Getting out.

Months ago, at Dad's old facility, the administrator asked if we would no longer allow Dad's aide to take him out more than once a week or so. They were convinced that Dad became increasingly agitated and angry upon returning from an outing. He went to all the doors repeatedly, testing them and trying to get out, being aggressive to the staff. They swore it was because he was becoming overloaded by the outside world, that this eventually happened to all dementia patients. Well, I swung by Dad's new home to drop off some pants the other day and he was out. Every time I call to check in on him, he's out. He gets out more than I do, now! His aide and the other caregivers are taking him out shopping, to the park, walking, playing tennis, lunch, and a bunch of other places. And he's doing just fine. He's calm, non-aggressive, doesn't try the door when he's home, and seems quite content. This leads me to wonder: what was causing the problem before? It obviously wasn't the outings, and now I'm sad for all the enjoyment Dad could have been having if I hadn't listened to his old caregivers.

What a difference a place makes...

I went to visit my Dad today, and bring over the remaining cupcakes from my birthday party last night(39! Yay.). As usual, the house was clean and calm and everyone was happy to see me. I sat with Dad on the couch quietly for a while, and I don't think he knew me; he seemed a little irritated. But when I joined him and two of the other residents, both lovely people, at the table, he seemed to warm up. As they ate their hot dogs and onion rings, we all talked about where we had lived, what jobs we had done, things we liked to do. And Dad started to remember things about himself and his life, correcting me on the name of a city where he had lived as a boy, and laughing with me about his old love for skiing. And he seemed to remember me, talking to me about our family and my sister. In the old facility, there would have been a bustle of caregivers feeding and cleaning up, too many other residents talking or yelling, and an overall feeling of rush and tasks to finish. Here, all was calm and leisurely, there were no schedules or tasks to be completed, only people who needed to be fed with respect and in comfort. It was lovely.

So Far So Good...

The reports keep coming in; Dad is doing great in his new home! I am beyond excited. Apparently he has settled in just fine, is enjoying the food and many walks around the neighborhood, and is sleeping well. I'm not entirely sure what I envisioned could happen, but I never dreamed it would go this easily. It looks like we found exactly the right place, and I'm really grateful. Greg, the owner, and his wife, are the nicest people; they truly care about the people in their care and are committed to what they do. Thank god there are people in the world like that. Let's hope that the happiness continues!

Personal Post

Well, stage one is done. On Wednesday, we successfully moved Dad to the new AFH. The owner kindly helped us with the move as we ended up being a man down on the day. It was actually a fairly quick process; we packed for two hours, deciding what to send over and what to throw out or donate. Del took Dad out for the day so he wouldn't get unsettled about what we were doing. Then we drove the short distance over to the new place and unpacked Dad's familiar bed, horrible oak headboard and armoire, and everything else. We hung the pictures and that was about that. It was a little odd, actually. I was certain when I moved him into Brighton that it would be the last place he ever lived. It was hard enough getting him in there, that I never wanted to contemplate another move. But this move was quick and easy, and a place that was his entire environment, his whole life, filled with the people who cared for him hourly, is no longer. His old room is empty, his new room is waiting.

Personal Post

On Monday of this past week, I met with a nurse at Dad's current facility to do an assessment of him prior to his move to the new house. Basically, I sat there for an hour and a half, answering her questions as to his likes and dislikes and behavioral patterns. At one point, Dad and Del came into the room so Dad could use the bathroom. Dad seemed surprised and a little put out to see two people occupying his bed, but he didn't make a fuss. Del patiently led him into the bathroom, talking cheerfully to Dad the whole time, and shut the door. The interview continued, but my attention was now divided, focusing also on what was going on inside the little bathroom. I could hear rustlings and clinkings, the faint, loving chiding by Del as he helped Dad off with his clothing and checked him. Perhaps he even helped Dad onto the toilet. My mind was diverted with two thoughts: one; that my proud, intelligent Father was almost incontinent, a situation that would have both mortified and horrified him, and, two; a person not even related to my Father was helping him do that most private and personal function, with kindness and compassion. I had only a moment to begin to process what these two things meant to me before being pulled back by the nurse to continue our interview.

Personal Post

We took Dad to lunch last week at the Adult Family Home we liked the best after our tour. All meeting at his current facility, Dad and Del went in one car, and my sister and I piled into mine. They were just starting lunch when we got there, and the owner, a quiet-spoken yet authoritative gentleman from Romania, welcomed Dad in and seated him gently at the table with the other residents. One of the women seemed extra perky and we found out that she was actually the wife of one of the residents, who came to visit every other day or so. As my sister and I sat on the couch and observed lunch and the caregivers, she directed a few questions our way. Eventually, she came over to join us, a tiny, slightly bent over package of energy and wit, wearing a sequined sweater and speaking with a slight accent. She began to tell us her story. It turned out she and her husband were Dutch, and that they had lived an extraordinary life together. Evidently they had been in Indonesia during the Second World War and been imprisoned in a concentration camp. They had no children. And how, after all the suffering and life they had lived, her husband was diagnosed with dementia and was now under hospice care at an Adult Home she was beginning not to be able to afford. She laughed that he was younger than she and much the healthier of the two, and that she had married him relying on the fact that he could take care of her in old age. While seeming rueful at the cruel paths life can take, she was at the same time, philosophical about it all. I couldn't help but admire her spirit and attitude, and I look forward to getting to know her a little better as Dad settles in to his new home.

Personal Post

We viewed several Adult Family Homes this week, and I have to say I'm fairly amazed at the variety of places out there. The one we viewed last week was in a smallish, older ranch-style house. It was a little dingy, a little run down and worn around the edges. One of the ones we saw this week, however, was brand new. It had no furniture OR residents; our Dad would have been the very first. This place was even one step up from a McMansion; it was ginormous! It squatted, gleaming and ugly, amongst the smaller, dingier, ranch-style 60's houses surrounding it. Dark, polished wood floors, twenty foot ceilings, huge Grecian columns, trendy black granite countertops in the kitchen. Striking certainly, but in no way homey. The second, run by a lovely Romanian couple, was like something out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding; flowered carpeting, chandeliers, knick-knacks, window treatments, swags of material. It was opulent, yet oh-so-slightly tacky. They had built it recently from the ground up and were immensely proud of it, as they should be, considering they were immigrants to this country.