Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (4 page)

One day, several weeks after we had moved into the Bowers, having nothing to do, I decided to see what the Assisted Living and
Care
Center
looked like. Although Harriet and I were in relatively good health, we never knew when the time might come when we would be unable to care for ourselves, or if we were to develop some condition requiring hospitalization and recuperation in the
Care
Center
.

When we were being shown around by Betty, our marketing person, I recalled passing what she identified as the entrance to the building that housed both facilities. I walked up the ramp and tried to open the door. Locked. I went to the concierge desk in our building and inquired how I could get in.

She said, “You have to make an appointment.”

“I don’t want to be admitted as a patient,” I said. “I just want to see what it looks like.”

“You still have to make an appointment.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Berman.”

“I thought his son was the administrator of the Care and Assisted Living centers.”

“That’s the Mr. Berman I was referring to,
Kurt
Berman.”

“How do I reach him?”

She gave me a phone number, and back in my apartment I made the call.

I told the woman who answered that I was a new resident of the Bowers and would like to see the facility.

“Do you want to visit a patient?”

I was growing irritated at the runaround. “Look, I might become a patient myself from all the aggravation I get from a simple request.” I spelled it out for her. “I. Just. Want. To. Look. It. Over. Is that so hard to understand?”

Pause. “Let me connect you to Mr. Berman.”

“
Kurt
Berman?”

“Yes.”

Finally. “Great! Put him on.”

“He’s not available at the moment. I’ll have him get back to you.”

I gave her my phone number. This was turning out to be a major project.

When I hadn’t heard from Berman by the following afternoon, I phoned the
Care
Center
. Kurt Berman was still unavailable. I told the woman who’d answered, “I want to make an appointment to see the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living facilities.”

“Are you an inspector from the State?”

Enough already. “Yes,” I lied. “Directly from the Governor’s Regulatory Commission.”

That got her attention. “Are you sure you have the right facility? We were inspected just a month ago, and we had zero deficiencies. Zero.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Your place was given the highest rating. You are one of three finalists for the CC Award. We are just making a final check for the judging.”

Sometimes my spontaneity scares even me.

“What is the CC Award?”

“You, know, The Charley. For Care Centers. The equivalent of the Oscars.”

“When would you like to come? Sometime next week?”

“No. Tomorrow. I’ll be flying in at 10 AM. Don’t bother sending someone to meet me at the airport. I’ll rent a car. And have the records ready.” Might as well go the whole hog. I slammed down the phone before she had a chance to make excuses as to why it was not possible.

Next morning I knocked at the door to the
Care
Center
Building
. No response. I banged harder. A moment later I heard a deadbolt click and the door cracked open. A woman’s face appeared in the opening. Fort Knox wasn’t guarded this well. She said, “Can I help you?”

“I believe you were expecting me.”

“The inspector?”

I nodded.

The door opened. The woman stood about six feet tall. Gray hair. Sharp features. She wore a blue smock and low heel men’s type shoes. Could have been a man in drag. “Can I see some ID?”

I had anticipated this and flashed open my wallet to show a piece of aluminum foil fashioned crudely into what I thought would pass as a shield. I had been tempted to etch “Chicken Inspector” into the shield. But wasn’t sure how closely it would be inspected. I snapped closed the wallet before she had a chance to get a closer look.

She said, “I’ll take you to Kurt—Mr. Berman’s office.”

I followed her through a long corridor, the connection between the
Care
Center
building and the one in which I lived. She stopped and turned. “Mr. Berman isn’t available, but his assistant will show you everything you want to see.”

She knocked on a door marked “Office.”

A voice said, “Come.”

She opened the door and spoke to someone out of my view. “The inspector is here.”

The voice said, “Show him in.”

She stepped aside and waved me in. Seated behind a desk was…

I turned my palms up. “Chet! What are you doing here?”

He appeared as surprised as I knew I looked. “Mr. Callins!”

I repeated. “What are you doing here?”

He flipped his hand. “This is my office.”

“I thought you were the Resident Relations guru.”

He nodded. “That too. “

“Do you also serve tables in the dining room?”

“Huh?”

“How many hats do you wear?”

“Here I’m Assistant Director of the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living floor.” He peered over my shoulder. “I was expecting someone.”

I raised a hand. “Here I am.”

“No. I mean someone else.”

I knew who he meant, but ignored it. “I’d like to look around.”

“Wel-l-l.”

I said, “Tell me something, Chet. Why is it so hard to get into this place?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, these are old folks.”

“What does that make me, a teenager?”

“I mean their immune systems are—are…”

“You’re afraid they’ll catch something from me?”

He shrugged. “They have to be protected.” He paused. “Incidentally, did you have an appointment?”

I happened to have in my pocket a receipt for my entrance fee. A very healthy sum. No one was going to catch anything from that. I showed it to him. “Here’s my appointment.”

He peered at it, then gazed up at me. “That’s not an appointment card.”

I stared at the receipt and feigned surprise. “You could have fooled me. Anyway, I’m here, so why don’t you show me around.”

“Did you just walk in off the street?”

“No, I rode in on my motorcycle. Sure I just walked in. What’s the problem?”

He shook his head. “No problem. Let me call Freddie back.”

“Freddie?”

“Fredricka. She’s the one who escorted you here. She’ll show you around.”

“Thanks. I won’t breathe. Wouldn’t want to spread disease. And tell me, where’s this mythical Kurt Berman person.”

He laughed. “Kurt’s got a million things to do. You’ll get to meet him.”

Sure. When birds shit dollar bills.

Fredricka led me to the floor where patients requiring skilled nursing care, dressing changes, etc. were housed. In the center was a nurse’s station, and radiating from it were two corridors of rooms. The floor was L-shaped with the nurse’s station at the bend.

I peeked into one of the rooms. It contained two beds, both of which were occupied. I said, “Are all the rooms semi-private?”

Fredricka said, “No. About one-third of the rooms are private.”

“Do I or my wife qualify for a private room? Is it included in our entrance fee?”

“I don’t know how your contract reads, but in general there is a small charge for a private room.”

Nothing in the Bowers was “small.” Except maybe the microscopic print in my contract. Which I gave up trying to read but would try again.

The
Care
Center
ward was clean and airy. Absent was the odor of urine and other bodily secretions that pervaded some nursing homes where I had visited friends or relatives.

A few patients were in wheelchairs in the corridors. Three or four nurses were scurrying from room to room distributing food trays.

Fredricka said, “Its lunch time.”

There was a small glassed-in dining room opposite the nurse’s station, and several patients were wheeled in to eat at a table instead of in their rooms. This made sense. It relieved the nurses of having to individually serve food to those patients who were not bed-bound. It also provided the patients who were able to leave their beds, the ability to enjoy the sociability of dining with other people.

All-in-all I was impressed by the cleanliness and efficiency with which the floor was run.

Fredricka glanced at her watch. “Seen enough?”

“Yeah. Very nice. But I’m glad I don’t have to be a patient here yet. Are we going to see the Assisted Living floor?”

“That’s on the floor above this one.”

That wasn’t the answer to my question. I waited.

Freddie gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Maybe she could see through it to the floor above. Finally, “Let me check something.”

She disappeared into an office and I heard her talking, probably on the phone. When she returned, she said, “It’s lunch time. The residents in Assisted Living are eating. We’ll have to do it another time.”

I didn’t know what their lunch had to do with my having a look at the facility.

She repeated, “Another time.”

“I promise not steal any food from their trays.”

She gave me a hard stare. “We. Will. Have. To. Do. That. Another. Time.”

I wasn’t about to tangle with this Amazon, so I meekly said, “Now that you’ve ‘splained it…”

She led me to the door of the building that housed Independent Living, the door I had banged on for entry. She threw a deadbolt and practically pushed me out. Click went the deadbolt.

“Thanks for the guided tour,” I shouted at the closed door.

Jesus. Where had I gone wrong?

Her reluctance to have me see the Assisted Living floor made me all the more curious. I was determined to find out what the mystery was all about. I’d make an appointment to see it, or break in, whichever came first.

Each day a schedule of the day’s events was posted in the elevator. Placed in our mailboxes was a similar list of all the planned activities for the week.

The list included a talk almost every weekday afternoon. It was given by individuals, many of whom were faculty members of the University. A variety of subjects were covered: politics, history, astronomy, jazz, and medical subjects of particular interest to us seniors.

The first one I attended was an unbiased discussion of candidates in the coming election. The speaker, a retired professor of political science, presented an informative and erudite analysis of each candidate’s qualifications, in language any of us could understand.

At the conclusion of his talk, he asked if there were any questions. Most of the questions were intelligent, until a woman I recognized from the Residents Association meeting got up and asked, “When are our windows going to be washed?”

There was a groan from the audience and someone shouted, “Sit down Mary!”

I could picture Mary’s apartment, windows coated in street dirt.

Mary kept standing with her hands on her hips in a defiant pose.

The speaker handled it well, I thought. He said, “I do windows on Thursdays.”

Over the next few weeks, I attended a number of these talks. I learned how to get up from a fall, how to treat Alzheimer’s (there is no worthwhile treatment,) details of George Gershwin’s life, where to look in the sky for Venus, how to avoid scams, and so much useful information, I was overloaded.

Harriet usually came along with me, but her attention span was becoming shorter and shorter. Usually I had to poke her to quiet her loud snores. And that was five minutes into the talk. After each lecture she’d say, “That was very interesting. What did he say?”

The other constant was Mary’s question, regardless of the speaker’s subject, “When are our windows…?”

Although I’m sure Mary had valid concern for her opaque windows, I think I’d prefer to hear Harriet’s snores.

Every Monday, as an alternative to going to the dining room, a buffet dinner was served in the auditorium where residents could eat and watch Monday Night Football on a large TV screen.

The concept was great, and I was thrilled at the prospect of munching on a hot dog or
Buffalo
wing while joining my fellow sport fans in cheering our favorite team. I was even tempted to wear my old Red Grange uniform shirt and paint my face in my favorite team’s colors. But thought I’d wait to see how the other residents reacted, to avoid offending those who were rooting for the other team.

I was told that to make things even more interesting, two of the residents acting as bookies, would take bets on the combined teams’ scores at half time and at the end of the game. Although the accepted wager strained my budget (one dollar,) I succumbed to temptation and got ready to plunk down my buck. I picked a number out of the air for the score. Actually, the “air” was the date of Harriet’s and mine anniversary. No way could I lose, right. But even in the unlikely event that I’d lose, I’d still welcome the camaraderie of my fellow residents.

I hurried down, “Ready for Monday Night Football!” I worried that there might not be enough seats for all of us fans. Also, fearful that the loud cheering would assault my ears, I removed my hearing aids.

 
I entered the auditorium to see two long tables facing the TV screen—blank since the game had not started. A handful of faithfuls sat at the tables quietly chewing on barbequed ribs. I was surprised at the number of women; most of whom I would never have suspected were football fans, especially since several had macular degeneration and always were accompanied by caregivers as their “seeing eye dogs.”

What really amazed me was seeing Mr. and Mrs. Young. I remembered them as our dinner partners our first night. One slept through the meal and the other would not have been able to hear a fog horn blowing directly in her ear. Here, they sat, with what I first thought were pompoms, but on closer look turned out to be steamed rice balls. But the fact that they had come down to watch Monday Night Football, had me chiding myself for misjudging them.

I looked for a queue in front of the card tables where the “bookies” were taking bets, but was fortunate to be able to place mine before the game started. Obviously, the others had already made their bets since I was the only one in line.

I grabbed a plate and dished out the food. I heaped it on since I didn’t want to be left hungry during the game, and knew the food would be long gone after everyone had had second and third helpings.

Suddenly, the TV blared. An announcer yelled, “Are you ready for Monday Night Football?” The game was on!

The announcement was met with silence from my fellow fans. Apparently they were too excited to cheer.

The next sounds I heard were the scraping of chairs, the tapping of canes, the creaking of walkers. Everyone was getting up. I was left seated by myself along with the two bookies. Then they started packing up to go.

I said to no one in particular, “Where is everyone going?”

Out the door is where they were going. Back to their apartments to sleep.