IHN Solutions : Stories

When Nellie Died

When I began working at Villa Maria, Nellie had already lived there for several years. Everyone liked Nellie. She was wheelchair bound but that did not stop her from making rounds and attending all the activity department's events. I don't know what her diagnosis was, but in the vernacular of the day, Nellie was "pleasantly confused."

Nellie was one of my "girlfriends." I worked in the Director of Nursing's office and she would wheel into the office once in the morning and usually a second time in the late afternoon.

Many times when Nellie visited she never uttered a word. As she cruised into my converted storage room/office, she'd stop, pick up a pen or paper from my desk, look at whatever it was and usually place it back. Often, Nellie "escaped" unnoticed out of my office with a paper or a report I was working on. When I would find her she'd look up, completely indignant and then laugh. We both got a "hoot" out of our "cops and robbers" game.

Nellie also stashed silverware under her lap robe after meals. Everyone knew it, so she would be closely watched while she played this game. She would use the table knife to cut at the lap belt used to keep her from sliding out of her wheelchair. It usually took Nellie a week to 10 days to cut through her lap belt. No one stopped her from doing this, either. (I often wondered if the work she did cutting through the nylon webbing was charted as an individual activity?)

When the cut was far enough along that the belt's strength was compromised a new belt was provided and Nellie would get to work on that one. Once I asked her what she would do when she finished cutting through the belt? She said, "Well, I don't know. Escape I guess. But, I do like it here."

Even though Nellie was "confused," I believe she sensed her death was near. During some of our visits she would tell me how she sometimes saw her mother beckoning. Twenty years have gone by but I still remember her telling me, "I see my mother standing right here. I see her asking me, waving to me to come, but my mother is dead. She looks as clear as you standing there, but she is dead. She's been dead a long time."

Several times, Nellie asked me how it could be that she was seeing her dead mother? I never had a good answer.

Chaplain Walt often stopped to chat with Nellie. He was an excellent "chatter." Once Nellie was outside my office when Chaplain Walt stopped to talk with her. He knew Nellie's condition was going downhill. Like everyone working on the floor he was concerned with her welfare. After talking about the weather and what was going to be served for lunch, Chaplain Walt asked, "Is there anything I can get for you or do for you, Nellie?"

Nellie sat quietly for a moment. I came into the hall to hear her answer. Walt looked at me and then back to Nellie waiting for her to speak. After two or three minutes, Nellie smiled, winked at me and then looked up at Walt with very earnest eyes and said, "Well, Sonny, you can get me a thousand dollars." Walt looked like he was going to hit the floor, while Nellie looked at me and gave her infectious laugh.

The morning Nellie died was like every other morning at Villa Maria, everyone was busy with the multitude of tasks on their lists. I was finishing a central supply order, my boss was attending a care conference, and the nurses and aides on the floor were passing meds, doing treatments, giving baths, racing folks off to activities. You know, a typical morning.

Mary was the aide working with Nellie that day. After consulting with the charge nurse it was decided that Nellie should stay in bed because she wasn't feeling very well. Vital signs were being taken regularly and Mary was watching Nellie closely. Nellie was one of Mary's special ladies. Slightly before noon my boss, Maryon, came in to get me. I was busy and told her I would go with her in a little bit. She was emphatic, "You need to come now. This is more important than what you're doing. This is what we are here for."

I followed her down the hall not knowing what it was she needed. Nellie's bedroom door was closed. Maryon knocked quietly and we entered the room. Nellie was dead. She had just died. She had a peaceful smile on her face.

There were six or seven other people gathered quietly around Nellie's bed. Some of us were crying. Mary, Nellie's aide for the day, said, "Nellie we are all here to say goodbye to you." Each of us gathered around Nellie's bed and said our goodbyes. Each of us shared the gratitude we had for Nellie and for the ways she had touched our lives. Each of us joined in a prayer of thanksgiving, joy and sadness at seeing our Nellie die.

When we were done, it seemed I could still feel Nellie's presence in the room. Mary quietly brought everything to a close by saying, "Goodbye Nellie. We all love you. I am honored to be able to clean you now and prepare you for your next journey. Thank you!"

Nellie was dead, and none of us touched by her will ever forget her. That's how it is for many of us making health care our profession. We are touched daily. We are there to care, but often we are touched and cared for, too. Thank you, Nellie!