Title Varies Slightly

Found on the Abbey-Roads2 blog, a dystopic view of future nursing home life has me shuddering. But not for the reasons you might think.

Several years ago, I had complications following surgery, and, at the behest of my insurance company, had to spend several days in a nursing home.

The only available bed was in the Alzheimer’s wing. Note this: No matter what the supervising physicians and charge nurses know about your case, if you tell the everyday staff that your stay is only temporary, and you are assigned to the Alzheimer’s ward, that day-to-day staff will treat you like a lifer. I felt as if I had been transported to the famous psych experiment in which “normal” undergraduates got themselves committed to mental hospitals, then stopped fabricating symptoms, but STILL couldn’t get out. The other patients knew the subjects didn’t belong but the staff didn’t. (I’d love to put a link here but can’t find an online cite. I know it was a real study, however.
I wanted books. I wanted conversation. I wanted to see anyone with not-gray hair NOT in a uniform. Friends asked, “Is there anything you need?” I answered, “Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries please.” They thought I was joking. I wasn’t.

The night the kitchen caught fire, they didn’t evacuate. They closed us all into our rooms so they would know where to find us if they had to evacuate later. I had the immense good fortune to be closed into the TV room (my room was on the other side of the kitchen), so I got to watch the whole drama unfold through the plate glass.

I was bullied and bossed by teenage employees, received my medications on a wildly varying schedule, and sometimes would have been given someone else’s meds if I hadn’t been aware enough to know the difference. I was told, less than eight weeks after major orthopedic surgery, that I didn’t need pain medication, and that it was selfish of me to ask for it.

No one brought me the Eucharist. (And yes, I had called my parish and told them where I was.)

It was not a total nightmare. Fortunately, I like Big Band music, so the piped-in music was not a problem. I have to say, I don’t think the instrumental version of “Love to Love You, Baby” will be quite as palatable in 20 to 50 years!

I WAS released right on schedule; and I regularly pray that I will not have to end my life in similar straits. God’s will be done, but, let that cup pass!

Some people with disabilities who are far younger than retirement age cannot go home. Institutional placement with other residents more than 30 years older than they are. is simply the backdrop of their lives.

So I say to you: Save for retirement; investigate long-term care insurance; urge your representatives to increase home-care options for people who need extra help.

The (at-home) life you save may be your own.