Perfecto Change-o
Haley was a gracious child and appreciated small kindnesses throughout her life. She had a peaceful demeanor and would regularly comment that she felt lucky to live in Canada because it was a peaceful country.
As she neared the end of her life, her body began to fail her, bit by bit. Haley seemed to accept her increasing limitations with grace, and most of her time was spent laying in her hospital bed with the back raised so she was in a seated position. Her arms no longer had the strength to push her back upright as she slowly slid down. She would get to the point that she needed to be adjusted back up to her seated position, and at first, this was something I accomplished by myself. I would do my best to gently maneuver her, tugging at the corners of the pad that sat behind her back, and eventually adopted a new practice of standing on the bed, with a leg on either side of Haley, to pull her up.
This worked for a bit, until Dr. McGonigle walked in and saw me doing this (thankfully it wasn’t the same day I set off an alarm on the bed – that would have been double trouble!). When he walked in, he firmly told me I was not to do it again. I was to call for help each time Haley needed to be repositioned on the bed, as doing it alone could easily result in a back injury for me. He ensured he had my compliance by saying, “And then you would be of no use to Haley.”
From that moment forward, I called for help each time – sometimes a nurse would help, sometimes a visitor, often it was Dr. McGonigle himself. And each time Haley was shifted back to her more comfortable position, she would reward her helpers with a smile and two words: perfecto change-o. It was a phrase that appeared out of the blue, quickly becoming Haley’s signature expression of gratitude.
As she laid there unmoving for hours on end, occasionally she would request the movement of one of her legs, which no longer moved by themselves. Her skin was painfully taut over her swollen tissues, and movement was anything but comfortable. Yet after her leg had been ever so slightly adjusted, she would happily reward her helper with “perfecto change-o,” or, even more simply, “perfect!”
Haley was so grateful for simple gestures of kindness, and seemed always at peace, regardless of the limitations of her body. On days when I don’t feel well, I only have to think of her and all she endured, reminding myself that I have plenty to be thankful for. Perfecto change-o - an endearing and appreciative Haleyism that I still miss hearing.