Once upon a time.

I am nearly caught up on my excursion into the realm of Ocular Melanoma. I am still waiting for a PET scan to be scheduled. I will update you when I know what is happening with that.

In the meantime, let us take a walk down memory lane to some of the most memorable times I have had in my career as a nurse. I started my career when I was 14 years old. I was hired by Forest Hill Manor nursing home as a nurse’s aide. I was able to get my nurses aide certificate through the local high school. When the opportunity came to go to work at the nursing home, I jumped on it.

This nursing home was top notch. It was owned and operated by the Catholic Church. The Nuns ran it like a well-oiled machine. Woe be to the staff member that didn’t do it their way.

We cared for 45 patients who were mostly elderly. I can still remember many of them.

I was living in Fort Kent, Maine at the time. If you aren’t familiar with that area of the country, let me tell you, it has a very. French-Canadian flare.

The patients in the nursing home were primarily French. They preferred to speak French. which left me at a clear disadvantage. While I was studying French in school my vocabulary was limited and the “Valley French,” commonly spoken in that area is a far cry from the Parisian variety taught in school.

The nurses and the other aides at the home used to get a big kick out of sending me out with what we lovingly called the BM book. This was a volume where everyone’s bowel habits were recorded for posterity. Indeed, when you get to a certain age it becomes a highlight, and a necessity, to track such things.

I went from room to room asking each resident, “Avez-vous eu une selle aujourd’hui?”

They would laugh and shake their heads. To them anyone without the ability to speak fluent French was to be pitied. Obviously, my accent was not the best, leaving me the “Butt” of their jokes, (no pun intended.) They knew what I was asking because, clearly, I was holding the BM book. Every one of them knew the drill. Most of them also spoke English. They just refused to. Age has its privileges. It gave them a good laugh to hear me slaughter their native tongue, while inquiring about their poop.

I worked the 3-11 shift on the weekends during school. Once summer hit, I was on Night shift and more often than not pulling doubles. I loved it.

The charge nurse I worked with, Jean, was tough as a boot. On her watch she made sure every resident that was not able to do so themselves was turned every 2 hours. Every patient got a back rub and bed changed during 9 pm rounds. Fresh water was poured, evening snacks were provided, and evening medications were passed. We helped those that needed it with washing up and brushing their teeth.

This nursing home was hailed by the community because it had never had a bed sore. That’s no lie. In today’s world that would deserve a major award.

One night as we made our rounds to turn and fluff all the patients, we noticed that “Midas” pronounced me das, was acting a bit strange. He was laughing out loud at what appeared to be us. Not his usual by any means. As we got closer it became obvious why Midas was so happy. He was stinking drunk. I mean to tell you, he wreaked of alcohol.

Jean at once went into interrogation mode. “Midas” she asked, “Have you been drinking?"

“OK, where is it?” Jean demanded in her best; I am not playing, voice. She, like myself, was not fluent in French. There was no mistaking what she was asking.

Midas gave a great belly laugh followed by a resounding, BELCH.

We started searching the room. We looked in the bathroom, in the toilet tank, (obviously a preferred hiding place) The drawers were searched, and the blankets tossed from the bed. Still, we couldn’t find the bottle.

Midas was looking mighty smug.

When we had searched what seemed like every possible hiding place, Jean got down to take a second look under the bed.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, a shout of victory as she got up off the floor. She began to slide the mattress off the bed.

The bottle was secured to the bed frame with 2 wire coat hangers. One was wrapped around the neck of the bottle and the bed frame. The other was wrapped around the middle of the bottle and the frame, keeping it under the bed, while it lay flat to the underside of the frame. It was not obvious when you looked underneath. After unwrapping the wire, Jean came up with the bottle. It was empty, of course. It was bone dry.

Midas laughed all the harder.

We never found out who had supplied the contraband, but we highly suspected the maintenance man, who was a favorite of Midas.

We couldn’t figure out how he secured the bottle under the bed. I suspect old Midas was more limber than he appeared, if he was able to pull that off. Either that, or he had a much younger and more agile accomplice.

The next morning Midas wasn’t laughing. As he walked to the dining room for breakfast, his gait was a little slower than usual. He seemed to be lacking his trademark bouncy step. His cane, which he only carried as an affectation, was thumping beside him. He often used it while ambling to and from activities, to raise the women’s skirts, as he casually walked behind them, making them squeal and blush. He was in no mood for jokes this morning. His cane remained at his side.

Jean gave him a knowing look as she put his pills out for him. “Need a couple of Tylenol for that headache this morning, Midas?” she asked.

“Oui, Oui.” He muttered. “Avez vous le jus de tomate?” He asked. His grin was sheepish.

“Only orange juice, no tomato,” Jean chuckled as he took his morning medicine and chugged the full glass of juice.

Jean poured him another and handed it to him. “You got a lil cotton mouth this morning?”

“Ah, Oui!” Midas murmured as he downed the second glass of juice. “Merce beaucoup.”

Forest Hill Manor had a number of characters. A favorite of mine was Blanch Nadeau.

Blanch was nearly 100 years old. That was the story. The fact is that no one knew for sure how old she was. At the time of her birth record keeping was a bit sketchy. She didn’t have an official birth certificate. Her age was based on stories she had been told about her birth, and when it had occurred. It was now 1975 and the estimated date of her birth was the summer of 1876, or maybe 1877. Noone was alive from back then that could give an accurate accounting.

Blanch had a habit of wandering at night. Whatever her age, she was still agile and ambulatory. She moved like a damn cat burglar. She would often sneak up to the nurse’s station in the middle of the long hallway, startling us from our charting, or other morning duties.

Blanch was a donut fiend. We were working night shift, so of course we often had donuts. She would sit at the desk and munch happily while she visited with us.

Most of her stories I didn’t understand, as her rapid-fire French left me lacking much of the detail. I am sure from her vivid expressions and gesticulations, that whatever she was talking about was fascinating.

She would usually be wearing several gowns and robes, layered one over the other. I don’t know if she was layering because she was cold, or if she simply forgot she had one on and would just add another. The top robe was usually leopard print, or occasionally zebra. Blanch was a real trendsetter. If she were alive today I have no doubt she would be on Tik Tok as an influencer.

One morning at about 5 am Blanch joined us at the nurse’s station. She had a large paper bag with her that seemed to be rattling as she moved. She began speaking while smiling broadly. I didn’t catch all of it. I noticed she was quite excited. I should say animated. Her hands were talking faster than her mouth. She had obviously done something she was very proud of.

One of the other aides who spoke the “Valley French” like the native she was. began to look very alarmed. She reached out to take the sack from Blanch.

At first, I didn’t know what was going on. It became clear as we all looked in the bag that Blanch had made the rounds of most, if not all, of the rooms. The bag was full of dentures.

Yes, that’s right, about 30 sets of dentures to be exact. All haphazardly tossed into a paper sack. No denture cups, no labels, just 30 uppers and 30 lowers with no way of knowing who’s was who’s.

“Damn Jean!” I marveled. “ What are we going to do?”

“I am going to call the administrator.” she said resignedly. “And then I am going to get a deluxe ass chewing. How does this 100-year-old sneak around and collect everyone’s dentures without me knowing it.”

“It’s the slippers.” I said, “They are super quiet.”

“Yeah, I will be sure and tell him that.”

“If I were you, I’d be more worried about Sister Bernadette. She is way scarier than Jim.” I said.

“Oh, No! I am not telling Sister Bernadette. No way, no how.” Jean shook her head for emphasis. “It’s bad enough I am a protestant. Nope. Not going to do it. She is likely to rap my knuckles with a ruler, or wash my mouth out with soap.”

I don’t know what happened when Jim got there that morning. I admit I fled the scene. I heard that Jim had to call each of the resident’s family and tell them what happened. That was followed by a house wide effort to identify the owner of each denture set.

It is not like you can have them try them on. This was a bizarre sort of, Cinderella meets the tooth fairy dilemma.

Somehow, by the time I returned that night they had found most of the correct owners. After a thorough cleaning overseen by Sister Bernadette. Everyone was smiling again. Everyone except for Sister Bernadette, and Blanch.

That night Jean was back at work. She had escaped termination, if not the wrath of Sister Bernadette.

Everyone was told to be on high alert. Blanch now had a bell on her door that gave a loud ding-a-ling when she opened it. There would be no more tooth collecting on our watch.