I don’t want to handle geriatric patients
In my third year of pursuing a physical therapy degree, our curriculum introduces a deeply challenging yet essential segment within our neurology subject: we are required to visit a care home for geriatric patients. This clinical rotation isn’t just about reading charts or analyzing gait patterns; we are tasked with assessing them, treating them, and, perhaps most critically, learning how to genuinely communicate with them.
It sounds simple on paper, but the reality inside those walls is incredibly hard. Some of these elderly patients cannot speak at all due to neurological deficits like aphasia. Others experience delayed speech, struggling to find the words trapped behind the fog of stroke or dementia. And then, there are those who simply do not want to speak. They choose silence as a shield.
You could easily say that this environment is really hard to handle, especially since these residents are entirely unfamiliar with you, your face, and what you do. To them, you are a stranger in a clinical uniform. You are not their daughter, you are not their sister, and you are definitely not their mother. There is no foundation of trust, only the stark reality of their vulnerability and your sudden presence in their personal space.
But I have parents.
Living with my parents in their 50s has given me an entirely different kind of education, one that a textbook could never provide. At home, I constantly get to handle their different kinds of moods, adapting to the shifts in their disposition as they age. My dad, for instance, has a bad temper. Most of the time, I find myself managing his moods, with instances where you can hear him screaming at the top of his lungs over the smallest things. If you can’t get the household chores exactly right, or if you fail to properly fold your bed according to his precise standards, the atmosphere shifts instantly.
You have to undo your work and do it all over again, shifting the heavy weight of his anger because he will mostly shout and get intensely mad at you at the same time. It is exhausting, and it requires a massive amount of patience to endure.
Despite the shouting and the tension, I still have my parents. And looking closely at them, I can see the undeniable toll that time is taking. My mom is really getting older now. As she fiercely fought cancer three years ago, a massive shift occurred in her body, her mind, and our family dynamic. A lot of things happened during that dark period, leaving lasting marks. Today, maybe she cannot easily get things right anymore. Sometimes she cannot even properly do the dishes; even on the smallest, simplest plate, she can still accidentally miss a spot. The sharp precision she once possessed is gently slipping away, replaced by the frailties of survival and old age.
They are my parents, and I love them dearly. Yet, at some points in our daily life, they choose not to speak. I know it stems from a heavy, quiet feeling, the haunting thought that maybe someday, they will become an unbearable burden to us, their children. Or sometimes, they don’t really want to speak with us because there are difficult circumstances where we simply cannot properly communicate well due to generational gaps and misunderstandings.
This is the exact reason why I deeply dread this rotation. I don’t want to handle geriatric patients, not because I don’t want to treat them clinically, and not because I lack professional empathy. It is because, at this specific point in my life, I hate to visualize seeing my own parents in that exact situation. It terrifies me to look at a stranger in a care home and see a mirror of my future: my own mother and father not wanting to speak, or not being completely able to speak, because of the crushing burden they think they are to the world.
But despite my fears, I hope they feel loved.
As an upcoming intern, all I want is to support patients so they feel loved, cared for, and appreciated during rehab. Whether it is their first time or one of many during their recovery, I hope they feel that care throughout our time together. I choose to express my love by treating them with the highest dignity, because I see them as my parents, not just my patients. I consciously choose to see them when they don’t want to be seen, when they try to hide their weakness, their stains, and their silence from the world.
Maybe, just maybe, at that breakthrough point, through the touch of therapy and genuine human connection, they can easily see themselves as being seen.
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Clarisse Eugenio, 21, a physical therapy student at Northwestern University.
