Everybody Has a Story: Finding patience with tricky patient

On the first week of my new job at Alpine Springs Assisted Living, the administrator asked me to go talk to Wilber to see what I could do.

Wilber was a cantankerous troublemaker, she said. She had gotten a report that while exiting the elevator he was bumping into people with his electric wheelchair, all the while asserting loudly, “You are walking too slow.”

From the exasperation in her voice, I thought the administrator didn’t believe my talking to Wilber would make much difference: “It’s funny, you would think he would know better and be kinder. Wilber used to be a Lutheran minister.”

My knock on Wilber’s door was drowned out by the sound of loud, dramatic music — the kind that accompanies cowboy movies when the bad guy is making his getaway. I knocked again, more forcefully.

Wilber’s gruff voice answered loudly: “And what do you want?”

“It’s the new nurse. May I come in?”

“Well, (grumble grumble), OK!”

I entered Wilber’s dimly lit room and introduced myself. He was sitting in his bed wearing a sleeveless undershirt that looked like it had coffee stains dribbled down the front. He was watching an old cowboy flick with the volume turned up so loud it vibrated the water in the glass on his bedside table.

I blurted out: “May I have a few minutes of your time?”

I felt a sense of relief when he turned down the volume on the TV.

“We value you here, Wilber,” I began. “You are a respected member of our community.” Attempting flattery: “You were a minister and all, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he replied wistfully, “but that was a long time ago.”

“People really look up to you,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” he chuckled to himself.

I asked him about the show he was watching. His answers were short and to the point, as if he knew I had a larger mission. I asked him how he came to live here, and he got quiet.

“It was just too lonely living at home, I thought I might make some friends here,” he said. I mentioned that women here outnumbered the men by about 20 to 1, so he might try being nice to them. He said he would try being more patient with those slow-moving ladies, and he even agreed to keep his electric wheelchair in low gear.

Then, with a dramatic gesture, he waved me away, indicating our conversation was over. He cranked up the volume on his TV again.

I guess it was an inspiring talk, because after that there were no more complaints of Wilber rushing the ladies as they exited the elevator.

I didn’t see much of Wilber after that, but one morning when I arrived at work I was notified that Wilber had been sent to the hospital. A few days later I went to visit him. The hospital social worker informed me that Wilber had suffered a severe stroke. She recommended he be discharged to a nursing home, but Wilber flatly refused.

When I entered Wilber’s hospital room that afternoon, he looked very different. He was resting peacefully in bed, and his white hair caught the rays of the afternoon sun, giving it a golden highlight. I called his name and his eyes fluttered open.

“Hi, Wilber, I’m the nurse from Alpine Springs. I’m here to ask you a few questions, to see if you would be safe enough to return to our facility.”

His gaze met mine and I saw a glimmer of recognition. I wondered if he’d had brain damage from the stoke. I was there to determine, should he return to Alpine Springs, whether he could use a call-light system, get to the bathroom by himself and even feed himself. I was using a standard test, the MMPI, or Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory — a brief orientation and memory quiz with questions like “What is the date today?” and “Where do you live?”

It became clear that Wilber was not able to answer a single question. It seemed he didn’t even care to try.

The test’s last requirement was to write a complete sentence. I asked, “Wilber, do you want to try to write a complete sentence?”

A wry smile crossed Wilber’s face, as if he had a secret.

“I am not sure it would be safe for you to return,” I asserted.

“Well, hell, I’m not going to no nursing home!” And he reached over, grabbed the clipboard out of my hand and began to write. In large shaky letters he wrote not only a complete sentence, but the reference too: “JESUS WEPT.”

On my way home, I was puzzled by his sudden uncanny ability as I looked over at the clipboard again — the shortest verse in the Bible. (Later I looked up the verse and saw that it was about Jesus’ grief over the death of his friend Lazarus.)

A telephone message from the hospital was on my desk the following morning when I arrived at work. It read, “This is to inform you that last night Wilber Gladstone died in his sleep.”

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.