Dignity, Responsibility, Respect

Standing at a sink full of dirty dishes, my back complaining as usual, my mind wanders off to that assisted living home where my sister lives. I’ve been making meals and keeping house for over 50 years. I’d love to live somewhere that I didn’t have to cook or clean! Or would I?

I no longer work out and I have less and less to do with regard to our flock of sheep. Guess you could say I’m retired. But I still have to get up in the morning, make coffee, get the fire going, make breakfast, wash dishes, make the bed, vacuum, wash and put away clothes, tidy up, dust, water plants, feed the birds, prepare a dish for Saturday’s potluck supper, plant the garden (tend, harvest, can and freeze), harvest apples and raspberries, make wine, can preserves, bake bread or goodies, make supper, grocery shop, pay bills, indulge in my writing hobby, play music with our friends, read, binge on a TV series, visit with folks, help out a neighbour, let the dog out, let the dog in, let the dog out, let the dog in… You get the picture. I may have slowed down some, but I’m busy. I have responsibilities to my family, to myself, to birds, lambs and dogs. There are things others depend on me to do. I may at times begrudge my responsibilities, but I can also take a certain amount of pride in the fact that I “get er done”, sometimes when I really don’t feel like doing so.

When I enter a senior care home most of the above disappears from my daily roster. I have only to look after my personal hygiene, with assistance if needed, show up for meals and chosen activities, and slowly but surely become numbingly bored with living. No one depends on me for anything. Yes, I’m there because I can no longer care for myself. I am physically and/or mentally diminished. My family cannot provide a place for me, or maybe they tried but my care became too overwhelming for them. But I’m not dead. I am a member of the human race and I am now a member of a new community. This community provides for my physical needs and most do try to provide a certain amount of mental stimulation. Family or friends visit occasionally and I’m glad they do. Sometimes I forget they came but I always enjoy the break in monotony they provide, the reminder that they still remember me. Otherwise one day is much like the next.

So, what’s wrong with our homes for the elderly? Activities and entertainment are great, but still there’s something missing. What do residents need that is lacking? I think people need to be needed. They need something to be proud of, chores to do. In our senior homes no one expects us to do anything. No one depends on us for anything. Caregivers do everything we used to do. We have no responsibilities, no resultant respect. Our dignity takes a huge hit.

Elder homes are communities of people who are bound by diminished physical and/or mental capacity. They may be wheelchair bound. They may need a lot of help in a lot of ways. But there must be something that they can do to  benefit their community. These things may be simple. These things could probably be done faster and better by staff. Staff may need to remind, to assist (and sometimes surreptitiously do over). But it is my feeling that the main job of staff in a care home is to assist while maintaining dignity. If dignity means less efficiency here and there, then less efficiency is better.

If homes for the elderly were more like communes, with each and every person taking some small responsibility (assisted if necessary) to maintain the home, I think seniors would feel less discarded. Dignity would be restored because they are needed, engaged. Residents should be expected to perform their duties or find someone to take over if they cannot. Maybe this seems contrived. Maybe some seniors would resent the whole idea. I guess they could opt out. But over time I have a feeling many would prefer to participate as active, rather than passive, community members.

I’m sure those who spend their days in the care of the elderly, while keeping in mind their residents’ differing levels of ability and temperaments, could ferret out many chores seniors could accomplish in their specific situations. Dignity and respect are always of the utmost importance. Until we hit that vegetable stage (and I have my opinions about that too), I think we crave responsibility as well. 

Maybe a job done less perfectly by someone 

who needs to be needed is a job better done.

         Here’s a bit of an idea list of simple jobs that could be done by seniors of differing abilities. Job “ownership” could be avoided by switching monthly. Every community will have different possibilities. 

Community:

Fold napkins

Put napkins out on the tables before a meal 

Put cutlery on the tables

Wipe down tables after meals

There’s a tech savvy generation of us coming up. We could use these or skills to make daily activity lists and post them 

Make posters for upcoming events

Introduce speakers and entertainers

Deliver packaged snacks after an activity

Brush the house dog (There needs to be a house dog - usually belonging to a staff member who takes him home at night.)

Distribute and tidy magazines in common areas

Bake cookies (under supervision, can be a group effort), offer to residents

Choose music style or TV series for common area

Make table centrepieces (holidays especially)

Circulate birthday and/or get well cards for signing by residents

Have a raised bed garden which also provides a pleasant place to walk, stroll or wheel around. Those who can and want to can weed, tend, and water. The produce could be enjoyed by residents or given to shelters.

Tend specified indoor plant(s) in common areas

Self:

Tidy and clean bathroom vanity, wash sink

Make bed

Fold laundry, put laundry away

Taxes

Taxes

Tax his land, tax his bed,

Tax the table at which he's fed.

Tax his tractor, tax his mule,

Teach him taxes are the rule.

Tax his cow, tax his goat,

Tax his pants, tax his coat.

Tax his ties, tax his shirt,

Tax his work, tax his dirt.

Tax his tobacco, tax his drink,

Tax him if he tries to think.

Tax his cigars, tax his beers,

If he cries, then tax his tears.

Tax his car, tax his gas,

Find other ways to tax his a**!

Tax all he has then let him know 

You won't be done till he has no dough. 

When he hollers, then tax him more, 

Tax him till he's good and sore. 

Then tax his coffin, tax his grave, 

Tax the sod in which he's laid. 

Put these words upon his tomb, 

"Taxes drove me to my doom..."

When he's gone, do not relax, 

Its time to apply inheritance tax."

An apt comment on life at this time of year, 

Passed forward from John Glawson  

“Old Ugly” (Southern Alberta comedian).

I recommend liking and following John, 

he tells great stories.

                  

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.”

***********************************************

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.

Baggies, Bottles, and Boxes

       We are pretty vocal these days about two plastic products that MUST GO! We  herald stores and countries for their decision to ban plastic bags and we faithfully bring our cloth grocery bags with us to the grocery store (and, if you’re like me, forget them in the car). Some of us carry stainless steel or glass water bottles. We campaign and sign petitions on FaceBook, tweet our disdain for mega companies sucking up our aquifers to sell us plastic bottles of a product that should be a human right. We make a good attempt to recycle even though we all wonder if our carefully sorted stuff doesn't end up in a landfill somewhere anyhow. These campaigns and practices are all worthy, a start in the right direction…BUT…

I’m quite sure I’m not the only person who has noticed, plastic packaging is on the rise. It’s everywhere - fruits and vegetables, baked goods, individual packets for lunches, vitamins, batteries, coffee pods, beer carriers, tools, toys - the list is endless. Heavens, just try to get some toys out of their moulded nightmarish packages! And under that poured on covering -  teeny weeny plastic high heeled shoes, purses, dresses, action figures, capes, tiny guns. If I didn’t have a scissors or a knife there are many items that would remain in their packages forever.

We aren’t going to get rid of plastic anytime soon. It’s a good product and has innumerable uses in industry, construction, electronics. Just have a look around your house or office, even your patio.  - it's pretty much everywhere! Packaging though, that's another thing. There are other ways to package things, or not package them in the first place.

We have made a start. Bottles and bags are a beginning. I’m thinking our easy acceptance (forced really, there’s no alternatives in many cases) of plastic packaging may be the next “not really necessary”  plastic use to address on social media and in the marketplace. If stores had to take back their plastic packaging I suspect we’d see less of it. There are some zero packaging stores now. We need more. The need for convenience, for consumer and/or distributor, can be overcome by conscience.

-30, and Dropping

I wrote this story well over 20 years ago, came across it while cleaning up (downsizing). It is a work of fiction but, having spent many years as a sheep rancher in our erratic northern Alberta climate, it is grounded in reality. Today we are experiencing our fourth less than -30C cold snap. It’s expected to jump to +4 tomorrow, only to drop back down the day after. 

-30, and Dropping

By ML Tipton

Shelly stood, splitting maul held high over her head, about to drop it on a stubborn piece of pine, when she heard a worried “maaa, maaa” coming from the sheep feeding area north of the barn. “My God,” she thought, “it can’t be, not now, it’s far too early! The lambs aren’t supposed to come for another month!” But again she heard the high pitched “maaa”, so distinctive from the deeper toned “baaa” of the older sheep. After years of lambing she was in tune with that tiny plaintive sound. Like the cry of a baby, it pierced her consciousness even while she slept. It was a lamb alright, a month early, -30, and dropping.

Shelly abandoned the wood pile and headed at a fast clip around the end of the barn. There he stood, mom nowhere in sight, crying for food, for comfort, for warmth. The moment she picked him up, however, mom showed herself, coming to claim and protect her baby. A speedy look around and she found the lamb’s twin, dead and frozen, in the hay nearby. Shelly quickly carried the live lamb to the barn with the ewe following, holding him near her hip, his hind end near the ewe’s nose so she could easily identify his smell. Leaving the ewe captive inside, she rushed the lamb to the house to inspect him more carefully and warm him up. But it was too late. His ears and both hind legs were frozen solid. A familiar sadness came over her. It was no use. She would have to let him die or shoot him. After choosing the second alternative, she went back to her wood splitting task. “At least someone can be warm in this Godawful weather,” she mused.

January had ushered in the heaviest snowfall on record, over 80cm, and now February was breaking records for extreme cold. The farm calendar said lambs were coming in mid March. “What happened,” she thought, “I don’t remember the ram ever getting out!” But tossing theories around did not alter the fact that the ewe had lambed, whether she was supposed to or not. Since the lambs appeared to be full term, an immediate adjustment to management needed to be made if the next lambs were to live. Shelly set to work trying to find panels to make 4’ X 4’ claiming pens for the ewes and their lambs. Finding only two Shelly thought, “Well, Roland will be home tomorrow. Maybe he can slap a few together.”

Shelly’s husband, Roland, worked off farm, canting at a sawmill in the bush. A camp job, he only came home on weekends. They’d hoped to avoid working out this year but unexpected breakdowns and repairs took a toll on their small earnings. The dollars just wouldn’t stretch the distance. When Roland returned to the farm from the bush he was tired and grumpy. He only wanted to rest, enjoy the warmth of the fire, watch TV. Coming home to catastrophes, unexpected work or unforeseen expenses quickly pushed him into a dark mood. The simplest statement could spark a futile argument.

The weekend passed with no new lambs coming. Roland found the time to make four more claiming pens. Shelly went to town for veterinary supplies. Tempers were short fused, the cold weather continued to sit heavily on the land, and Shelly and Roland hardly said good-bye when he headed back to the bush. Shelly checked the flock frequently. At night the ewes burrowed deep into the straw in the barn, their breath rising like smoke from a chimney in the frigid air. She moved the beam of her flashlight slowly through the flock but saw no sign of new life. The ewes’ eyes glowed green as they turned their heads towards the bobbing light, but they were no longer startled into motion by its nightly intrusion.

At dawn on the 12th day after the arrival of the first lambs, Shelly spied a shivering wet lamb standing in the midst of the ewes, its mother not apparent. Moving closer to the lamb her worst fears were realized - against the west barn wall were two dead lambs. “Triplets, what a terrible loss!” she thought. “But at least this one seems okay.” She wove her way through the sheep to the live lamb and its mother came instantly to his side. Armed with livestock marking spray, she quickly applied a big green stripe on the ewe’s back. Now to get the lamb warm, quick.

She submerged the lamb in warm water in the kitchen sink, towel dried him and lay him by the kitchen fire. His ears were frozen but his legs were good. She went back outside to put the green striped ewe in a pen, and when her baby was dry they were happily reunited. The remainder of the day was uneventful, but on her 10:00 pm rounds worry set in. Doing her usual check for hypothermia, she discovered that the new lamb’s mouth was cooler than it should be. Should she take it in? Echoes of the past rang in her ears, taking lambs in and out of the cold can cause problems, the temperature difference is stressful for them. Their moms sometimes rejected them. Still… “I’ll take it in,” she decided, popping the lamb outside the pen. But the lamb appeared strong, his mother called and he called back. “No,” she thought, “he’ll probably be okay,” and back in with mom he went. The next morning at 6:00 am Shelly moved cautiously through the dozing sheep to the lamb pens. The new lamb was a hidden deeply within the straw. “Good,” she thought, “what a smart mom to cover him like that.” But he was awfully still and when she climbed into the pen to check him out she found he was dead. A string of expletives exploded in her brain. “Damn, damn, damn!” Shelly muttered to herself. “Another one! When will this weather break? This is impossible! What am I to do?….Sleep out here?”

Two live, healthy lambs and one disaster later, Roland returned home for the weekend. On Sunday the sun finally began to eat away at the cold, the icy north winds at last subsided, and the thermometer registered a balmy -5. Both Roland’s and Shelly’s mood mellowed with the weather. Leaning against the fence, soaking up rays of delicious warmth, they shared the joy of the birth of healthy twins, casting aside the gloom of past weeks.  “Sure hope this was the last cold snap,” said Roland as they stood watching the lambs seek their mother’s milk supply. “I don’t think I could stand another one this winter, do you?”

To Shelly’s pleasure, the thermometer continued to hover 5 degrees above or below freezing. It was as if the full moon joined hands with the cold, taking it away as it waned. The lambs came more frequently now and losses were few. The earth and its inhabitants breathed a sigh of relief. Break-up was in the air, water dropped from the eaves, and, as always, winter at last gave way to spring.

Time for Change

I’ve come to realize that the “Me Too” movement is just the tip of the iceberg. “Me Too” speaks of sexual harassment, actual rape, unwanted touches, threats of consequences “if you don’t comply”, and inappropriate sexually tainted language. But I’m thinking if we included uncomfortable social situations in which women feel pressured to look the other way, pretend they don’t hear or understand innuendoes, quickly remove themselves before things get out of control… well there’d be an even louder cacophony of sound arising around the world. Then, lets just add those times in which men exercise “male privilege”, not just in the work place but in the home as well, those times when women are simply told to hold their tongues, when they are told their opinions are stupid, unwanted, un-needed. Those times when the cornered man, even though he may recognize that he’s in a weak position, simply “puts his foot down” and gets away with it. Well, it is time for an attitude change.

In thousands of little ways, women unknowingly perpetuate the privilege that men have become accustomed to expect. We love them. They work hard. We make our homes a sanctuary from the world, a cozy, comfy place to be at ease. We do everything we can to make their lives a little less difficult. We willingly become their unpaid servants showering them with countless, largely unnoticed, entitlements.

This subservient role may be more prevalent in women of older generations. Economic and educational levels may also effect male/female relationships. Nevertheless our society is patriarchal. Our social organization is marked by the supremacy of the father in the family, the legal dependence of wives and children, and the reckoning of descent and inheritance in the male line. It is controlled by men who have a disproportionately large share of power. Nearly every society on earth falls under this category! For centuries women have struggled to get an equal piece of the pie, but those in power, especially when threatened, cling to their status like an apple to its peel.

Most of the women I know would be happy if their contributions, along with those of men, were simply recognized and respected. They’d be happy if their ideas and observations were considered to be as valuable as those of men, providing a different, not worthless, perspective. It would be genuinely wonderful if our society did not equate worth with the ability to earn money, leaving women who do not earn (and for the most part cannot earn equally) in a subservient role. Can we not have respect for one another, respect our differences, our accomplishments, our strengths? Is there any reason, beyond the application of power, protection of status, for men to immediately disparage ideas, thoughts, or plans that are brought forward by a woman?  And, if a woman happens to have more to contribute, shouldn’t she be able to do so, without being told she is acting like a man? 

In many respects, men do not have it all that good. “Me Too” has almost become a witch hunt. They are being called on the carpet for words, not just actions, some of which may simply be flirtations, ground testing a woman's interest. And it needs to be said, women can make it very difficult for men to ignore their sexual attributes. I can't help but notice the half bare breasts and plunging “necklines” of some of the Hollywood women crying “Me Too”. Nevertheless, the “behavioral norms” of the past are no longer acceptable. It is definitely time for change.

Winter Wonderland