I have figured something out...

Writers are compelled to write.  It is an innate need; something they have done forever and with joy and fervor.  I am not a real writer.  My writing is erratic (duh) and laborious. .  I am, however, a pretty good story teller and I have some writing chops.  That is, I think I have a pretty good ear for prose and for the ebb and flow of the structure of a story. I enjoy that particular part of writing.  I may be okay at fiction, except have a hard time finding a good plot. I can only think of good character description which doesn't make for a very interesting read.  

Therefore, I have come to a decision about my blog.  Instead of trying to think of topics or interesting ideas in my head (oxymoron:  Amy's interesting ideas),  I have decided that I need to stick to writing when I feel like it and letting myself be more spontaneous.  When I was an undergrad, we had a writing assignment in class.  We had fifteen minutes to write and then we had to hand our paper to the student next to us to read and critique.  The guy who got my paper accused me of cheating because he didn't believe someone could write something that well in a first draft.  First off, what a jerk to accuse me of cheating.  Second, he must have been pretty sheltered to believe that my writing was exceptional, and third, I must be a decent writer. The teacher told him that my rough drafts were always pretty good, so she was pretty sure I didn't cheat.  So there.

After that caveat,  I actually have something in mind for this blog besides that caveat.

I started my hospice assignment on Monday.  I have been assigned to visit three ladies in a long term care facility.  Confidentiality dictates that I be very general in my descriptions.  I know that the likelihood of anyone reading this actually knowing any of these ladies is very slim, but I will still try to keep them as disguised as possible.

Here is my experience so far...

You would think that a long-term care facility catering to old and disable individuals would have a plethora of handicapped parking.  Not so.  The very fact that there is a parking lot is a plus, given that the facility is located on a busy street on the far north side of the city.  So I will not complain about having to park a fair distance from the entrance.  But I will complain that it was in a puddle of melted snow.

All three ladies are on one floor, but opposite ends of the hall, of course. 

I didn't really envision what hospice patients would be like.  I guess I was hoping for some in depth conversations about life and death.  Or being able to listen quietly as Someone relived beloved memories with me.  The reality of my hospice assignments could not be farther from this.  

One of my ladies is supremely uninterested in any visits from me.  It may be because I interrupted her in an uncomfortable moment with her nurse involving a toileting issue, but her husband was in the hall and he told me she just didn't want visitors at all.  It was nice to talk with him for awhile.  I have to watch my responses, because when I respond to statements in therapist mode, the conversation turns into something looking an awful lot like despair.

The next lady is sweet and happy to see me.  However, she is pretty much outside of reality as we know it.  She speaks in what we call "word salad" which is a mix of unrelated words and phrases, along with some actual gibberish.  I thought I detected some German sounding words at one point,but since all I can say in German  is "Spechen zie Deutch", and "Ich bin ein Geburtstagskuchen"  (long story), I wasn't able to try to reach her through another language.  As it turns out, she would not have responded anyway, because what I heard was actually Gaelic.  I am sad she cannot have a conversation with me, because I would like to learn some Gaelic.

The most "with it" lady (and I use the term loosely) is able to have a conversation, but really doesn't understand or remember much.  Her daughter comes everyday to visit and help with feeding etc.  She likes to sing.   Fortunately, I like to sing, too and I know most of the songs she likes.  The only song that may be problematic is I'm Looking Over my Four Leaf Clover.  You see, I only know joke words to that one.  So when I sing, I must be very careful not to sing Dead Dog Rover instead of the actual lyrics.   Maybe I should just avoid that one!  She also adds the word :Boom Boom: after every song. Maybe I could add Cha Cha Cha just to rock her world a little.

I will keep you posted as my visits go on.

Here are the lyrics to Dead dog Rover to the tune of Four leaf clover:

I'm looking over my dead dog Rover
That I over ran with the mower.
One leg is missing.  The other is gone.
One leg is scattered all over the lawn.
No need explaining, the one remaining
Is hanging above the door.
I'm looking over my dead dog Rover
That I over ran with the mower!