"Hey, Could Ya Hand Me That Hoojaflobbets There?"
It's funny, how this aging business really slaps one upside the head now and again.....usually when (and where) s/he least expects it.
My mother's face stares back at me from the mirror these days. Each birthday brings new aches and pains, plus there's usually a new symptom or two that make it a requirement to go in to the doctor every three months for "maintenance". And then completely random stuff happens to remind me that I am on the downside of life........like the TV commercial that came out recently, selling funeral-insurance plans to people who were born between 1925 and 1970. 1970!! That was the year of Apollo 13, the year I started my periods........how could anyone born then possibly be old enough to plan his or her own funeral?
Then it hit me: 1970 was FORTY YEARS ago. Back then, I'd listen to people reminiscing about events that occurred long before I was born and thought they had to be older than God. I couldn't even imagine being able to remember back that far. Now I realize that I myself am now in that category.......for why else would my once-sharp mind be turning to mush??
No, seriously: far more often than I'd like, I find myself needing an object, looking at it, pointing at it, trying to make someone else give it to me........and being utterly incapable of saying its name. I used to laugh at the notion that Alzheimer's isn't when you forget your keys, but when you forget what keys are for; now I'm beginning to wonder what it means when you ask your dearly beloved where they are and it comes out like, "Honey, do you know where the.......you know......um....I'm going to the car......it's on the tip of my tongue........I need the........HOOJAFLOBBETS!!"
That's one of the words I've come to use whenever I can't spit out the actual word for whatever it is I'm talking about, and it's caught on....even at work, where (to the endless amusement of my co-workers and residents) I seem to experience a wide variety of, ahem, "sometimer's moments". These never occur when I'm in the middle of an emergent situation, thank God; but when I'm just piddling along, dealing with routine tasks, I'll need a dressing or a piece of equipment that I can't get to for some good reason, and suddenly my brain seizes up, rolls over, and plays dead:
"Hey, Amee, could you bring me that---that---oh, you know what I mean, I need that dooflotchee there," I splutter, waving my arm in the general direction of the item I'm requesting. What's funny is, she's worked with me long enough to know just WHICH dooflotchie I mean, and she always brings the right one. "Oh, you want this dooflotchie," she'll say with a little smirk, delivering the pulse oximeter (or whatever) as swiftly as possible. Most of the other CNAs who work with me also know my code words (and use them); however, being younger, they cannot know the frustration I feel when I look directly at, say, the LED candle on my living-room table and try to tell someone about it (my SIL gave it to me for Christmas, it runs on batteries, flickers like a real candle, and can even be blown out like a real candle etc.), only to be unable to name the darned thing.
Another indignity that I suffer happens sometimes when I'm in the middle of a conversation and my mind wanders off for a moment, like a three-year-old watching a butterfly, then goes off on a totally unrelated tangent: "Have you met the new admit in 305? He's street-rat crazy........even asked the aide for a porno magazine, can you imagine......OMG, I'm loving that 'Spartacus' show on Starz, the guy who plays him is hot, hot, HOT!"
Then there's the matter of distractibility. I used to be able to focus on a single task like a laser beam; now, I'm lucky just to finish a project in several parts. Typically I'm heading down the hall to do a relatively complex task, such as changing the Stage IV pressure ulcer dressing in room 311, when I'm paged to the phone; after dealing with the call, I forget what I'd planned to do and go check the dialysis shunt in 303 instead. This prompts me to run down to 312 to flush her PICC line; during that process, 308 asks for a couple of pain pills, and while I'm popping them I remember the wound care so I grab the needed items along with the meds and head back down the hall. I manage to set the supplies down in 311 before an aide reports a new skin tear on the lady in 304; since it doesn't take long to clean, dress, and document such an injury, I take care of it and then it's time to check the eight or nine FSBS I have to do before dinner. Once those are done, I go back down to 311 and actually have the old dressing off before I'm paged for yet another phone call. This one is a family member who wants someone to go down to 313 (who is blind) and hand her cell phone to her so she can talk to him.
That accomplished, I trot back to 311, flush the wound with the prescribed solution, then prepare the skin for the new dressing to be applied. This is about the time when I get pelted with questions from the CNAs---"Do you want me to get Rose up for dinner? She's refusing." "What was Lula's blood sugar? She doesn't look right." "You better come to the dining room, Bill's getting in Ray's face and you know how Ray acts out...." Dressing change? What dressing change?
Finally, some ninety minutes later, everyone has eaten and I've taken my half-hour lunch break. That's when I realize that poor 311 STILL hasn't gotten his dressing replaced, and I scoot back down the hall to find him fast asleep, lying on his side where I'd placed him so I could reach the coccyx without standing on my head. I finish the job without disturbing him, and wonder for the umpteenth time if it's just a matter of too many distractions, or if I'm just losing what few marbles I had. I mean, there are days when I'm pretty sure I could hide my own Easter eggs.
Of course, I know that younger people have bouts of forgetfulness (my nineteen-year-old son is a major offender, especially when it comes to taking out the garbage Thursday nights) . It's when we get into our 50s that we start to worry about it.
Hey, you're not busy, I'd really appreciate it if you could you hand me that.......uh, that hoojaflobbets right there next to you. Thanks. What was your name again?
VivaLasViejas has '17' year(s) of experience and specializes in 'LTC, assisted living, geriatrics, psych'. From 'The Great Northwest'; 56 Years Old; Joined Sep '02; Posts: 25,614; Likes: 38,621.1Apr 15, '10 by onetiredmommaVery true, very timely!! I often tell myself I wouldn't be so tired at the end of the day if I didn't have to back track for supplies I forget when I am on my way to do a treatement. Want to see a nursing student's eye roll back in their head? Tell them you have been a nurse for 40 years1Apr 15, '10 by Spidey's mom, ADN, BSN, RN GuideVery good - you are describing me to a "T".
I say boring words like "whatchamacallit" or "thingamajig" . . . . . maybe I'll spice it up a bit and borrow your words. Where's the smilies . . . . ???
:-) steph1Apr 15, '10 by Midwest4meExcellent description of ME...but I'm in my 50s...why's this happening to you in your 40's???? Oh well glad I'm not alone...1Apr 15, '10 by Forever Sunshine, LPNIf this is me now.. lord help me. and my patients ... when I am older lol1Apr 15, '10 by gtokoI liked your story. I can relate, but what scares me is that I am returning to nursing after being out of it for quite some time. Please send words of wisdom and encouragement. THANKS2Apr 15, '10 by sharpeimom Guidemy grandmothers have sprung back to life!
"you know... whatchamacallit's youngest daughter. the one who went to grammar school with petie. the one with
the nose so big she'll never get herself a husband. (quick update on whatchamacallit's youngest... while
she never did marry, she did go on to get a phd, followed by an md.)
my maternal grandmother: yes, evelyn (my mom) is dating a very nice young man, but he does drink beers
on the weekend. just like all of his frat brothers. she was a card carrying member of the wctu.
what i really remember and understand finally now is the football sunday when i was in college when we heard a dreadful cry from my dad. my mom and i went running and it seems he had just done some basic math and realized he could be any pro or college football player's father except george blanda!
his other trauma of that era was when he visited me at college, and came upstairs to my room, someone yelled the usual "man on the floor!" then a friend saw who it was and called back "that's no man.that's just kathy's dad...":d
shar pei mom
1Apr 15, '10 by brillohead, ADN, RNI'm into "thingy-dingies" myself... but then, I just turned 41yo. I'm sure by the time I hit 50, I'll have graduated to the more descriptive words like you use!2Apr 15, '10 by oramarWait it gets worse. Your are ten years younger than me.1Apr 15, '10 by dscrnyes, it does get worse...and working with others of similar age...nuf said. My husband and I can hwithout ever finishing a sentence-lots of hand waving thoughave an entire donversation-0Apr 15, '10 by VivaLasViejas, ASN, RN GuideQuote from oramarThat's what's scaring me. My sister is 63 and she's way worse than I am........oh goody!Wait it gets worse. Your are ten years younger than me.1Apr 15, '10 by Liddle Noodnik GuideQuote from VivaLasViejasIt's funny, how this aging business really slaps one upside the head now and again.....usually when (and where) s/he least expects it.
My mother's face stares back at me from the mirror these days. ...
I knew within the first few words who posted this (I usually read first and look later) - and I knew I would love it (and relate) which I did. Oh my goodness ...
Thank you sweetie, you really perk up a day
xo2Apr 16, '10 by FocusRNMaybe it's age, maybe not. I'm am '80s baby, in my early 20's, and my code word is WHICHAMACALLIT, and always has been. I forget what I'm talking about mid sentence, struggling to remember. And if I don't make note on paper of something that I need/want or want to do immediately, I'm sure to forget, either never to remember again, or to remember when it is no longer useful.
So don't feel to bad.
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