Honeypie

In all my years working in a senior living facility, I've learned one thing for certain: men like raking stuff and women like baby dolls.

It’s truly something that gives them love and security.

Got a 75 year old man who will absolutely kick your ass at the drop of a hat? "Hey George! Will you help me rake the back out here? It's all covered with leaves and I'm worried someone's gonna trip! I... I don't think I can do this alone and I need a strong man to help me."

George takes that rake because he sure as shit knows he can rake my relatively young ass into the ground. No longer is he agitated because he's slipping back and forth to the 1960's. No longer is he confused by all the strange t.v. sets, the hairstyles and piercings of his caregivers or the news on the televison. George rakes the fuck out of that lawn and he gives me tips on how to do it best. He'll want to kick my ass again in an hour, but that's okay.

This facility houses many individuals like George, most with severe dementia. I assist these people in their ADL's (Activities of Daily Living), such as bathing, toileting, getting dressed and eating.

I've seen many patients arrive over the years and while it's not a universal truth, they usually don't leave. At least not the same way they came in. This small facility with its faded paper walls and constant scent of lemons, is the last place these people will ever see.

It's hard not to get attached. The toll it takes to watch those around you slowly slip, to lose their hold on reality until they gasp that last rattling breath, is more than most can bear. But I make do. I've even had my favorites over the years. George, despite his sarcastic and overbearing demeanor, recently pushed his way into that spot.

Though most patients are far too gone to build any type of friendship, there are a few who, despite the odds against them, take me by surprise.

Marlene doesn't talk much anymore. She used to be a hairdresser -- how she must have gabbed animatedly with her clients over the years! I know because I've met her daughters and granddaughters. They're big, wide-hipped women who laugh excitedly and talk loudly, wearing party hats with hearts on springs when they visit. Very few other relatives do. After they leave and for the majority of her days, Marlene is... worried.

She'll reach out and grab my hand to look me in the eye and mumble something. Sometimes it's words I've heard before and sometimes it's words from a place I've yet to visit. "Honey, honey, honey." She'll say as she holds my hand. She's always on the edge of relaying something important or worrying. I'm a big man, maybe I could take care of it for her. But whatever it is remains, always remained, unspoken. The urgency in her eyes tells me all I need to know.

Marlene has been this way since I started working at the facility two years prior. When it's not ambiguous fear it's a glassy-eyed vacancy. Sometimes I wish her day had a little more of that glassy-eyed vacancy because you can't ignore the concern in her eyes.

While she's holding my hand, which she refuses to let go, I reach beneath the bed into a little basket and slip out a baby doll. It has a plastic face and a cloth body. Sewn into the seam is a worn tag, ink rubbed and yellowed with age. The faded silhouette of a marigold and the words 'Made in Taiwan' beneath it, are barely legible. But none of this bothers Marlene.

"Hey, I just remembered. We have a visitor!" I say as I slowly bring the doll over the edge of the bed.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she exclaims, looking over at it. She drops my hand and receives the baby, cradling it close. She can't feed herself anymore or brush the hair out of her eyes, but everyday she draws breath she cradles this baby.

Some co-workers will pretend it's a real baby. I never do that. I let her decide what she wants it to be. "Oh, oh, oh!" she beams excitedly. "Yes, yes, yes!" Her hand moves over the baby's head, shaking visibly. She's trying to touch the doll's hair, maybe run her fingers through it, but there is no hair, only painted plastic. It doesn't matter to Marlene.

"Oh honeypie, honeypie!" she chants quietly in her joyful and not worried tone. I smile and tilt my head as we both look at the baby, admiring all the things we're so far removed from now.

She has a bowel movement in bed and while she stares at the doll, I let her know I'm going to help her get clean, which I do. While I'm working on changing her and getting her ready for lunch, I can hear the "Oh honeypie, honeypie." from further up the bed. She's not thinking about the indignity of the disease that's robbed her of so much, bringing her to a state where a stranger has to clean her of feces and urine. She's only thinking about the little plastic baby doll she's holding. Midway through the process, she begins urinating again and I have to start over. She doesn't notice one bit though and that works out for both of us.

On the morning Marlene died a coworker came and got me, brought me to her room. Yep, she was dead. I've seen almost a dozen people die and just as many dead people. Up close, when you're dead, it's usually not hard to tell. You really look the part. Marlene was in her bed with her mouth open, hands resting on her chest in what appeared to be a peaceful pose. I reached down and touched her foot and whispered, "I'm sorry, honey." before I turned to notify the medical aide, who would then notify the mortuary and her family.

I felt unreasonably compelled to pull the doll from the little basket and place it on her chest where it might in some way provide comfort. But I realized it would only comfort me and she wouldn't reach out for it, cradle it, or "Oh honeypie!" anymore.

Hell isn't being in pain. Hell is being lost. People sometimes get lost in places they'll never be able to return and which no one can truly travel to or rescue them from. But a doll can make them feel as though they have a companion on their journey, forget their concerns and think there's something more vulnerable than them that needs care, protection and love.

It's still difficult to walk by Marlene's room, especially when I find myself wondering what it was she tried so desperately to say. But I'll always remember the look on her face when she saw that baby doll. Honeypie. The one in the basket beneath her now empty bed.

I imagine its waiting patiently for the next person to reach out, cradle it, and give it a name.