Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
I can handle my weaknesses when they come at me one at a time. But in that session with Hector, they were firing at me all at once, every one hitting the target—me—dead-on.
After all the work I did to be my best this season, to focus all my energy on hockey, I’m failing miserably. As I keep running, logging mile after mile, hockey is the furthest thing from my mind.
Chapter Twelve
Kylie
“When can I go home?”
Melinda, the new patient in room 87, is dressed in a black-and-white polka dot dress and heels, her short silver hair combed neatly.
Her daughter told me on the phone the other day that the routine of dressing in nice clothes every day like she did during her career as a teacher is comforting to Melinda, who has dementia.
It’s one of the most heartbreaking illnesses I’ve ever seen. Buried beneath the cloudiness and confusion, patients often have a sense that they’re slowly losing their hold on who they are.
“You’ll be staying here with us for a while,” I tell her. “Do you want some help setting your family photos up on your dresser?”
She shakes her head, her brow crinkled with agitation. “Where’s Barry? I want to go home.”
I walk over to the chair she’s sitting in, a wingback recliner in the corner of the room. Then I crouch down so I’m at eye level with her, and I break the news to her about her husband again.
“Barry passed away last year. You’ll be staying here at The Canyons now. I bet Barry is in a lot of these photos your family helped you pack for your room.”
Her jaw drops with shock. “Barry isn’t dead! Why would you make something like that up?”
The Canyons has a memory loss wing, but it’s usually full, so new patients with memory issues are sent to other wings of the facility. I’m trained in helping these patients, but I’m not as good as the people who work in that wing. Sometimes, what I really want to offer them is a hug and a strong drink, but I imagine that would be frowned on.
“What can I do to help you right now?” I ask gently.
“Get Barry,” she says gruffly. “I want to go home.”
“Lunch is in about thirty minutes. Would you like me to stay and help set up your photos, or give you some time alone and come back when it’s time to go to lunch?”
Tears flood her eyes and she whispers, “Just go away.”
This is the most brutal part. Seeing patients die is tough, but watching them suffer, especially when they’re fighting with their own minds, is the hardest part of this work for me.
I walk over to the wall and point at the buttons next to the bed. “If you need anything, just push this button and someone will come right away. I know this is all a lot to take in, but I’m here to help. I’ll be back to see if you want to go to the dining hall for lunch or have a tray brought up to your room.”
She gazes out the window, ignoring me. The transition from home to a long-term care facility is usually a tough one, but no matter how many times I see it, it still breaks my heart.
On the walk back to the nurses’ station, I take out my phone and see a text from Pax.
Pax: Hey, how are you? Been thinking about you…
I smile at the screen as I respond. I’ve been thinking about him, too. He played a starring role in a dream I had last night that I woke up hot and bothered from.
Me: I’m pretty good. How about you?
Pax: Trying to get my mindset on the road trip to Seattle tomorrow. Last time we played them, our captain ended up with a concussion and it’s my job to bring down the bad karma. Instead, I’m thinking about you in that dress the other night. You’re distractingly hot. Think you can work on that?
Me: HAHA! I’ll send a photo of me right now in my scrubs with no makeup and a bun. That’ll help.
Pax: Bet you’re still hot.
The head nurse this shift, Donna, glances at me as I walk up to the nurses’ station.
Me: Gtg, be back soon.
“Kylie, can you cancel the afternoon appointments for the patient in room 71?” Donna asks me, squinting at the computer screen in front of her. “And cancel him for dinner and all meals tomorrow, too.”
Room 71. That’s Lyndon’s room. I’m immediately concerned.
“I’ll do that right now,” I say, scanning my badge as I log on to a computer. “Why, what happened to Lyndon?”
“He’s been admitted to the hospital for nausea and dehydration.”
“Is he okay?” I ask, a wave of guilt hitting me. I was so busy yesterday that I didn’t have time to check on Lyndon, even though I knew he had chemo the day before.