JANIS~A CORONA VISIT

A cool autumn afternoon with a shifty breeze. Janis appears in her wheelchair bundled up in her blue penguin blanket, one of those many gifts she received over the years from a wildlife organization. Today is Tuesday, September 22nd. It is a 4 pm visit. Karen, one of the activities personnel from her Unit brought her down for today’s 15 minute-Corona visit. The visits take place outside in the garden, in a large gazebo. The garden still beams with colorful flowers that blur into the changing fall foliage like an impressionist painting. This is only the second visit I’ve had with her since March 8th. These visits take place under some strictly enforced protections for the residents, staff, and the visitor. Plexiglass surrounds Janis on 3 sides and masks are required for Karen and me–the exception is Janis. (I haven’t asked, but I assume it is to protect her from us; and certain dementia patients present a unique problem for a mask.) The entire complex has not had a single case of the Covid-19 virus to date!

Janis notices me before I get to my chair (placed 6 ft. from the plexiglass) and followed my eyes all the way to my sitting. She seems more alert to me than the previous visit, and connects quickly. Again, for those who don’t know this already, she is deaf and cannot speak. Our visit requires a little skill on my part with mime. But I’m not shy, Karen is the only other person present, and I know Karen well. So I proceed with smiles and mime my happiness by patting my heart and tossing my open hand, throwing her kisses, and mouthing, “I love you. And I miss you.” Karen permits me to remove my mask briefly so that Janis can see me. A small, tentative smile from Janis is accompanied with a nodding of her head. Of course I am moved by this out of proportion to the actual behavior. A little giddy with excitement, I want to hug her and hold her hand. We have used up a few minutes already with this emotional greeting.

I use a little time conversing with Karen about Janis on the Unit, trying to keep our connection by never taking my eyes from Janis. Karen relates that staff is still impressed with how Janis’s recovery last Fall allows her to be comfortable and maintain good spirits. She says that Janis laughs frequently and responds with smiles and giving gentle pats for the care that the aides and nurses give her. She is often in light spirits. She occasionally feeds herself or attempts to with little assistance. Her appetite remains good and she is healthy. The entire time Janis gazes around at the garden; she smiles at Karen when Karen readjusts her blanket after a stiff breeze blew it off her lap. Karen also confirmed information that the administration is looking for ways to continue these visits inside as the weather shifts to winter temps.

Janis makes eye contact more frequently as the visit continues. I observe that Janis’s weight seems stable and she is far less ‘puffy’ (edema) than previous photos of her have shown, her color is good. In fact, she looks pretty good overall. I also wonder if those Zoom meetings that take place between visits (not as frequently as I would like) have something to do with this slight improvement with these limited, physical visits. The Zoom visits are not very successful in connecting with her. Janis seems to not understand this techy, virtual, substitute visitation, but it provides me with a few minutes to observe her even as a mostly one-way visit.

As our time runs out I notice my anxiety increases, however, I also note that I am less disturbed than I anticipated. And this bothers me some because I don’t want this to become the new-normal. I don’t want to accommodate to this crazy, bizarre new world for Janis and me. I want to hold her close. I want her to feel loved, to know I’m Bobby, and I’m still here with her; that she is still Bobby’s girl.

My next visit is scheduled for Tuesday, October 27th at 2 pm. A long stretch without being with her. I respect and appreciate this effort to keep her safe. And I support the restrictions this pandemic requires. However, this is becoming difficult. I find myself less patient and more concerned as time goes on. After all, time is crucial. Janis has a fatal, incurable condition. I have been with her on this Unit long enough to see how unpredictably the final day may arrive. Seemingly healthy residents one day are gone the next.

These are strange, byzantine times. Challenging in complex ways. Requiring absurd adjustments that don’t come close to normal (which is becoming an absurd descriptive term in itself). The world as we knew it seems to be standing, wobbling on its head. Like a Kafka novel on steroids.

As I’m leaving, I don’t look back. But, before I’m out of sight, Karen calls,
“Bob, she’s laughing and smiling.” For just a moment I catch myself–maybe Karen is just making sure I’m okay with this. But, I turn and wave goodbye.

“Patience is not endurance, it is loving acceptance.” ~Robert Aitken.