Taking the Time to Find the Right Time

Late one Friday afternoon, I had to say my final goodbyes to Debbie and Gary when they moved the last of Harold’s belongings from the apartment. Gary was Harold’s father, and Debbie Harold’s daughter-in-law. Harold had lived at our community for 6 months and had passed away earlier in the week while under the care of Hospice. It was not unusual for me to become close to a resident’s family, and I was saddened to realize that, despite our connection, our paths would probably never cross again. 

Prior to his death, Harold, spent weeks in a rehab center receiving intense physical therapy, struggling to regain his strength, hoping to return to his own home. His therapist determined he had reached his maximum physical capacity; his doctor told him that his health would not improve. They concluded that it would be dangerous for him to live alone. Therefore, his dream of returning home was no longer a viable option.

Son Gary lived in New York; his father Harold lived in South Florida. Harold’s moving to New York to live with Gary and his wife was not an option. New York weather would not be Harold’s friend. To complicate things further, Harold lived with a “significant other” that he was not willing to leave behind. Gary had to make other arrangements quickly, because the 90 days of facility care covered by Medicare were coming to an end. Harold’s discharge day from Rehab was pending.

Gary found our community on one of the senior housing search engines on the Internet, and came to us distraught. He was frustrated, anxious, and desperate for a solution although he felt “putting” his dad in a facility was an intolerable remedy. He, like his dad, equated an Assisted Living Facility with a nursing home, envisioning lonely hospital beds, sterile rooms, and bedridden patients. 

As I gave them a tour, I could feel Gary slowly relaxing. I showed him the carpeted dining room with linen tablecloths, the huge circular living room with a large 3D TV, the cozy conversational settings, and the pristine care station where nurses and aids were busy interacting with our residents.  In one of the alcoves, we saw a group of residents contentedly playing dominoes, and fortuitously, in another, we saw one of our Jewish Volunteers leading a chorus of traditional Hebrew songs with some of our large population of Jewish residents. When I explained to Gary that sharing Yiddish folksongs was a regular Friday event, he smiled for the first time. “Dad would enjoy that,” he said softly. “He’s Jewish.”

Time was running out quickly for Harold. Gary and Debbie worked quickly to obtain the necessary paperwork and prepare for the move-in.  Once the furniture was delivered, Gary and Debbie were fastidious in decorating Harold’s new apartment with familiar pictures, a large king sized bed, and a stately antique dresser.  Debbie hung curtains over the generic blinds, and Gary installed a big screen TV.

I wish I could say, “it was love at first sight,” when Harold saw his new home, but that wasn’t the case.  Initially, Harold hated everything; he disliked the community, his room was too small, the food was tasteless, and for several days he resented his girlfriend.  Determined to make him happy, my team of caring professionals befriended him, the care staff overlooked his angry outbursts, and his friend, Roberta, remained loyal as we slowly worked to crumble Harold’s hard wall of anger.

Although he remained essentially a loner, he gradually began to smile.  He occasionally appeared in the common living room, and often joined the Jewish sing-along.  His “significant other” Roberta visited frequently, sometimes spending the night, and she became as much a member of our family as he was. I knew we had succeeded with Harold about two months into his stay. I was circling the dining room sharing my daily breakfast conversations with our residents.  When I reached his table to speak to him, he secretly confided in me, that he was content and glad to be with us. I thanked him, pleased, but suspected, if anyone else questioned him that he would deny it.

Four months later, I was standing nearby as Debbie was putting the last of Harold’s things into the van following his death. Debbie and I reminisced about her experiences with her father-in-law.  She enumerated for me the difficulties of caring for an aging parent, and the decisions, not always pleasant, that an adult child is forced to make. She thanked me, “We didn’t know what to do. Your guidance was invaluable.” 

Then as she turned to leave, giving me one long last hug, she smiled. “I have only one regret.” I looked at her questioningly. “I regret that he didn’t come here sooner.” I watched her car, lost in thought, as she slowly drove away.