Addicted

An extra part, part 1

Just so you guys know this piece of writing isn't about Eminem or Camilla or 50 or anybody in that story. This is about my story, yellowfinch1, and for the last five months I've been waiting and wondering how I would write such a thing. 

But, here I am so let me start from the beginning, and please contuine reading. 

I plead you, because I once promised  someone I would tell people about her.

I promised her this because now she's dead.

It all started last September and at my school we need to do community service , and I ended up volunteering at the same place my Dad worked, at a nursing home. There I learned that not all old people were sweet and addressed you as 'honey' or 'sugar' and gave you chococlate and loved toto talk about their grandchildren. Some give you dirty looks, or the old men have dirty thoughts, and don't talk to you more then they have to.

But, then I met someone who wasn't like any resident there.

She insulted people, that's how you could tell if she liked you, ( except this one girl who she hated, and when she called this girl a hussy, she meant it). She also didn't talk to any of her family. And, also she didn't talk ABOUT any of her family. The only info she offered was that she didn't talk to her kids. Her name was Joan Lewis. 

Let me skip to a few months later, in March. Joan had COPD, which is chronic broncitis,( meaning it doesn't ever go away) and began to get worst, she would walk not even half the room and start wheezing, her coughing was deep and full of crap. She stopped soming down for meals.

Then, someone told me she was in Hospice. 

I wondered, what did that mean? I looked at the person who told me and asked them what it meant.

She told me that it meant that Joan was dying.

Working at a nursing home, I had seen plenty of people come and go, and didn't really care, sorry to say.

I started to cry, wondering why she had to die. She had no family, or I should family she talked to. I made a promise I would take care of her. But, of course my father wasn't to keen about me spending all my time with her, so I would sneak up and see her. Joan's regular bed became a hosiptal bed, her eating decreased, she started to get more confused, but I didn't quit. 

I tried to see Joan every second I could. I could only be there every other weekend, the days my dad was working, and I wasn't in school. Everyday when I couldn't be there, I worried she had died, and every time I heard sirens, my heart quickened. When I did see her though, I brought her meals, cut up her food, brushed her hair. I made her bed, I talked to her, I called her beautiful.

I think I did that all for her, but I also think I did it for me too. 

And, every passing week, she got worst, and so did I. 

It got to the point where she was leaving her room ( which was NOT to be doing) and wandering the halls and other resident's rooms, confused. So, they took her out of their. They said it would be better for her to be at another residence for a while, and we could see if she got better, just a little bit, and they would bring her back.

By this time I was crying everyday, and my eating had decreased. It would just get to the point where I would look at my big plate of heaping food, and then think about how little bites Joan could eat, and the stomach would shrink up and refused to take anything. 

I felt like a failure.

Then, one day after school, my dad was working at night, and I got at the nursing home ( I walked there), and in the kitchen was a list of meals we had sent up to Joan, starting the day before. Joan was back! She wasn't dead!

But, then, my dad told me that he didn't want me to see Joan because she was to confused.

I didn't really know what he meant, I mean I just though she might have forgotten my name, but that's fine, I would just tell her. But, leaving the kitchen and going back home real quick to bring out my dog, I ran into one of the nurses who was smoking.

"Have you seen Joan yet?" She had  asked, which a concerned look on her face.

I had shaken my head. " My father told me no,"

She nodded, " I thought so, maybe you could bring her one of those pudding cups from lunch, she only ate a few bites of that." (meaning that's all she ate at all for lunch that day)

"But, she can get better though, right?" I had  asked. I had been asking tons of people, teachers, friends, if a person in Hospice could get out of it. 

"Athena," She had  said, " She's dying."

Later that night I went  to bring her her dinner, and caught her outside her room wandering, so I got the wheelchair that was in her room, and put her it in and wheeled her back inside her room, and sat her in her chair, with the pudding cup in front of her. 

Joan was not what she was before. When she tried to talk, all she could say  was mumbles, her eyes were constantlt darting from here to there. When I talked to her, it was like she could not even hear me. 

 About 15 minutes later, the Med tech, came in the room with Joan's pills, and I told her what had happened. She thanked me, and I left, because with three people in Joan's small room was stuffy, and I would go and see Joan later anyway.

Back in the Kitchen, the Med Tech came to me with her phone.

" Could you just tell me what happened again? I need to tell the House Nurse." Her fingers, ready to text.

"Sure," I said and explained what had happened again.

"Joan shouldn't even be here, we just don't have that level of care to check on her every five minutes.  She'll probably go back to Mountain View in a few days." She said, and thanked me again and left the kitchen.

Look at what I did. 

If I hadn't told the nurse what had happened, Joan would have not had to leave the second and final time.

I'll tell you guys the rest of the story hopefully tommorow.

thank you for reading the first part.

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