Afternoon serenade from 9-1-1

Here we go again. My “Humpty Dumpty” husband is about to take another fall.
This is nothing new. He’s 85 years old, in the advanced stage of dementia and has been essentially immobile for the last three years.
Our home health-care aide holds him tightly by the straps of his safety belt trying to prevent him from sliding off the bed. We both realize that he could go down in a second. I rush to the phone and dial 9-1-1. The dispatcher understands my urgent need for “Lift Assistance.”
Within minutes, a firetruck is double-parked in front of our house. I breathe a sigh of relief as the team of four emergency workers race up the front steps.
The team members have already been briefed on the situation but before they head upstairs to help my husband, I warn them what they’re likely to encounter. Not just a 200-pound man who looks like he’s ready to crash onto the floor, but a guy who’s in the later stage of dementia and is apt to be combative and aggressive.
“No problem, ma’am. We’re trained. We know what we’re doing.” Up the stairs they go. In no time at all, they have my husband back onto the bed. They knew exactly how to reposition him so that he’d be both comfortable and safe.
Did my husband cooperate with the emergency team? The answer is a resounding “No.” In spite of my warning, they were pretty amazed at what a strong, ferocious, “mean Marine” he can be. It took all four of them to get him back onto the bed.
And, the whole time they were “wrestling” with him, he was shouting out an endless stream of obscenities. (He may be in the advanced stage of dementia but he still remembers every swear word in the book.)

At the end of the ordeal, one of the rescue workers turned to me and said, “Well, that served as our entertainment for today.” We all laughed.
The team got ready to leave and headed back downstairs. I thanked them for their help as well their ability to find some humor in my husband’s absurd responses.
I was just getting ready to escort them out the door, when one of the team members turned to me and said, “Just wondering, ma’am, does your piano work?” (Obviously he had caught sight of the grand piano in our living room.) “Well, it hasn’t been tuned since the pandemic began,” I said, “but as far as I know, it still works.”
So, wearing his protective rubber gloves, this big, huge African-American man bent over the piano keys and started playing “It had to be you, nobody but you ...”
Gosh, for a few minutes I felt like I was back at the old piano bar at Chez Odette in New Hope. Who would have guessed that a 9-1-1 call would end up with an impromptu sing-and-swing session?
If I have to call for help again (a likely scenario), I’ll be putting in a request for the “Wonderful You” team. Their “lift assistance” was just what I needed – a lift of the spirits.
Lynda Elizabeth Jeffrey, a native of Bucks County, now resides in Washington, D.C. A former kindergarten teacher, a freelance writer and lecturer, she is now actively engaged as a Brain Health advocate.

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