We were friends at the first handshake. He had a formidable grip that matched the strength of mine, and his clear brown eyes never blinked; in those first 5 seconds of our first impression, I predicted he would soon be one of my new residents, and he knew he had found someone he could trust.
Max, a ninety year-old, frail, thin New Yorker, unable to walk, was still able to push himself into the building in a manual chair with the grace and strength of a high school athlete. Two charitable friends, who had previously befriended him by delivering his meals on wheels, referred him to us. They knew that because of his age and his physical challenges, it was no longer safe or healthy for him to live alone without supervision.
Max had a catheter that he emptied and cleaned himself, legs that barely supported his boney thin frame, and a quick wit, a clear mind, and a strong positive attitude. He was adamant about living independently, and I assured him that he would be on his own in this community. The only assistance we would provide would be housekeeping and three meals a day. I was able to offer him a private garden studio, with a small porch not far from the pool. He accepted immediately.
Max was an unusual but unusually likable resident. He was seemed gruff, but was, in fact, friendly. He spent hours on his computer in the library connected to our Wi-Fi, and when he was not surfing the net he raced his power scooter throughout the building and grounds like a NASCAR driver. “Slow down, Max,” I would scold. He pointedly ignored me and continued to roll at the same breakneck speed, his only deference apparent in his offering a sarcastic salute and a Cheshire grin.
His tablemates respected him despite his acutely controversial opinions. He found fellowship with Tom, another New Yorker; they would sit at the table, long after the meal was done, loudly debating whatever topic they could agree to disagree upon.
Three months ago Max toppled trying to get from his bed to his chair. He fell that dreaded, sometimes deadly, fall that accelerates the manifestations of old age. His recovery followed the “normal course”: First a surgery that compromised his mind somewhat, probably from the anesthetic, and then weeks of intense rehab that vainly attempted to force his 90 year body to regain the strength to lift, transfer, and ambulate. At ninety, few return to their former mobility, and Max was no different.
Max and I met with a social worker. We three agreed he could not return to independent living. He was a 90% fall risk, and had to be relocated to an assisted living facility. He had no money, but refused to accept Medicaid. He did not want charity. His choices were limited.
As the meeting ended, Max put his hand on my arm and his eyes grabbed mine with the same intensity as the day we met. “I would rather live alone with the chance that I would fall and die, than go somewhere where I am restricted and sharing space just to live a little longer.”
I held his gaze for a few seconds. “I know, Max; I know,” I answered regretfully. I squeezed his hand as I left the room.
I was thoughtful as I walked the long stretch of hallway to the front door. I thought about Max and his freedom to decide where and how he wanted to live. I was sadden by the knowledge that in today’s litigious environment, it was doubtful that he would be allowed to choose how he would spend the rest of his life.
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