"This isn’t a Rest and it is a far cry from a Haven. I don’t give a damn that they call it Rest Haven. I’m not going back!"
She wriggled and squirmed, resisted with that “frail" under 90 pound body. Pushed up against our legs, straight-arming her torso so we couldn’t nudge her into the rusty blue Volve sedan to go “HOME.”
What can we do about Louise?
Anytime we visited her, she begged and pleaded for us to take her to our house. To get away from Rest Haven. To feel like a human being. To be free from the reminder that she is actively dying and there isn’t a damn thing she can do about it. Locked up in her room at night, for fear she would wander, again. Out the door, down the street, meandering the roads in her torked bare feet and floral worn gown. She was going mad with Living.
We pined and mourned. Though she was still very much alive. Once a vibrant ballet dancer, one of many in the Nancy Houser Dance Company. And there she was, scorched by the fact that she didn’t have children, no husband to care for her. One sole survivor, a nephew, lived too many states away, and chose not to deal with her until he inherited her million dollar home.
I find myself seeking justice for Alzheimers, Dementia, mental illness, addiction, and plain old age. The uncertainty. A willingness to place our family members in a Home where they are overmedicated and forget who they are in the process. Can't we find someone to move in with them and share the expenses while providing some level of compassion care?
Last week, the Time Warner Cable bill envelope was returned to the house, insufficient address. My friend added more details and placed it in the mailbox. A few days later, returned again. Additional postage. Another Time Warner Cable payment envelope stuck it’s nose from the outgoing postal box. I discovered a similarly addressed envelope, a check sticking out of the top, on the counter.
"Didn’t you already send a check, I inquired?" Hm.
As I pull out into the street, I notice a sizable new dent in the car parked cattywompus in the driveway.
What are the options? How many people are in their homes, sans a working tv, eating peanut butter and jelly for dinner ‘cause they fear turning on the gas stove, sleeping until 1:00pm, missing their meds, forgetting a friend’s number (let alone her name) to call for company?
Yep, time to have that conversation. The one you have when you act as if you care about them.
Frank and clear, with options and timetable outlined.
Go to it!