came in as a vagrant, a homeless transient.
He was picked up by the police department and taken to the hospital. He was
discharged from the hospital and brought here.”
“But why, ‘Jesus’?”
Nurse Billings said, “Because, one never knows where that
carpenter will show up.”
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