It’s something I have worried about ever since I got here a little more than three years ago: A confused resident wandering into my room in the middle of the night.
A year ago, I could’ve sworn someone was in my bathroom pulling paper towels out of the dispenser over and over again. I said, “Hello?” And then, “You’re in the wrong room,” followed by, “Get the hell out of my room!” The sound stopped for a little bit and then continued. Did I mention that once I’m in my bed, I can’t get out of it on my own? I panicked and pushed my “care guard” button to summon help. One of the overnight workers came running in a few minutes later. It turned out that in the lobby right outside of my room, one of the drug mules – AKA a pharmacy technician – was doing something noisy on her med cart. Fortunately, the worker agreed with me that was exactly what it sounded like. Problem solved. Because of my near-death experience, the early-morning drug mules now organize their med carts in one of the public areas of the building, rather than a hallway outside residents’ rooms.
I should also mention that sometimes I have the workers lock me into my room when they leave at night, but not always.
It happened for real this morning. I tend to wake up around 5 AM-ish and then doze off again later. After a couple of minutes I’m pretty sure I can hear my neighbour Zelda (not her real name), who lives kitty corner across the hall from me, struggling to lock her door. It’s a sound I often hear when she goes downstairs for supper. In that strange moment of being not fully awake but not asleep either, I realize she’s probably confused about the time, thinking it’s 5:30 PM. It crosses my mind to push my care guard for someone to come and help her, but things are quiet in the lobby now so I assume she’s made it back into her room.
Suddenly, my door opens and a shaft of bright light from the hall outside illuminates Zelda’s outline, and she’s making a beeline towards me. Is she angry? Potentially violent? I don’t wait to find out but press my care guard and yell, “Zelda’s in my room!” when the disembodied voice finally answers. She’s fully dressed, fortunately, and totters a little bit because she’s forgotten her walker outside in the hall. “Where’s the lady who lives here?” And then, “Somebody’s locked me out of my room. That’s a mean thing to do to an old lady who’s dying.”
Normally, Zelda’s a sweetie. She’s 98 and profoundly deaf. That’s why it’s pointless for me to say anything now. I know when she has a visitor because I can hear the high-pitched squealing of her ineffective hearing aids. That’s the only time she wears them. Otherwise, her world is silent. That’s why I always give her a big grin and an obvious wave hello whenever we wait together for the elevator.
Help arrives and gently guides Zelda back to her room. Much later, when I’m calm and rational again, I think about her comment “… an old lady who’s dying.” She isn’t palliative and is fairly healthy and mobile, from what I can see. I feel bad for her that she might think she’s only here waiting to die. I wish I could fix her hearing aids for her.