True Neighbors

The Feeling Samaritan

We’ve been traveling so quickly down my recently bumpy road in retirement, I thought I would pull over for a bit and take a quick glance back at some of my caregivers. Jesus told a story about an unnamed Samaritan caregiver who provided medical help to a Jewish traveler lying beaten, naked, and robbed on the side of Judean road. We often call this the good Samaritan parable. The word Good is never used in Luke 10 to describe the caregiver; however, it does say that this stranger, this Samaritan man felt compassion. Not only did he feel compassion for someone he didn’t know, but he also acted on his compassion providing healing ointments and a safe haven inn for him to stay at through his rehab. Samaritans and Jews hated each other for religious and political reasons back then, making the story even more amazing. The parable should be called the Feeling Compassion Samaritan. That’s how I describe a few caregivers who were just doing their job, strangers to me, but still going out of their way to help me recover and get back to my inn. None of the names are real for these individuals and for brevity I can’t describe everyone on Eileen’s list of heroes, just a few for now.

Joan

Joan was simply a young CNA learning the ropes of care when I was in my second rehab facility, where I had spent my longest and most difficult stint of recovery. Every day was hard there, learning to walk, talk, and eat again. Joan was a young hard worker, ambitious, and full of dreams, with a sweet and gentle spirit. Her job wasn’t so much about technical therapy and administering medicine; she had a late shift, and her job was to help me change and get to bed. I loved her and we connected; it was a sustaining connection. Before Parkinson’s Disease kicked me out of the classroom a few years ago, I usually found a way to connect with my students in the alternative high school I served in; connections that made the students successful and my job easier. Here in rehab, the roles were reversed, Joan connected with me, and I was her student.

Jake

One of my caregivers actually was a former student. Like Joan he was a CNA and aspiring for bigger things. His bright face and smile and the obvious compassion and understanding in his eyes for my condition, so wanting me to improve were obvious and helped motivate me. When we left this facility for good, we returned a few days later to drop off a dozen Eileen-made-from-scratch brownies for the rehab staff on my floor to share. But Jake received a special dozen of my signature sugar cookies, just for Jake. His smile that day rests indelibly in my DBS-injured brain. 

Miranda

Miranda is a neurology nurse, who, for whatever reason sort of took me under her wing as a sister during regular checkups long before my DBS surgery aberration. She often performed the mundane preliminary analyses on me before the neurologist would see me, so we conversed with her often, and even more so through messaging online through MyChart. She was funny and serious at the same time; helping us through several ER visits—should we stay—should we go. Her answer was always "go" and decide later if we overreacted. To be frank, some of her messages were so uplifting and timely it was almost as if God was watching over me and whispering into Miranda’s ear to provide counsel. I know I'm over-spiritualizing this, but that's what it seemed like at the time. Here's an example of some of Miranda’s words: “Let us know how it went and we’ll say a prayer (when on my way to the ER for an infection)” and “Holy buckets look at you guys (after discussing on MyChart some pill taking progress)” and finally, “Eileen and Chris, I hope you know how invested we are in your lives. We think the world of you Eileen. You are a treasure to us.” Her words are still like the Samaritan’s soothing ointment. I mean come on, where in any kind of service organization does somebody say things like “you are a treasure?” It had to have been the influence of God.  

At Home with the Samaritans

I could do an entire year’s worth of blogs about my in-home care people, but I will close with a few words about three “feeling compassion Samaritans.” Katie is the youngest of any care worker I have had in my home over the past year. She is headed for a nursing degree but is practicing on me and we both are benefitting. I have shown her some baking tricks, and she has dueled it out with me playing Skippo. She is so young that at times I slip into the role of teacher. I instruct her on the word of the day, which, by the way, is sedulous, an apt description of Bobbie. 

Bobbie has numerous CNA certifications, works from sunup to sundown with several clients in the region, and provides respite care so my husband can get a break from me occasionally. She literally kicks him out of the house. We love each other like sisters, and she often has surprised me with little items like Nutter Butter Minnies which can only be purchased by the box load online. 

And finally, Elizabeth is petite yet strong and like Superwoman will grab my gate belt and help me get from one end of my house to the other, but always with the utmost of tender care. She has covered the bulk of my in-home care and has seen me in my best and worst of times. 

That Samaritan’s brain was instructed to hate Jews, who lived in a different neighborhood. But that day was askew in that his heartfelt compassion which stirred actions of love. Those feelings were put there by God, and acting upon those feelings is what defines a real neighbor, not geography but actions of love. My caregivers all started like the Samaritan, strangers to me for sure, but I have reaped healing from their selfless acts of compassion as true neighbors.