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My Experience Volunteering in a Nursing Home

2022; Elsevier BV; Volume: 24; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1016/j.carage.2022.12.001

2377-066X

Sarah Vohra,

Nursing Education, Practice, and Leadership

This summer, I had the opportunity to volunteer at the A.G. Rhodes Nursing Home in Atlanta, GA. As a volunteer, my job was to take residents to the places they needed to be, help them out with simple tasks, and engage them in conversation and other social and mentally stimulating activities. I spent most of my time conversing with residents. I also took them outside to activities like music and horticulture therapy, and even to get their hair done. Before I went to the nursing home, I had read a book in which the main character was a teenage girl who volunteered at a nursing home and scrapbooked with the residents. Ever since then, I had thought that volunteering at a nursing home would be like going through a living scrapbook. I imagined the residents — some mellow and kind, others full of attitude and life — educating me on all things savvy and vintage: leather jackets, red convertibles, record players. I imagined them reciting beat poetry and singing Elvis in their weathered voices. I imagined them repetitively going through photo albums and old letters alone in their dimly lit, hospital-like rooms that they had turned into a home by adorning the walls with pictures of family and putting old bottles of perfume and cologne on the dressers. I imagined them watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s and gossiping about the old idols like Marylin, James Dean, and JFK. I imagined them to be just like my friends and me but from another era. I imagined that I would get to infuse them with my youth — singing them Lana Del Rey and Taylor Swift and telling them about the fads of today. On the first day, right off the bat, Dr. Sahebi Saiyed, the head geriatrician, took me to see a resident who had an infected hand. This resident had arthritis and was bedbound. Dr. Saiyed was so gentle while examining the resident and the resident was so warm in the way she interacted with the doctor. I immediately felt A.G. Rhodes was a harmonious place. I also met with Mrs. Farra Gerome, the activities director, who was my manager. She was really kind, and she took me to meet all the most talkative and young-minded residents. There were two residents, Ester and Maggie (not their real names), with whom I immediately clicked. Ester said pink wasn’t her favorite color, yet her entire outfit and her lipstick were pink. She also had me paint her nails a light metallic pink and topcoat them with pink glitter. I think she thanked me more than five times. She also took me to her room, which had a picture of her and her husband on one wall, and a picture of Obama and his family on another. The other resident, Maggie, had three sons and a stepdaughter, a lengthy education, and a verbose nature. She answered all of my questions by telling me the story of her life, but her voice was hoarse, so I had to strain my ears to catch her words. The next day, I learned about a fascinating treatment for behaviors related to dementia in which residents are given dolls. The residents are supposed to develop emotional connections to these dolls, and often the residents start naming their dolls. Eventually, this method may reduce if not improve the residents’ behavioral symptoms of distress in dementia. I saw a resident rocking back and forth in a chair and holding the baby doll and kissing its tiny plastic head. That day, I also saw Maggie again. She said so much, but very slowly. She told me about how the navy boys would come to her house to play the piano during her senior year of high school. I also ended up promising her I would draw her. I also briefly met Ester, who still would not admit that her favorite color was pink. She seemed too young for the place, at least in her mind. She was very politically informed, and I admired how she always knew what she was talking about. I also met the music therapist, Mr. Abel, who seemed amiable. On the third day, I met Mr. Abel again. He was on the second floor working with the dementia residents, and he seemed to really enjoy his job. He knew all the residents and their favorite songs. I did not see a single frown on any of the residents. In fact, one resident was extremely enthusiastic about singing and went over the top by holding all the notes for longer than the other residents. Another resident danced to the music. They had me sing a song, so I sang “Born to Die” by Lana Del Rey. It is a sad song, but it somehow didn’t dim their spirits. That day, I also helped one resident name her doll. We settled on Brianna, and I hoped she would remember it the next day. I also met one sprightly resident living with dementia, who was still fluent in seven languages and had a vibrating cat instead of a doll. She was British, and I could hear it a little bit in her accent. I asked her if she was a seventies hippie because she gave me that happy-go-lucky, seize-the-day, Creedence-Clearwater-Revival vibe. She said she was, but she didn’t recall the songs or the forms of protest. She also offered to let me hold the cat. On the last day, I said goodbye, and I met my two favorite residents. Ester and I talked about politics, and Maggie told me about her sons. I got their addresses with the promise that I would write to them. I also took another resident outside. She told me all about her time in Indonesia living in a fancy hotel with her second husband. When I left, I vowed I would visit again — not just for the residents, but for me. No, they did not tell me about leather jackets, nor did they gossip about Marilyn. They did not watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s. They did not recite beat poetry. But they did have weathered voices with which they told me about their younger days. While my original vision of the nursing home was not exactly what I encountered, I felt that the reality was more heartwarming and unique. Sarah is a sophomore at Basis Independent School, San Jose, California.