Assisted Living -- Revisited
Fri., September 21, 01:02 PM
As one of those people with, um, an interest in the problems of senior citizens — not, of course, that I am really one of them myself — I was especially interested in Kathy's account of one of her Meals-on-Wheels clients. (I don't know whether they're called that in her area. In any case, Kathy is usually good reading anyhow.) It put me in mind of my geezerette friend Gloria, except that Gloria won't accept Meals-on-Wheels because “they don't taste good — and such small portions!” Like Kathy's friend, Gloria is constrained by the vision of a place where she wouldn't be allowed to smoke.
Then the Water Dragon wrote about the difficulties associated with finding safe housing for her father, who is physically disabled but mentally sharp. I went back to read an entry I posted more than three years ago, with some general opinions about assisted living. Assisted living is defined differently in the Water Dragon's area. I always remembered what my mother said: “I had the best mother-in-law in the world, but no mother-in-law should live with her children.”
Like many other elderly people I have known, my mother moved into senior housing, a gated community in her case, before it became necessary. Some people I knew actually went into nursing homes while they were still capable of choosing which one it would be. For many years, I have kept an eye on the assisted living facility in our community, a revolutionary idea for its time. U.D. and I actually visited there a few months ago.
From my point of view, the studios were just right. There is one large room, with lots of storage space. Carpeting and drapes are included. The bathroom is also large — more storage room here — and handicapped accessible for those who are not as mobile as they might be. There is also a kitchenette, with stove and refrigerator. The facility offers a coffee shop and six dinners a week, but you can cook for yourself if you want to.
Many of the residents still drive their own cars, and some of them are still working. The “campus” is within walking distance of downtown New Haven and, of course, there is plenty of public transportation.
I could live there comfortably. We could afford to maintain two separate studio apartments, even if I hired someone to give Husband his medications. I would still be available if he needed me, but there would be a buffer, necessary because he no longer really trusts me. I told him all about what we had seen, pointing out that it was too bad he didn't want to go there. He expressed an interest, as I knew he would. (I keep telling him, mindreading costs extra, but he never pays.)
Knowing there is an eight-month wait, I started putting together the documentation we would need to apply. Alas, Husband is deteriorating rapidly, and his doctor says he is not capable of living on his own. I wrote to the kind lady who had given us the grand tour and told her that all plans were on hold.
It is my fault, you see. If I had insisted a few years ago, he would have already been in there — under protest, no doubt — and transfer into a more elaborate facility would have been easy. Now he needs more care than I can give him — he still resists it all — and it is going to take a lot of legal finagling to get him what he needs.
This week I found out that the wisest financial course for me is to stay in the Cheesebox.
Just a little more resentment to carry around.
