eagerly.
He blinked rapidly.
“I’ve never been in a nursing home, but I will be,” I said. “Eventually. I wouldn’t like to be… flotsam.”
I recognized the source of the squeaking. My legs were pumping up and down, causing the chair to protest. Mr. Wofford asked if I wanted hot tea. I politely declined even though my shivering threatened to devolve into a body quake. It must have made him uncomfortable, because he cut the interview short.
“I can c-c-come back with r-r-recommendations,” I said, through chattering teeth.
“Not necessary. I’d like you to start next week.”
“O-k-k-kay.”
The job came with conditions. Within six months of my start date, I was required to complete two courses in nursing at a local community college. And there would be a probationary period. For one week I would be shadowing an experienced aide in the afternoon. If I didn’t screw up, I would start on the third shift, starting at 11 p.m. and ending at 7 a.m. I was told never to call it the graveyard shift, for obvious reasons.
**
The genesis of my interest in science was a comment my fifth grade teacher made. He said people believe that if they drop food on the ground it is safe to eat, if the food doesn’t stay there longer than five seconds. But science has shown that the rule is true only if the food is dry. If it is moist, bacteria cling to it immediately. My initial fascination with bacteria has now morphed moved on exploded grown evolved to include the study of immunology. Having a close family member die from what should be harmless substances really made me think is a tragedy that needs to be solved is bound to make anyone a little crazy can be a blessing in disguise, if not for me, then for all the people whose diseases I will cure.
SLUSH FILE.
**
The incongruity of Colonial Gardens’ architecture had not been apparent when I interviewed there. But on my first afternoon of shadowing, I was somewhat amused by its red brick façade, high portico and white columns. The name and the building made perfect sense in a warped, Las Vegas way. On the Strip there was an Egyptian pyramid, an Eiffel Tower and a fake New York City skyline, so why not a nursing home that evoked Monticello? There wasn’t anything remotely fecund in sight.
Kate asked for my driver’s license. It was formality, she said. I had listed my age as 18 on the application, not 17. Fortunately, I had a fake I.D. Levi had given me in lieu of payment for a tutoring session. The license said I was eighteen, which was perfect for lying about my age on a job application. It gave few other benefits, because the Nevada drinking age was 21. Unfortunately, the photo wasn’t me. Levi insisted that the photo he used—an actor, Christian Slater, who had a lot of hit movies as a teenager in the 80s—looked exactly like me. I made a mental note to watch some of the guy’s films.
Kate photocopied my fake license and my Social Security card without looking carefully at them.
My shadowee was Carmella, a plump and dour Latina whose uniform sleeves squeezed her upper arms like blood pressure cuffs. She explained that the four wings at Colonial Gardens corresponded to the residents’ level of functioning. The A wing had the highest functioning residents. The D wing had the largest percentage of residents who, for whatever reason, were incontinent, immobile or in some stage of catatonia.
I noted that we were on the D wing.
The call buttons lit up constantly. Carmella would be explaining a certain form or procedure to me, then she would break off, mid-sentence, and rush to a resident’s room. By the time I followed her to the destination, she had already solved the problem. Twice I bumped into her as she was coming out of a room. It must have been getting on her nerves, because she sent me to a tiny, windowless room and told me to watch a new trainee DVD. It was nearly three hours long. The content fell into two categories—inspirational, with shots
He blinked rapidly.
“I’ve never been in a nursing home, but I will be,” I said. “Eventually. I wouldn’t like to be… flotsam.”
I recognized the source of the squeaking. My legs were pumping up and down, causing the chair to protest. Mr. Wofford asked if I wanted hot tea. I politely declined even though my shivering threatened to devolve into a body quake. It must have made him uncomfortable, because he cut the interview short.
“I can c-c-come back with r-r-recommendations,” I said, through chattering teeth.
“Not necessary. I’d like you to start next week.”
“O-k-k-kay.”
The job came with conditions. Within six months of my start date, I was required to complete two courses in nursing at a local community college. And there would be a probationary period. For one week I would be shadowing an experienced aide in the afternoon. If I didn’t screw up, I would start on the third shift, starting at 11 p.m. and ending at 7 a.m. I was told never to call it the graveyard shift, for obvious reasons.
**
The genesis of my interest in science was a comment my fifth grade teacher made. He said people believe that if they drop food on the ground it is safe to eat, if the food doesn’t stay there longer than five seconds. But science has shown that the rule is true only if the food is dry. If it is moist, bacteria cling to it immediately. My initial fascination with bacteria has now morphed moved on exploded grown evolved to include the study of immunology. Having a close family member die from what should be harmless substances really made me think is a tragedy that needs to be solved is bound to make anyone a little crazy can be a blessing in disguise, if not for me, then for all the people whose diseases I will cure.
SLUSH FILE.
**
The incongruity of Colonial Gardens’ architecture had not been apparent when I interviewed there. But on my first afternoon of shadowing, I was somewhat amused by its red brick façade, high portico and white columns. The name and the building made perfect sense in a warped, Las Vegas way. On the Strip there was an Egyptian pyramid, an Eiffel Tower and a fake New York City skyline, so why not a nursing home that evoked Monticello? There wasn’t anything remotely fecund in sight.
Kate asked for my driver’s license. It was formality, she said. I had listed my age as 18 on the application, not 17. Fortunately, I had a fake I.D. Levi had given me in lieu of payment for a tutoring session. The license said I was eighteen, which was perfect for lying about my age on a job application. It gave few other benefits, because the Nevada drinking age was 21. Unfortunately, the photo wasn’t me. Levi insisted that the photo he used—an actor, Christian Slater, who had a lot of hit movies as a teenager in the 80s—looked exactly like me. I made a mental note to watch some of the guy’s films.
Kate photocopied my fake license and my Social Security card without looking carefully at them.
My shadowee was Carmella, a plump and dour Latina whose uniform sleeves squeezed her upper arms like blood pressure cuffs. She explained that the four wings at Colonial Gardens corresponded to the residents’ level of functioning. The A wing had the highest functioning residents. The D wing had the largest percentage of residents who, for whatever reason, were incontinent, immobile or in some stage of catatonia.
I noted that we were on the D wing.
The call buttons lit up constantly. Carmella would be explaining a certain form or procedure to me, then she would break off, mid-sentence, and rush to a resident’s room. By the time I followed her to the destination, she had already solved the problem. Twice I bumped into her as she was coming out of a room. It must have been getting on her nerves, because she sent me to a tiny, windowless room and told me to watch a new trainee DVD. It was nearly three hours long. The content fell into two categories—inspirational, with shots
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