Pudding
Today was my last day. I led a snack group in one of the cottages, helping the residents make pudding pies. During last week's group, I had unintentionally agitated Greg, who is blind and has Down Syndrome, resulting in a fit of screaming and overturning tables. I didn't mean to set him off; I felt terrible. Today brought a similar episode, only I was in another room. At least now I know it wasn't anything I did.
I wasn't the only one upset by it today, though. I noticed Shaun was missing as I started passing out the hand sanitizer. I thought maybe he had retreated to another room, until I nearly stepped on him. He was on the floor on the other side of the table. Shaun's chair was back to back with Greg's at the adjacent table. He must have taken cover when Greg started acting out. He lay on his stomach like a soldier behind a barricade. Shaun doesn't say much, but Jeffrey does.
"I'm going home this weekend. I'm leaving tomorrow."
"That's great, Jeffrey." He tells me the same thing every time I see him, no matter what day it is. He has moments of apparent lucidity, broken up by instances of incoherent mumbling, his eyes out of focus. Whenever I ask questions of the whole group, he is usually the first to answer. He'll even jump in when I pose a question to one of the other residents. Today, though, he couldn't tell me what we were making when I asked. I held up a pudding cup.
"What is this, Jeffrey?"
Nothing.
I tried to help him out: "P-p-p-."
Nothing.
"Puuu-."
Nothing.
"Pudding!"
"Pudding," he mumbled. There was no indication that he knew what he was saying.
We made the pudding pies—graham cracker crumbs, pudding, and whipped cream. Everyone told me which flavor he/she wanted: chocolate, vanilla, or butterscotch. Ronald always picks butterscotch. It's his favorite. But he never eats his pudding pie. Each week it sits on the table untouched. I thought this week would be no different. As others finished up, Ronald's bowl sat neatly on his napkin with his spoon beside it. I was in the kitchen starting to clean up when I heard, "Tastes good!" Ronald finally tasted his pudding pie, and he ate the whole thing.
After everyone else was done, I made a pie for Kim in her adaptive bowl and let her feed herself. Half of it ended up on her bib. In the hallway, Ronald handed her a page from a coloring book; he knows she likes to play with paper. She alternates holding it and crumpling it. Every so often she'll switch hands. I pretended to try and take it away, then let her pull it out of my grasp. She grinned. We played that game until I had to go.
As I was leaving the cottage, the last voice I heard was Jeffrey's.
"Bye, Meredith! Thanks for coming."