The search continues for an appropriate place for my mother. When I came home today I found a message on the answering machine from the Hospice nurse who stated and then repeated that my mother was “doing great.” Obviously she has improved notably, and the nurse was impressed with the progress made from the occupational and physical therapy. Well, that’s good news. The nurse also doesn’t think my mother will qualify for the Hospice program much longer; I assume an evaluation will soon be made. It’s been three long months of uncertainty and now it appears things are on the mend.

That leaves us with the decision: where will she go?

And I can say unequivically: not to the place I visited today.

I enlisted a nurse advocate who verified that a place I found on the internet, an assisted living facility, that takes Medicaid was fairly well rated. I pulled up to what looked like a former motel, it was not what I expected–it somehow looked much better on the computer screen. It might has well have been an old, cheap Catskill Mountain resort from the 1950’s. Gold toned metal chandeliers, a sweeping old staircase … a blaring, intrusive public address system (something I left behind at P.S. 61: Mrs. Bloom, Mrs. Bloom, please call the main office) … a woman leading exercises, screaming into a microphone in a main floor room with rows of wheelchairs and walkers filled with semi-alert and dozing residents. “Let’s work on our six-pack abs.” I stopped an elderly woman with a walker and asked her if she was a resident. She said, “yes, because of him.” She and her husband had just arrived the previous day. It was the husband’s choice and need to be there, not hers, and you could see how upset and confused she was.

The woman I was to meet at 11:00 am to give me a tour and information was miffed when she couldn’t find me. I was taking the place in on my own and about ready to interview another resident or two. “This is their home, no one is allowed to wander around themselves.” OK, so I got my wrist slapped.

I thought of my mother and how she was dreaming of the roast chicken of her early Brooklyn years and her Aunt Libby who was such a great cook. Today’s menu for lunch was turkey and mashed potatoes and a vegetable. Dinner was macaroni and cheese. I had a flashback of T.V. Dinners and of the school cafeteria in a school where I worked. Though I didn’t see the food or the people eating, I somehow saw lines of restless kids slopping gluey macaroni onto cardboard trays.

During the “tour” I noticed in a “lounge area” that the carpet was buckling. “Oh, it must have just been washed,” was the comment. I was thinking that if someone rolled over that wave with a walker they’d be taken out to sea.

I was shown a few rooms that were not empty. The elderly were more than happy to have visitors. Some were exceptionally sweet. But as I walked around and took it all in I had to bite my lip so as not to cry. There was no way I could see my mother in this place and I knew my mother would be horrified.

To wit: A private room began at about $3,500/mo. Most people shared a room. Many faced out onto the parking lot and highway. A shared room facing the back was also over $3,000, for the gift of looking at green. The shared rooms are cheap because Medicaid helps pay for them. When your money runs out you sleep three to a room. And that also means three to six old folks sharing a bathroom and shower. I walked into one room and the television was blaring from next door. I walked into another room where a resident had a ton of collectibles on her dresser. All I could think of was the smell: of age, of impending death, and dirt.

The rooms were dark and the ceilings were covered with dirty, drop-ceiling tiles. The provided furniture looked as old and sad as the residents.

I spent a while getting information from the woman who gave me a tour. I told her I had seen other places. She let her guard down in between giving me information and told me in sotto voce that her mother was in an assisted living in Queens, a “really nice one.” She gave me the name. And guess what? NO WHEELCHAIRS ALLOWED. What? an assisted living facility that doesn’t permit wheelchairs??? Apparently they aren’t handicapped accessible. Why would that be? On further inspection of a Google map photo, the facility, which looked lovely on the outside, was part of the Atria chain. I’m not one for big corporations. I can imagine this place must cost $5-6,000/monthly for an apartment.

For goodness sake, isn’t there a middle ground?

I received a couple of phone calls from the first place I saw on Sunday and from an independent living building on that campus. I might have to go back and look again. My mother seems to have needs in between the two residences they offer: a semi-medical model assisted living program that offers medical assistance, and the independent living apartment building where aides can come in during the day but can’t sleep on the premises if needed. That’s probably making all this so hard to figure out: my mother is a square peg who doesn’t fit into a round hole.

When I left the place I visited today I was in a semi-shocked state and saddened by the reality of what happens to many in their “golden years.”  I went in with an open mind and I was determined for this place to be the one, I wanted it to be the one, I wanted to put an end to this search and for this game I didn’t want to play anymore, to be over.

It looks like it will continue for at least a while longer.

This series is linked: see “continued here.” Also, below the line there will be links for the previous post and the next.

The series starts here

continued here