Caring about the caregivers by Ruth Neuwald Falcon

A week ago today, I was transferred from White Plains Hospital, where my left hip had been replaced the day before, to Burke Rehabilitation Hospital. I’m a little foggy about details that first evening, but I do remember looking around the room, a yellowy-beige curtain in the middle dividing my space from that of my roommate, and feeling rather dismal. My oldest friend and her husband brought me from one medical facility to the next. She checked me in and helped me unpack. I felt like a kid on her first night of sleep-away camp.

There is no way to predict how long one will need to be in rehab since everyone’s healing process and progress is different, but I knew I’d be here at least a week. (The one and only time I went to sleep-away camp, that’s how long I lasted.) Last Friday, that seemed like an eternity.

I wasn’t able, that first night (or the second or the third), to change my clothes and get ready for bed without help. When I rang the bell, an aide popped her head between the curtains, her eyes bright, her smile warm. An hour later, she tucked me into bed. Literally. When I rang again in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, she waited for me to come out and tucked me in again. She made the transition from independence to dependence natural and straightforward. 

She, like so many of the caregivers here, is an immigrant. One after another, day after day, they cared for me. They helped me dress and bathe. They took my meal orders and brought my food. They ferried me between my room and the therapy gym. They took my vitals and gave me my meds. They taught me how to navigate the world in a body that had changed overnight. They were kind, and they were capable, and they were fun.

And all the while I kept thinking about how vulnerable they are. “My anxiety is through the roof,” one said. “I’m naturalized but I know it doesn’t matter. I’m afraid to go out unless I have to. I try to calm down and not think about it all the time. But it’s really hard.” 

One, who is neither a person of color nor an immigrant but rather a white Trump voter, regrets her choice. “It’s not right, what they’re doing,” she said.

My friend and her husband are taking me home tomorrow. When I suggested we stop at a protest on the way, she turned pale. Can’t say as I blame her for not thinking me + my walker + protest = good idea. But I know how important it is that as many of us show up as possible. As Sue Robin shared a couple of weeks ago:

Per the BBC: “Nonviolent protests are twice as likely to succeed as armed conflicts — and those engaging a threshold of 3.5% of the population have never failed to bring about change.”

I also know that this is going to be a long fight and there will be many other opportunities to be part of it. That being said, if you go (the 50501 site can help you find out if there’s one near you), let me know how it was for you. Send me pictures. At least I can participate vicariously.

And, for the record, I’ve had one of the best weeks of my life here. Way better than sleep-away camp.