Philip Y. Kao PhD thesis - Research@StAndrews:FullText

had to bring the wheelchair over, closer to the Hoyer, so that she could be lowered all the
way back onto the chair. When she was finally in the chair, I took her plastic purple
brush along with a few hairgrips, and began to style her hair the way she had taught me
during our very first meeting and caregiving session.
While I was brushing her hair, Gina talked about her grandson and how he was getting
his PhD in linguistics. She also added that her husband died relatively young. I listened
with interest, and began opening up the conversation to other topics. I asked her what
life was like here in the CCRC. She said, “I can’t do what I want to do anymore, so I am not
living really.” I felt stupid for not being able to come up with any words of
encouragement. I thought to myself, she enjoys certain TV shows, has her routine, likes
her reclining chair with a blanket thrown across her legs, and has an endless supply of
butterscotch hard candies to soothe her throat from the yucky medicine she takes after
her lunchtime vanilla protein shakes. She is comfortable, warm, and her sons and
grandson visit her often; I felt somewhat relieved by these facts, and also guilty at the
same time for conjuring up these thoughts.
* * *
Gina would make it a point to be awake before I entered her room every morning. Upon
entering Gina’s room, I would say hello and she would acknowledge me with her eyes,
and raise her eyebrows. This was her opening salvo. She would always prompt me to ask
her, “How are you”? And I knew her response. She would complain of pain and this
would trigger me to say in our ritual exchange, “Everything will be alright. Do you want
me to get the nurse”? She and I came to depend on this morning exchange. It was her
way of making sure that I still cared about my caregiving, and that we could start the day
on familiar ground. Transferring her out of bed and onto the toilet required the use of
clumsy machinery; she was quite overweight, and though she possessed strength and
command over her body, she used her body as an interface for her and I to exchange
vital information about what should and could be done with respect to her comfort, and
how she could occupy her space in a meaningful way. In her ethnography about dying
and palliative care, Julia Lawton argues that the body is not a docile or sterile object in
the dying process (Lawton 2000). Rather, the body and its decay emanate a symphony of
signifiers.
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