Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (10 page)

Over the course of the next four days, I tried to nail Chet down to make a date for my “inspection tour” of Assisted Living.

If I was making a nuisance of myself, it wasn’t for my lack of trying. My job wasn’t easy since he had two offices. One was in Assisted Living where he was Assistant Administrator. The other in Independent Living where he was the Resident Relations guru.

A year ago, when he had come to our apartment to welcome us, he assured me the “the door to my office is always open.” He was right about that. The door to his Resident Relations office
was
always open, but usually with a clock-face sign that needed winding. The hands never moved. Anyone who took the instruction to “Come in and have a seat,” could develop pressure sores on their buttocks.

I’d read enough detective stories to know how a stake-out works. The usual technique involves a surveillance vehicle, a fake laundry truck with tinted windows, and wearing an indwelling catheter. But since we were indoors, I improvised using a method I believe Raymond Chandler devised: Leaning against a lamppost, in this case the wall outside Chet’s office, reading a newspaper. Upside down.

It worked.

Although he only spent a nanosecond in his office, I grabbed him trying to escape and sat him down in front of his calendar. It took only a couple of swats with a rubber hose for him to give me a date and time.

As I had found out before, it was easier going through airport security than getting into Assisted Living. But now I was in as the representative of a prestigious committee.

Accordingly, when Fredricka admitted me, she actually cracked a smile. On the elevator to the Assisted Living floor, we even made small talk. “Is it warm outside?” “Nice shirt you’ve got on.” Like that. I’d obviously misjudged her.

When we arrived at the Assisted Living floor she swept her hand around. “What would you like to see?”

“Can I see the residents?”

“Of course.”

Huh?

She knocked on the door to the first apartment we came to. A cheery, “Come in.” was the response. An attractive silver-haired woman wearing a robe was seated at the small table in the living room/bedroom filing her nails. She smiled. Hi, I’m Jean.”

I introduced myself, told her I was a member of the Health Services Committee. “I’m making rounds to see if everything is satisfactory.”

“I
love
this place. The food is good, the personnel are very helpful. I couldn’t be happier.”

I stuttered a few words, not being able to believe my ears. “Well, thank you for allowing me to visit.”

“You’re welcome.”

I turned to go. Fredricka was behind me. She gave Jean a finger wave and said, “Shall we go to the next apartment, it’s across the hall?”

Still in a daze, I followed her. In the apartment a couple, fully dressed, were playing cards.

After I introduced myself, the man said, “Hi, I’m Bob.”

His wife—I assumed she was his wife—said, “Hi, I’m Angie.”

I gave them my “any complaints?” spiel.

Bob said. “No. The food is good, the personnel are very helpful.”

They appeared to be in good health, although Angie was thin and her complexion sallow.

I thanked them for allowing me to visit.

Bob said, “You’re welcome.”

Outside the apartment, Fredricka said, “Angie has some sort of blood condition. Bob can’t give her all the assistance she needs. That’s why they’re in Assisted Living”

We zigzagged down the corridor. At each apartment I got similar responses. They were pleased with the service, food and personnel.

I didn’t visit all the apartments. At four of them, Fredricka peeked in, put her finger to her lips and whispered, “They’re asleep.”

The Rogers and Todds were out of their apartments. Larry and Christine Rogers were in physical therapy, and the Todds were involved in an activity in the Memory Section on another floor. I was disappointed in not being able to see them. They were really the only Assisted Living residents I knew. The others, Fredricka told me, had moved here before the Rogers or the Todds.

As we walked back to the elevator, Chet came out of the Administrator’s office.

“Well, did you unearth any problems?”

I shook my head. “No. Everyone is happy.”

He chuckled, polite enough to avoid the “I told you so.”

I was confused. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but my concerns about the place were unfounded.

Back in my apartment, I picked up a book I’d been reading, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the pages. Something gnawed at my brain. How could I have been so wrong about the Assisted Living facility? These residents were pleased, and offered no complaints.

I guess I had been turned off by what I perceived as a reluctance on the part of both Chet and Fredricka to allow me access to the floor. In addition, Fredricka hadn’t been the friendliest person on the planet during my first few visits. In retrospect, were those reasons to find fault with the facility? Certainly, during my “inspection tour” she couldn’t have been more affable. The problem, as I suspected, is me and my hypersensitivity.

A memo in my in-house mailbox read:

To: Independent Living Residents.

From: Kurt Berman, Administrator.

Since many of you have expressed an interest in the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living, we have arranged an Open House tour of the building on Tuesday, May 10 starting at 3 PM

All residents are welcome, but because space is limited, we can accommodate only the first 50 who sign up.
Tours
in groups of ten will be conducted by our staff. At the conclusion of the tour, light refreshments will be served in the Care Center Dining Room.

Sign up sheets will be available tomorrow in the Resident Relations Office

Any doubts I’d had about goings-on in the Assisted Living facility were now dispelled.

Although I’d seen the facility before, I was anxious to see it again. Maybe I’d missed something.

Who am I kidding? The back of my mind still harbored a morsel of suspicion. I was unable to shake it loose.

I signed up Harriet and myself. Although I thought we’d be among the first, there were already thirty-five names on the sheet. By three in the afternoon, all fifty places had been filled.

The day before the scheduled tour, a notice in my box informed me that tour groups were staggered in ten-minute intervals. Harriet and I were in the third group, so we were to meet with our tour leader at the
Care
Center
entrance at 3:30.

The notice laid down the ground rules for our visit.:

 
Stay with your guide

You will be shown one of the vacant apartments in Assisted Living which has been furnished as a model apartment.

Two of the Assisted Living residents have graciously opened their apartment for inspection.

Please respect the privacy of the other residents whose doors are closed.

Enjoy your visit!
 

On the appointed day and time, we and eight other residents from Independent Living met at the top of the ramp leading to the
Care
Center
building,

We were met by a guy who looked like a pro-bowl linebacker. His blond hair was pulled back in a short pony tail. He wore slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. His torso and arm muscles made the seams of his shirt bulge. Broad shouldered and narrow-waisted, he could have been a candidate for Mr.
America
, or a double for
Arnold Schwarzenegger
He said, “Hello everybody. My name is Steve. I’ll be your guide for this tour. You have all read the instructions, no?”

We nodded.

“Good. We will start in the
Care
Center
and then go to the Assisted Living section. Any questions before we start?”

No questions.

Steve opened the door to the
Care
Center
and ushered us in.

While we walked down the corridor, I tagged behind so I could have a word with Steve. “Are you part of the staff?”

“Yes. I’m an aide. I spend part of my time here in the
Care
Center
, but mostly I help in Assisted Living.”

The two or three times I had been in Assisted Living, I hadn’t seen Steve. But then, I hadn’t spent much time there. Fredricka had seen to it that my visits were not prolonged.

Harriet pointed to one of the rooms we passed. . She whispered, “Isn’t that the room I was in?”

“I don’t remember. They all look alike to me.”

Steve stopped us in front of the nurses’ station and we formed a circle around him. “As you can see, the layout is like a hospital floor. In the wings on each side are the patients’ rooms.

Someone asked, “Private or semi-private?”

“Both.”

He went on to elaborate, explaining that our contract entitled us to a semi-private room, but for an additional fee we could have a private room. I’d heard most of this from our marketing person before we moved in.

Harriet stifled a yawn.

Steve showed us a vacant room, pointing out the amenities.

While he was explaining the nurses’ duties and the workings of a hospital floor, showing where medications and dressings were kept, another group of ten residents, led by Chet as their guide, passed behind us. They had apparently finished their visit in the
Care
Center
and were headed for the next leg of their tour.

Steve answered a few questions from members of our group, then said, “We’ll now visit the Assisted Living floor.”

Yeah. This was what I’d signed up for.

The elevator let us off at the next floor. Now I was in familiar territory.

Steve described the layout, similar to the
Care
Center
without the nurses’ station.

Someone asked, “Is there someone on call all the time?”

Steve nodded. “Twenty-four/seven.”

Someone else said, “I can see why someone would be needed in the
Care
Center
. They’re all sick or recovering from a sickness or injury. But these people in Assisted Living aren’t sick. Isn’t it a waste of manpower? After all, we’re paying their salaries out of our monthly fees.”

Steve scratched his chin. “You’re right. During the day a staff person is always on the floor. But after we tuck them in at night, a nurse and an aide in the
Care
Center
downstairs monitor any calls from Assisted Living residents.”

“Has that happened often?”

Steve grinned. “Twice in the year-and-a-half I’ve been here. Any more questions? No? Let’s move on.”

He stopped in front of one of the apartments. The door was open.

Steve said, “This is one of the model apartments.”

I had already seen the features, and remained at the door while Steve pointed them out. I glanced across the hall. The name plate next to the door read, “Gladys Andrews.”

 
Gladys was in Assisted Living? We’d had dinner with her many times. She was fun to be with. Always had a good joke. Some would make a sailor blush. We’d seen her less than a week ago so she must have been a recent arrival on the Assisted Living floor. No great surprise. Gladys was quite severely crippled with arthritis. With her gnarled fingers, she could barely hold her knife and fork, or button her clothes. Her knees gave her so much pain, she couldn’t walk more than a dozen yards even with a walker. Since she was a widow, I often wondered how she was able to get along alone in her Independent Living apartment.

While the rest of my group was looking around the model apartment, I thought about saying hello to Gladys. But I remembered Steve’s admonition about not disturbing any of the occupants except those who offered to show their apartments. I’d visit Gladys another time.

Our next stop on the tour was at an occupied apartment. Since it would have been too crowded if we went in as a group, we looked in from the doorway, one at a time. The occupant was a woman, Jean, who I had seen on my inspection tour as a member of the Health Services Committee. She was seated at a small table, wearing, as before, a long robe. And, as before, filing her nails.

I said, “Hello Jean.”

She smiled and, not surprisingly, didn’t appear to remember me. She said, “Hi. I’m Jean.”

“How is everything?”

“I
love
this place. The food is good, the personnel are very helpful. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Glad to hear it.” I almost added “again.”

I moved on to let the next person have a look.

When Steve showed us the activities room, I shuddered thinking about the close call I’d had when I sneaked in through the “hidden door.”

We had come to the end of the tour. Steve took us back down to the
Care
Center
floor. There, in the dining room, were refreshments: wine and small cakes.

Two other groups were already in the room along with their guides. One was a strapping guy about thirty who could have been Steve’s brother. His name tag read Ernie.

I said, “Are you on the staff here?”

“Yes, I’m an aide in Assisted Living.”

“You work with Steve?”

He nodded.

I said, “You look enough like Steve to be his brother. Are you?”

He laughed. “We’re cousins.”

“Are there any other aides in Assisted Living?”

“No.” He chuckled and flexed his biceps. “Do you think we need anyone else?”

The other tour guide was Chet. I cornered him.

“Chet, I noticed that Gladys Andrews is on the Assisted Living floor. When did she move in?”

“Yesterday. Do you know her?”

“Yes, Harriet and I have spent some time with her. As long as I’m here, can I run up there and say hello?”

Chet chewed on one of the small cakes. “I don’t see why not.”

It was so easy, I thought he may have misunderstood me, but I wasn’t going to wait for him to reneg.

I eased out of the room and headed for the elevator. Any minute, I expected to feel an arm on my shoulder pulling me back.

The elevator took me up to the Assisted Living floor, and so far it had been clear sailing. No one was in sight so I sauntered down the corridor. I knocked at Gladys’ door.

“Come in.”

Gladys was seated at a small table. She greeted me with a warm smile. “I’m so glad to see you, Henry. Actually, I ‘m glad to see anybody.”

“Even me.”

She laughed. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. You and Harriet are my favorite people.”

I gazed around. All her belongings had been put away. She followed my gaze. “The staff was a big help in my move.”

“That was yesterday?”

“Uh-huh. I’d been thinking about moving here for quite a while. It’s been so hard doing even simple things by myself. Here I just have to press this button. It’s connected to an intercom somewhere. I tell the voice on the other end what I need and, presto someone is at my door.

“Who comes?”

“An aide, Ernie. If it’s something like helping me dress or bathe, a woman comes. I think her name is Francine.”

“Fredricka?”

“That’s it. A big gal. She’s been very helpful.”

“Efficient but a little officious?”

Gladys smiled. “She
is
a little brusque. But I suppose it comes with dealing with us old cripples. ”

Fredricka was still the dear person who considered everyone her enemy. Except for the one time I had visited on my Health Services inspection rounds, she was her usual grumpy self.

I asked Gladys if there was anything she needed.

“No thanks. “

“Well, I’ll be back to see you soon, and Harriet will too.”

On my way out I glanced inside the bathroom. On the sink was a bottle of tablets. “I see you’re taking some medicine.”

“Yes. One of the aides brought it for me. He said it was for my arthritis.”

My curiosity as an ex-pharmaceutical executive took over. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Be my guest.”

I shook out one of the tablets. Its color and shape was identical to one of the products we had distributed. Sopforex. The most powerful sleep medicine on the market. It was mostly used for heavy sedation when a procedure required something just short of a general anesthetic.

“This is for your arthritis?”

“That’s what Ernie, the aide who brought it, said. Is it something you’re familiar with?”

I hesitated. Maybe it was something that looked like Sopforex, but was really for arthritis. “I’m not sure. Have you taken any?”