Practice

to learn that Marty was funny. I would
occasionally pass by to find him wearing
a straw hat.
“Marty, is that your hat?”
“I guess it is now.”
“Marty, what are you doing waiting by
the elevator?”
“Trying to catch a lift!”
That was the second time I saw
Marty smile. I learned Marty liked rock
’n roll and dogs. I learned his legs were
beginning to hurt more than his pelvis. I
learned he sometimes transferred himself
to bed from his wheelchair on his own,
an occurrence so unfathomable that the
nursing staff simply assumed it was one
of the CNAs who assisted him.
I learned that Marty didn’t want dialysis
anymore. I learned Marty now had
weeks left to live.
I began seeing Marty’s parents more
frequently, and my guarded aura of
professionalism began to dissipate. I had
to discharge Marty from therapy because
he was now transitioning to hospice
care, but I told his parents that I would
continue to look out for him.
I kept that promise. While sitting in
the dining room helping other residents
eat, I would periodically glance out into
the courtyard. I will never erase from
my mind one particular image painted
before me. For there in the courtyard was
Marty, the same Marty who spent the
majority of his days in his wheelchair,
with one leg crossed over the other in
a figure four, with his head bowed and
his eyes closed. But now the Marty who
played possum was walking with his dad.
His dad had one hand on Marty’s belt
loop and another grasping a cane, with
Marty pushing his front-wheeled walker,
and Marty’s mother trailing after them
with Marty’s wheelchair. If Marty fell, his
father would not be able to recover him,
and his father would be in serious condition
as well. But at the same time, Marty
was walking with his parents for the last
weeks of his life. What is to be prioritized
at a time like this?
Later that afternoon, my boss and I
walked outside to talk to Marty’s parents.
We told them of our safety concerns, and
offered to provide a nursing aid to accompany
them. They told us the problem was
not that they didn’t want to be safe, but
rather than Marty would spontaneously
start walking out of nowhere, whether
they had prepared for it or not. They
expressed their gratitude toward receiving
assistance whenever possible. As my
boss and I walked back into the building,
out of the corner of my eye I could
already see Marty beginning to stand
again. Marty knew he was dying. Marty
just wanted to walk with his parents.
Safety concerns were no longer of value
to him.
Getting glimpses of Marty walking in
the courtyard with his father became a
daily ritual, and there was something so
beautiful and so tragic about this scene.
It was mesmerizing. Then one day it
stopped. I found Marty on a recliner in
the TV room of his ward, playing possum,
with a tray of food in front of him. Marty
hadn’t eaten that day, much less opened
his eyes.
I asked about Marty every day. Suddenly
I stopped seeing him out in the TV
room. The door in his room was closed,
and the nurses told me he wasn’t doing
well. At the end of the week I found two
chairs seated outside Marty’s room. The
door was left ajar and inside the room I
could see a table with a water pitcher and
dinner for two. We were accommodating
for his parents. It was only a matter of
days. I punched out at the time clock,
then went back up to Marty’s room. I
crossed paths with Marty’s mom. She
smiled, but I was too distracted by the
redness in her eyes. I gave her a hug.
Marty had been sleeping all day, she told
me. She wasn’t sure whether he would
last through the night. I walked into
Marty’s room and was greeted by his
father. There were two chairs set up at
the foot of his bed. All the lights were off.
I helped Marty’s parents prop their canes
against the wall as they took a seat next
to their sleeping son.
“We should just stay here forever; look
at this free food we get!”
10 AUGUST 22, 2016 • WWW.AOTA.ORG