The Elephant in the Room

Some subjects are more uncomfortable to broach than others. This is one of those:

The other day, something seemed different at the facility. Subdued, perhaps. I noticed that the decorations on the door of one of the residents -- let's call her Bea -- had been taken down. Not wanting to assume anything, I steered my husband in that general direction as we paced together. Sure enough, Bea's name had been removed from the little slot on the door that labeled it "her" room.

My heart skipped a beat. Oh, no. Not another one gone! I just barely managed to keep myself from crying. Bea has suffered for a long time, and so I wasn't entirely surprised to think that she had left us, but it's always still a shock anyway. Just to be sure, when a caregiver went by, I asked about Bea.

"Oh, yes," she responded, "She's left us."

The stricken look on my face betrayed my thoughts and emotions, and she quickly added, "Not like that! Her family moved her to another place. They were running out of money."

Now, it may or may not have been appropriate for her to say this to me, but there it was: The elephant in the room. The thing everyone dreads. These facilities are not what you would call "affordable" for a sustainable period of time. One year might be okay. Two years might be just about manageable. Three years? Four years? Five years? The thing is, you don't know how many years it's going to be. If you have insurance, it could run out (or not even cover this type of care at all). If you have savings, they are probably not bottomless. If you have neither, your monthly income probably won't cover it (certainly not if you're also running a household). And when the money runs out? Well, when the money runs out, you can't stay.

It's the kind of thing that you hope against hope doesn't happen. The thought of it happening is the stuff nightmares and panic attacks are made of. It's always there, right in the back of your head, waiting to pounce on you in the middle of the night. And you can't help but wonder how much longer it's going to be and whether there will be enough funds to cover the cost and whether there will be anything left for your subsequent life, if any. It shouldn't be that way, but it is. As my husband used to say, "It is what it is." Yep. It is.

On a more positive note, today is my husband's move-in anniversary at this excellent facility. It's been a year. It's gone by very quickly, in retrospect. Time is like that. Maybe that should be a whole other post! 

And he said my name again this week. I burst into tears, of course. It's been four months since that happened last; and, once again, he was somewhat irritated with me. Perhaps I should try to irritate him more often so I can hear, "ChrI-i-I-ssss" more regularly? Okay, perhaps not!

The Other Woman

Yesterday, there had been a minor incident at the facility, so I went to check on my husband's situation and to make sure all was well. After a consultation with the weekend hospice nurse, I spent some time walking with my husband and listening to music hand in hand, as is our habit. I fed him his dinner and, as bedtime for him was fast approaching, went to collect my belongings in preparation for leaving.

When I came back, I found that one of the female residents (I'll call her Sheila) had taken him by the hand and was leading him outside for a stroll in the courtyard. I followed close behind in case of mishap. Sheila was smiling up at him tenderly, possessively, more like a mother with her child than like a woman with a man. It was really very sweet. He was more concerned with hanging on to the handrail for steadiness and didn't seem to notice that I wasn't the one holding his hand. He seemed completely oblivious as he stared down at the path, straight ahead.

A caregiver arrived and tried to pry Sheila's hands off my husband, but she was having none of it. There was no way Sheila was going to let go and allow the caregiver to guide my husband back to the house. He was hers! The caregiver seemed a bit flustered as Sheila batted her away angrily. She was probably thinking the situation was upsetting me, but it wasn't. I was amused. I suggested to the caregiver that perhaps she could hold my husband's other hand and guide both of them back. Simple solution.

Many people feel hurt and jealous when their loved ones form relationships or even affections in care facilities, but it's completely natural to feel close to those you share a home with. People need community and touch and affection. Sheila has had a soft spot for my husband since the day he moved in. But, then, she has a soft spot for every new male resident.

It's important to remember that these residents are there for a reason and can behave in ways that would be unseemly under different circumstances; for instance, taking someone else's husband by the hand possessively and leading him away from his wife for a little tête-à-tête. I do admit to wondering what Sheila might have been like before, in her previous life as a high-powered executive.