See you later, Bestie

I was working Memeorial Day in a rehab gym. I had to spend ninety uninterrupted minutes with an 86 white man “who grew up poor” but still became the “BMOC” at a state University.

Today he was status post multiple surgeries and other complications involving his right hip after fracturing it in a fall at the beginning of the year.  

“Don’t touch my leg,” when I would reach towards the footrests on his wheelchair.

He repeated this every three to four minutes or whenever I reminded him what he was here for.

“My hip is injured. It’s a medical thing. Not some physical therapy thing or whatever you’re doing.”

Every syllable was racist and he looked at me as if I was being paid a small salary to be there. The condescension was unmissable. He did not know what month or year it was, but he knew I did not have a credential, talk less of a doctorate.

He also had a wound on his heel; from his now five months of immobility at home.

It was about the size of a nickel at the far bottom corner of his heel. When a palpated it, I found the swelling extended from his Achilles tendon to about halfway along his calcaneus.

“I have a wound on my heel!” “My wife dresses it! Don’t touch it!”

Family members were not permitted in the rehab gym but she was always in his room when I would pick him up or drop him off.  Her outfits always subtly matched his. Every time she’d suggest something or offer him encouragement, he’d tell her to “shut up.”

And she would flinch, perceptibly! But I could have been watching too closely. She would stay out of his reach unless he’d ask her to do something for him too. He’d criticize her when she did the errands too.

At one point he said, “I don’t care if Jesus Christ Himself comes down from Heaven and hands me that shoe. I’m not wearing anything on my foot until I go home and wear my Dockers.”

Instead of exercising

He refused every exercise I offered and finally he called me a “bitch” for being so insistant.

I just reminded myself that after his surgeries and complications with necrosis and infection, his weakness, acute pain, and dementia had illicited these fear avoidance behaviors. His pain was real, his feelings were valid. But nah. He was 7 days post op at this point and on Tramadol.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s unkind and uncalled for. The only b-word I’ve ever called you is ‘bestie.’”

Without missing a beat, he replied:

“Well if it was your old loved one hurting like this, you’d say the same damn thing.”

I said “My grandmother is ninety years old and she would never complain about exercising.”

“If you make me exercise and I get hurt, I’ll sue you. My son’s an attorney.”

“My sister is an attorney.”

“We can go attorney for attorney if you want.”

There were other therapists and their patients working in the gym so I figured not to dwell on this too long. I distracted him with questions about his son, the attorney. He shared that the son was well to do and lived in a mansion where his kids were homeschooled. Instead of exercising he shared that he worried that his grandkids would not do well when they faced “the real world.” I agreed with obnoxious enthusiasm. I asked him if his wife around today. I was not sure because he came to me directly from his occupational therapy session. He didn’t know the month or the year but he was on to me anyway.

He said “I know what you’re doing! You’re going to tell my wife. She doesn’t need that kind of stress. She is already doing so much for me and taking care of the house and Melody…!” Or whatever he said their dog’s name was.

So we made a deal: he would not call me the B-word and I would not make him exercise.

I rolled a ball towards him and asked that he kick it back to me. He did, with his left foot. I placed it in front of his right foot, he reached his left foot over to kick it. I propped his right foot off the ground with a wedge, and placed the ball in front again. He refused. I said my grandmother is ninety and she can kick a ball. He called me a bitch. I announced I would report him to his wife and he again reminded me that she need not know. We had a standoff but I eventually won. He flicked the toes on his right foot and the ball rolled away. I cheered, again, with obnoxious enthusiasm.

Things improved after that.

He completed five wheelchair pushups with maximal assistance, tapped a three-inch step with his right foot and then finally walked about 25ft with the walker, twice.

By the end of the session, both of us were exhausted and pleased with ourselves.

I took him back to his room where his wife was waiting and before leaving I extended my fist, and said “see you later, bestie.” He pounded my fist appropriately and smiled knowingly. He said “Yeah whatever.” “See you, Bestie.”