IT WAS A TUESDAY. THE second Ginny drove away with Mom, Dad jumped in his car to meet me at our first appointment. Knowing it would be difficult, we left my car at the first assisted-living facility and rode together to the rest of the appointments that day.
I looked around as Dad approached the reception desk. The lobby had tan walls, dark wood ceilings and trim, and gold curtains hanging from their thick rods to the floor. A tall flower arrangement stood on the entry table, and a large sitting area with tan leather couches and woodtrimmed chairs was nearby. Next to it, set off by columns, there appeared to be a game room with square tables and decks of cards, puzzle boxes, and dominoes.
“Hello. I’m David Bearden. We have an appointment with Mary.”
Dad, unshaven, tried to smile, but his body language was anything but happy or relaxed. He held a stapled packet of paper along with information he had printed from the Internet.
Dad and I sat and looked at each other. Shaking our heads, we were thinking the same thing: I can’t believe we are here. We have taken the first step.
But this facility didn’t ease our minds.
It feels too quiet. The wood trim is too dark. Too much brown leather furniture. It’s depressing and boring. Nobody is around. Nobody’s playing games. It’s dead in here.
“Dad, this place is depressing. I can’t see Mom living here.”
He spoke in a low tone. “It just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s just me not wanting to do this. Will all places be like this?” He paused and looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Lonesome is how I think it looks and feels. My first impression is that no, I don’t see Mom living here. I don’t think I can leave her someplace like this.”
Then a tall, pretty woman came around the corner to greet us.
“Hello, Mr. Bearden, and—tell me your name again? Is it Sarah? You are Rebecca’s daughter, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am her daughter.” I spoke softly as my heart beat a little faster.
She turned the palm of her right hand upward, like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune, and she motioned us toward the thick brown columns. She took us to the square tables that I’d pegged as the game room.
“I know this is probably not easy for the two of you to be here. I see from your online paperwork that Rebecca has EOAD. Is that correct?” She looked directly at Dad.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Dad wasn’t one to embellish or give extra details unless asked.
“Tell me a little about Rebecca. Is she incontinent yet?”
I turned to Dad as he looked down and twirled his thumbs. “That hasn’t been an issue at all yet. She can use the restroom by herself, and she has not had an accident, at least not that I know of.”
She smiled. “Just so you know, Mr. Bearden, not all people with Alzheimer’s are incontinent, but it is a very high probability at some point that she will be. There are many different causes for incontinence, and it’s our job to help them retain a sense of dignity. I understand it is not an easy topic to talk about.”
As she took notes, she continued with her questions.
“How is her short-term memory? Can you leave her at the house alone, or has she wandered off and gotten lost? I am trying to gauge where she is in the disease and if memory care is the only option for her. As you may know, we also have assisted-living floors, so we always want to make sure our potential residents are placed in the proper area to help them have a better quality of life.”
“Her short-term memory has definitely become more of a problem. Sarah can spend several hours with her one morning or afternoon, and an hour or two later, Rebecca won’t remember being with her at all.”
I was so proud of Dad, because I knew he did not want to be there. However, I noticed as he told Mary more about Mom, he brushed over things I felt were important.
“She doesn’t wander off,” he said. “I mean, she does like to go on her walks, but I go with her, or I follow her, so she still knows where she lives and how to get around.”
Doesn’t wander off? But she got lost, and I found her! And didn’t the SMU police bring her to you? That is called wandering off and getting lost, right?
Knowing it wasn’t my place to answer for Dad, I didn’t interrupt or answer questions directed to him. However, I was wondering whether he was afraid to admit she had gotten lost, or if perhaps he had forgotten about it. Or, maybe he was in denial or not seeing things clearly out of sheer exhaustion. Whatever it was, it didn’t sit well with me.
Then Dad said, “Well, once. She did wander off once, and it really did scare her. Sarah saw her and called me. I think Beck remembers it because when I bring it up to her and remind her she can’t go for walks alone, she remembers and expresses how scared it made her feel, and she hasn’t done it since.”
I respectfully added to that comment.
“Mary, like Dad is saying, she did wander off, and it did scare her at the time. But isn’t this disease one of those things where Mom may make a spontaneous decision to do something, whether she remembers what may have happened before or not? For example, couldn’t she walk out again on her own and get lost if she’s done it once or twice already?”
Mary was taking notes, but she looked up at me when I said “once or twice.” I’d placed the emphasis on “twice.”
I tried not to look at Dad, not wanting him to think I was trying to prove a point or be disrespectful. This was such a delicate matter and conversation, but I also wanted to hear more from a professional.
“That is correct, Sarah. Once someone with Alzheimer’s wanders off or gets lost, a red flag goes up. In the moment, they think they know where they are going. They are in their own neighborhood or a familiar place. And, in a flash, they are disoriented. They become confused, and therefore they also don’t know to ask—or are unable to ask—for help. Terrible things can happen when someone gets lost because of traffic and weather conditions and things like that. They may walk alongside a curb and trip or fall into the street, or they may cross a street without looking out for cars. They are like children, and it’s our job to keep them safe and protected. In many cases, if one is lost for twenty-four hours or more, there is usually serious injury or death.”
After more questions, Mary said, “Well, it sounds to me that your wife does, in fact, need to be in memory care. She is past assisted living. What I would like to do is give you a tour. Do you have time for that?”
Dad turned to me and gave my knee a gentle squeeze. “No, I am sorry, but we do have two more appointments today. But I thank you very much for your time.”
He was done. Scratch this place off the list, I thought. He couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. And I didn’t blame him. I wanted to at least like the feel of Mom’s new home.
It wasn’t just the ambience, but the lack of activity and how quiet it was downstairs that bothered Dad. Mary was helpful, and the facility was reputable, but Dad trusted that the right place for Mom would feel right to him.
We sat in his car, taking it all in.
“I don’t know, Dad. This all seems so surreal. Is it making you question what to do?”
“Well, yeah, but what else am I supposed to do? I can’t do it anymore.” He rubbed his eyes. He was so emotional and doing everything in his power to maintain his composure.
“Dad, there is something you need to know. Your children support you. We love you. David, Gabriel, and me. We all love you. You have to remind yourself you wouldn’t be here if God didn’t lead you here. You have prayed for His guidance as much as I have and probably even more.”
He patted me on the leg, whispered “Thank you,” and we drove away from that depressing place.
THE NEXT APPOINTMENT WAS A twenty-minute drive from the first place. We were stunned by the difference as we walked toward the main building.
“Wow,” I said. “This place looks really nice.”
Surrounded by a park with benches, teak tables, and chairs with patterned umbrellas, it was a new bu
ilding of dry-stack stone with large windows.
Dad and I walked into an atrium where there was a reception desk with granite countertops, a warm fireplace, and tall ceilings—the opposite of the first place. Behind the reception area, there was a hair salon and spa, and through the back window, colorful flowers surrounded a beautiful green lawn.
As the elevator doors opened, several people stepped out, smiling and happy. One lady even came out with her small dog on a leash.
“I mean, Dad. Totally different!”
After checking in, we were directed to the waiting area, where we sat in two large swivel chairs flanking the fireplace.
“This place seems pretty incredible,” he agreed. “It feels so much better than the last place. I can’t even believe the difference.”
Christie sat down with us, asking many of the same questions Mary had. Then she began our tour.
As we walked on the back lawn, she told us the history of the place. She showed us all the buildings, some new and some old. The one we had first entered was their newest remodel, which explained the updated look and feel. We turned a corner and walked up to double glass doors.
“This is our memory-care building. As you can see, we use a code box to keep the residents safe. Only family members and caretakers are allowed to know the code, and we have cameras recording at all times for safety.”
I noticed two cute women, probably in their eighties, staring at us through the doors. One was waving at me, and the other was trying to push a keypad on the inside. I smiled, waved back, and mouthed, “Hello.” Dad waved, also. We continued to stand there and listen but were distracted by the women.
Christie said, “Oh, goodness, I am so sorry, but it would be a good idea if we turn around right now and pretend we don’t see them standing there, then head to the other entrance. I apologize.”
It wasn’t until I heard the words “pretend we don’t see them standing there” that I realized what was really happening.
Those precious women were trying to get out. One had her purse over her shoulder like she had someplace to be. She was dressed in a soft pink shirt with a beautiful strand of pearls around her neck. Waving and smiling at me, she started to knock on the glass doors. As I stared into her green eyes, she began to knock a little louder. So much happened so quickly that I had no idea what was going on until we were told to turn our backs on them and walk away, leaving them standing there, banging on the doors and watching us leave.
All I could picture was my mom. My beautiful mom, smiling and waving and knocking on the window for someone to open the door so she could walk outside and smell the fresh air. Would someone smile back at her? Or worse, turn and pretend she wasn’t there? All for good reason, of course—to keep her safe—but she would never know or understand why. In Mom’s eyes, she would be trapped and abandoned.
As we walked away, Dad said, “So those two women were trying to get out? And they can’t? They can’t walk around here in this courtyard?”
“That is correct. They have a very strict schedule, and they get out occasionally when the caretakers are with them. Many times, people with Alzheimer’s are still living the life they had before, or at least trying to. Some think they need to get to work, and some think they are going on a trip or traveling. We have one lady who was an airline attendant, so she often tells us she is going to miss her flight if she can’t leave. It’s not easy, but you get used to it. It’s our job to keep them safe from wandering off without a health-care professional by their side.”
What the hell? Is this a freaking jail?
Dad and I looked at each other, both puzzled. I felt burdened and terribly guilty that those two women thought we had abandoned them.
“Now we are at the other side of the building,” Christie was saying. “As you can see, this side has a code and keypad as well, for safety.”
Yes, I see it. Thanks for pointing that out again. Are we going to abandon anyone else and pretend like it’s no big deal? What if that was my mother? She would want to know the code and not understand why she couldn’t have it.
As we entered the building, all I could see were gray concrete walls.
Where are the windows that look out at the green grass and flowers? Where are the granite countertops and sitting areas around the fireplace? What about the salon? Where did that go?
“This is our memory-care building. It’s strictly for residents who require 24-7 care and is where Rebecca would be staying. I’m going to show you a room around the corner that is empty and available, if you choose to move her here.”
Are you kidding me? This is where my mom would be? Hell-with-a-double-l no! This is a jail cell.
I was doing everything I could to stick with the tour, to stay with Dad and not have a meltdown. This was insane. This wasn’t home. This wasn’t a better quality of life. This was a lockdown life with no freedom.
“Here is the room. The bathrooms have recently been remodeled, and there are outlets for cable television as well. As you may notice, the lights above the bed location are lower because these used to be hospital rooms.”
This is a remodel? It’s a stainless-steel sink with a shower curtain, a handicap shower rail, a bench in the shower, and “ hospital-bed lights.” Lord, I need some help here! Please calm me down—I think I might lose control.
And then I heard the words, “The great news is they do go out to the other building where we first met for movies and music classes. We have an incredible activities leader who does all sorts of fun exercises and games with them. So they do get out—it just needs to be scheduled.”
Okay. Maybe she would get out more often than I think. I mean, Mom needs out. She needs fresh air. She needs a courtyard. She is not an indoor woman.
We continued our tour, but I could not get past the low ceilings and windowless walls. Everyone was so friendly, and the residents seemed happy, but I just couldn’t picture my mom there.
Then around the corner, I saw hope, the hope she would have one friend. There was a woman within a few years of Mom’s age who had recently been placed. We asked about her and learned she had EOAD and a few other problems. When Dad and I saw her beautiful brown hair, cute outfit, and fit physique, he turned to me and said, “That one would be her friend. I can see them being buddies.”
This precious woman was holding another resident’s hand, leading her to their next activity. She was like a volunteer on staff, serving and encouraging her to participate. For a few minutes, I felt much better about the place. I saw hope and joy and happiness in this resident, who looked pretty, wore makeup, was freshly dressed, and seemed to love “volunteering” like Mom.
“Isn’t she great?” our tour guide asked as we watched her walk away with the other resident. “She has come such a long way. It took about two weeks to get her settled in, but now you would never know it. It’s not an easy process, but if you hang in there, the residents can—and most will—get to a place of peace and contentment.”
We looked around some more. But once everyone walked away, the walls started closing in again. The lack of windows, the older-looking buildings, and the steel sink and hospital-bed lights resurfaced in my mind.
Mom would turn this place upside down if she were here. There is absolutely no way she could live here. You think your residents are happy? Wait until Becky Bearden shows up. She will have them all breaking free! She’d have them going this way and that way and ganging up on every caretaker in here. She’s a strong woman. She’d find a way out, and not just that—she’d rescue every single person here.
I laughed out loud at my thoughts and shook my head. Dad turned to me and said, “What’s so funny?”
My eyes rolled at him. “Oh, I’ll tell you in the car.”
FIFTEEN
BEAUTY AND ELEGANCE
August 2016
DEAR HEAVENLY FATHER, I DON’T know what to pray for this morning. I’m scared and anxious. You tell me to be anxious for nothing, and with everything by prayer and thanksgi
ving, let my requests be known to You. I thank You, God, for opening the door for Dad and me to visit these potential homes for Mom; but God, I’m anxious and worried. I am worried about placing Mom, taking her away from her home, and I’m scared of how we would do it. I can’t see Mom living anywhere but her own home.
Lord, please help us. Daddy and I are tired. We are emotionally broken. We don’t want to drive around and look at these places that seem so depressing. We have prayed for Your will, and we have asked for Your guidance, and I know in my heart You are guiding us, but Lord, please guide us to the place You want Mom. You love her more than we do.
God, please go before us and stand beside us today. Help us get through this day visiting two more places. Give us strength, God. Thank You for loving us, Mom, and our family so much that You will give us the best option possible for her.
In Your holy name, amen.
• • •
MY PRAYERS WERE BIG, ESPECIALLY the second morning, when Dad picked me up again to tour assisted-living and memory-care facilities. The first one was a place we had toured before—this was the facility Daddy and I had visited when they first moved to Dallas. One of his friends had advised him to at least take a look, in case there was a waiting list. It was the farthest from home, about a thirty-minute drive. When you walked in, it felt like a step back in time.
Walt Disney World and Disneyland do a great job creating the ambience of their greatest movies, including the city where they’re set. Adventureland has Cars Land, which places visitors in the familiar setting of the movie, with the beautiful mountain backdrops of Cadillac Ranch along Route 66. The stoplight intersections and the street lampposts enhance the town. The scenery is incredible.
Walking through this facility felt a lot like that. It was created to give the Disney experience to its residents, with amenities including a barbershop and salon, a theater, and a “Sweet Shoppe.” Mom always loved sweets and a good movie, so we thought we should visit this facility again after two years. Because Mom was now in a new stage, we thought it might appeal to us the second time around.
Broken Beauty Page 14