The Fourth Season

My sister and I spent some days together last month at her new home, The Fourth Season, an assisted living and memory care facility. We enjoyed one another’s company and, since I’d only been there for a quick look-around 4 months before, I was interested in checking out her community and its amenities.

Staying with my sister day and night was a good experience for me and it enabled me to feel comfortable with leaving my sister in The Fourth Season’s care. 

I did have a few concerns when I left, but not many, and they have since been addressed. I would recommend this 24 hour, several day method of checking out how a loved one is being cared for, and I give credit to The Fourth Season for allowing me to sleep on my sister’s hide-a-bed, share the same meals, and be with her during her day. It is a privately funded for-profit care home in the USA. I believe there are similar places in Canada, but, both here and there, I suspect you get what you pay for. The caregivers that I met were great - pleasant, courteous, efficient without being brusque, and, for the most part, there when needed. They took care to preserve dignity, and dignity for the elderly is something that is often overlooked or overshadowed by efficiency. The food was real, cooked on premises, varied, nutritious, neither over nor under cooked, and tasty. Every effort was made to ensure safety without being unduly restrictive. Activities were varied, encouraged by direct invitation, and attended by choice.

My sister’s care home was busy enough for residents but pretty slow moving for me, so I spent much of my time people watching. These are some of the folks I met, ate with and played with - folks who have had the courage/misfortune (privilege?) to grow old and are no longer able to care for themselves. (All residents names and the name of the home are fictitious.)

Loretta

Music is one of the main forms of entertainment at The Fourth Season Retirement Home. There is a large TV/internet entertainment centre in the main lounging area thoughtfully labelled “the living room”. Most of the time we listened to John Denver because the very vocal Loretta loves John Denver and requests his music daily. “He was a friend of mine you know,” Loretta said. “He lived  with his family right next door to me for many years. I know the words to every single one of his songs.” And after continuous exposure nearly everyone else knows the words too. Occasionally someone meekly suggests that “perhaps we should listen to someone else…?” On one of these occasions I saw a delightful side of Juan, one of the caregivers.

Juan

The Temptations song, “My Girl”, was a playing on the living room TV.  Juan, a rotund and jolly fellow with a shock of dyed blond hair perched high on his head, grabbed a small drum and literally came alive, dancing with his shoulders and arms, flirting with Genie. Genie was both embarrassed and flattered, hiding her face behind her hands. Everyone was smiling and many sang along on the chorus - “My girl, my girl, my girl…Talkin’ ‘bout my girl, my girl!”

The Professor

His name is Charles but I secretly dubbed him “the Professor”. I asked his name at lunch one day, introduced myself. Conversation dropped dead beyond his response. “Charles,” he said. I never heard him speak an unnecessary word. He even requested more juice with a glass raising gesture. He is tall, carries himself with an air of dignity, spends most of his time contemplating the world from an easy chair in the lounge.

Caroline

“Your hair really looks nice today,” she said. “You look very pretty!” I smiled and  thanked her. Soon another resident joined us at our table and Caroline said,  “Your hair really looks nice today, did you have it done?” Listening across tables in days after I heard the same words applied to everyone she sat with. 

My sister and I shared a wee grin. “Why does she do that?” my sister whispered.

“Just small talk I suppose,” I said quietly. “She probably can’t think of anything else to say. Or maybe she doesn’t realize she’s said it so often.”

Curtis

Curtis was grumpy, he’d been sitting at the table forever it seemed, and still no breakfast. “Give me something to eat!” he shouted, but staff seemed to turn a deaf ear to his grumbles. Curtis wheeled away just before a plate was delivered, his second breakfast as it turned out. He had forgotten about the first one he ate. About 5 minutes later he was back again, now demanding coffee, and once again, breakfast.

“That’s your plate there,” I said, pointing to the full plate sitting at the table’s centre. Curtis grabbed it, nibbled at the sausage, left once again. 

Later, during exercises, Curtis became angry at the instructor. He needed to go to the bathroom and she wanted to help him back into his wheelchair, pausing the exercises thus causing attention to be centred on him.

“You don’t need to advertise it!” he exclaimed.

“There should be another caregiver here,” the instructor muttered under her breath. She soon found one, but by then Curtis was quite agitated and determined to leave the premises. Exiting the “neighbourhood” is controlled by a key pad but, when Caregivers looked away and a visitor came through the doors, Curtis took full advantage and slipped out. Caregivers found him in the lounge near the door to the outside world, a world which Curtis is no longer able to navigate. 

Curtis is back now, still grumpy, but no one else seemed to allow his mood to colour theirs.

Lucy sits on the edge of her chair while a seated Zumba instructor, all smiles and grace, glides through a gentle exercise routine that most in the room are unable to mimic. Right leg out, clap, clap, clap. Left leg out, clap, clap, clap. Out to one side, out to the other, big circle with your hands, breathe deep. Do it all over again. Lively music fills the room.

Lucy is tall, slim, has long straight grey hair down to the middle of her back. Her hands shake a bit and she has difficulty with her speech but she oozes with energy, always on the move. It would be difficult for a visitor to know whether Lucy is caregiver or resident. She busses tables, brings drinks, seats guests, generally fusses over everyone. She is steadily on the move, up and down the halls, delivering stuff, helping people.

Carrying a napkin filled with cutlery, she brought a gentleman out onto the patio, seated him.

“Does anyone else sleep in your room?” he said.

“No, I sleep by myself,” Lucy replied.

“Could I sleep in your room with you?”

“No, I don’t think so, not tonight. But it would be all right someday. You would have to let me know ahead of time, though,” said Lucy as she eased down into a patio chair.

The two sat together enjoying the sunshine for a time on the cloud free unseasonably warm February day.

And last but not least…

RoseMarie, sadly she died today. I only met her yesterday. She wheeled her walker out and chose a chair at our lunch table, sat sideways so she could access her satchel. RoseMarie showed us pictures - a picture of her son, Robert, playing his guitar, a handsome young man of whom she was very proud, a picture of herself while young, and one of her older brother as well. She had pictures of her entire college graduating class, showed us which one was her. “I never go anywhere without my family,” RoseMarie said, and then she proudly displayed her photos once again. Time for lunch arrived so RoseMarie had to put her memories away for awhile. This necessitated a complete removal of all the other items she was carrying in her satchel, clothing mostly, so the photos wouldn’t get crushed. “I have to be very careful that I don’t hurt them,” she said, gently placing them inside and piling the clothing on top.

When we walked out to the dining room for breakfast this morning there was someone lying on a cart in the hall, all covered up, a solemn suited man standing nearby. I asked him, “Oh, who is that?”

“RoseMarie,” he said.

“Oh my, that’s so sad,” I said. “I just met RoseMarie yesterday.”

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I have heard from some folks I know, have seen for myself, and have caught a few news programs about some, likely government subsidized, care homes in Canada that are underfunded, under-equipped, short staffed, provide bland institutional shipped-in food, restrict sanitary products, appear to resort to an over-use of drugs, and provide very few activities for their residents. All of us “older folks” swear we will NEVER, EVER go to one of these places! Yet what choice do we have when we can’t care for ourselves, haven’t saved up a million dollars to buy the best, and family is unavailable, unable or unwilling to pitch in? 

What can we do before we get there? In too many ways our hands are tied. But we can try to keep improved elder care in the minds of our government. We can be an advocate for those people we know who are in care. Visit. Even if your friend or family member forgets you were there, the moment will be appreciated. Observe, ask questions, alert staff to a problem they were too busy to see, bring a dog, play a tune, sign petitions, write letters, bring goodies, bring photos, share memories, listen to a story. Remember your elders.  

Change never comes about in an atmosphere of ignorance, blind acceptance or apathy.