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

by Barry Friedman

  She convinced me. In the six months since we moved in, I had met a few people, but I saw this as a chance to socialize, not one of my talents.

  When we got there, a number of people were already seated in easy chairs, sipping tea or coffee, and quietly conversing. I recognized one or two from having been seated with them at a few dinners.

  Harriet, a card-carrying extravert, greeted most of them like old friends. She walked from chair to chair, admiring this one’s dress, that one’s hairdo. A politician up for election couldn’t have worked the room as thoroughly. I stood apart, feeling like a fish in the Sahara.

  Harriet waved me over and introduced me. “This is Henry, my husband.” I knew she couldn’t remember the names of the people and she didn’t try. They introduced themselves.

  In the center of the room, stood a pair of large urns. One for coffee, the other containing hot water for tea. A basket of tea bags was alongside the hot water urn.

  Feeling I had to do something with my hands, I filled a paper cup with hot water and selected a tea bag.

  While I waited for the tea to steep, a server came in with a large tray heaped with cookies: chocolate chip, oatmeal and raisin, and other sweet cakes, each in a plastic baggie, and set the tray on the table. I bent over the tray to examine them and make a selection, when a woman wheeled over in a walker, and squeezed next to me. She raised the seat of the walker and shoveled half of the cookies from the tray into a compartment under the seat. Then, without a word, wheeled herself and the walker out of the room. Several others got up from their chairs; each grabbed a handful of cookies and departed. So much for sociability.

  I gazed at the empty tray. Obviously, I didn’t know the rules of the game. You don’t spend time looking for the cookie that meets your fancy. You grab and run. The tea was refreshing, though.

  Chapter Eleven

  Most of the Bowers’ residents, while not what you might call spry, were ambulatory without aids. Every day, they could be found in the gym puffing away on a treadmill, or pumping on stationary bikes.

  However, in spite of the euphemisms like “Retirement Community for Seniors,” the Bowers was an Old Folks Home. Plain and simple.

  Accordingly, the corridors, jammed with walkers of every size, shape and color, resembled a Los Angeles freeway at rush hour.

  Then there was Mrs. Parker/AKA Mario Andretti, the race car driver, who steamed through the place in her motorized scooter like she was qualifying for the Indianapolis 500. Get behind her as she zoomed backwards out of the elevator, and you could end up flattened under the wheels of her vehicle.

  In the dining room, most of those who used walkers, were able to transfer to regular chairs. To give the servers room to carry their heavy trays, walkers were wheeled away to an alcove that looked like a stadium parking lot at game time.

  Over the course of the first year that Harriet and I became residents, we watched as many of our fellow retirees deteriorated from shuffling along, to using canes, then wheelchairs. Some, after losing their mobility, just disappeared. When I would ask the concierge where Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So had gone, I was usually told that they had been moved to the Assisted Living section. Made sense.

  Case in point: Larry and Christine Rogers lived in the apartment next to ours. They were active until Larry suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed and speech that was impossible to understand. He had been hospitalized, then returned to the Bowers Care Center. But in spite of intensive rehabilitation, Larry was unable to transfer from his bed to a chair without assistance. He was returned to his apartment where Christine tried to take care of him, but he required the help of a twenty-four hour caregiver, an expense that Christine felt would eventually drain their financial resources. Besides, macular degeneration had made her legally blind. The solution: Assisted Living.

  So, one morning the Rogers with their possessions were moved to an Assisted Living apartment. Most of the furnishings would not fit in their new quarters, and their only family were Christine’s aged sister and Larry’s equally old cousin, both of whom lived in Chicago. So the Salvation Army was deployed to active duty and hauled the excess away.

  After Larry and Christine had time to settle into their new quarters, I thought it might help their morale if I visited them. Besides, it gave me an excuse to venture into the Assisted Living facility where my previous efforts to see the place had been rebuffed.

  I phoned the number listed for the Assisted Living Administrator and was connected to a husky voiced female. She identified herself as Fredricka the female wrestler I had encountered in my inspection tour of the Care Center.

  I said, “When would be a good time to visit my friends the Rogers?”

  “When would you like to come?”

  “I can come over in a few minutes.”

  “You mean today?”

  Apparently, the term, “a few minutes,” was not in her vocabulary. I replied, “Of course today.”

  There was a moment hesitation. Then. “I’m afraid today is out of the question.”

  The Forbidden City routine again. I was tempted to ask why not, but knew I’d be given some excuse like “They’ll be brushing their teeth.” Or they’d be oiling their wheelchairs.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  Her predictable answer was “Maybe next week.”

  I was in no mood to accept “maybe.” I said, “I’ll be there next Tuesday.” I said it with finality. No more fooling around.

  As I was about to hang up she said, “Whoa. Hold on. Let me check.”

  I waited while she did some checking, then came back on the line. ”Okay. Next Tuesday from two to two-fifteen in the afternoon. Sharp.”

  A whole fifteen minutes. Wow. I was afraid to ask what would happen to me if I overstayed my visit by a few seconds. Probably receive fifty lashes across my naked back. I thanked Freddie profusely for granting me access.

  The following Tuesday at 2 o’clock, sharp, I presented myself at the door to the Assisted Living and Care Center facility.

  I had been expected. The door opened as the second hand on my watch hit the 2 o’clock mark. I thought the door had been on a timer, until Fredricka’s face appeared in the open doorway. She raised a hand, consulted her watch, then dropped her hand like the starter at a track meet. I was on the clock.

  We took an elevator just inside the door, up to the next floor. It opened to a corridor.

  While she led the way without preliminary comment, I glanced around. The place was spotless, quiet as a morgue, the vinyl floor gleamed, the place smelled of Lemon Pledge.

  Off the corridor were ten or more doors, all closed. Alongside each door was a small sign designating the name of the occupant. Ahead I could see that the corridor joined at right angles to another wing. Like the Care Center in the floor below, the apartments in Assisted Living were aligned in an L formation. The only difference was that here a door marked Administrator took the place of a nurses’ desk. As we passed I said, “Do I get to meet Kurt Berman?”

  Fredricka shook her head. “He’s not here today.”

  Since there were no nurses in sight, I wondered who assisted the residents in Assisted Living. Before I had a chance to ask, Fredricka stopped at a door. A small sign read, “Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”

  She opened the door without knocking, consulted her watch and said, “You have until two-fifteen.”

  I walked into a small apartment containing a double bed, two easy chairs, a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. Larry and Christine sat in wheelchairs, their legs covered by blankets. They both had smiles on their faces. They appeared to have gained some weight judging by the fullness of their faces which appeared robust with pink cheeks, as though they had been out in the sun. .

  Christine kept smiling and said, “Hello.”

  Because of her blindness, I wasn’t sure she recognized me.

  Larry’s head bobbed like one those bobblehead dashboard dolls. He said nothing which, of course, was not surprising considering his stroke
-induced speech defect. However, he probably knew who I was and kept on smiling.

  “He doesn’t talk,” said a voice behind my back

  I turned. Fredricka stood at the door with her arms across her chest. I hadn’t realized she was still there. Probably to time my visit.

  I addressed Christine. “Chris, it’s me, Henry, your old next door neighbor.”

  Her head bobbed. “Yes.”

  I said, “How are you two doing?”

  Christine said, “Fine.”

  “This seems to be a pleasant apartment.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they taking good care of you and Larry?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s the food?”

  “Good.”

  “The place must be agreeing with you. You both look healthy, healthier than when you were in the Independent Living section.”

  “Yes.”

  Larry’s head never stopped bobbing. He never stopped smiling.

  A few more questions and comments from me. One word answers from Christine.

  Fredricka said, “Time’s up.”

  I said, “Well, it’s been great seeing you both.”

  I stepped forward to shake Larry’s hand, but Fredricka grabbed my shoulder, “Time to go.”

  I went.

  I remembered Larry and Christine as being effusive, very sociable. Of course, that was before Larry’s stroke. But even then, Christine remained cheerful and talkative and Larry had made attempts to speak but was frustrated by his inability. Seeing them now, the change in their demeanor was striking.

  As we walked toward the elevator, I said, “Have they been sedated?”

  Fredricka said, “No. Why.”

  I shrugged. “They seem drugged.”

  Fredricka shook her head.

  We reached the elevator door. She got on with me and we rode down one floor. We were at the door leading to the ramp that connected the Care Center and Assisted Living building to the Independent Living building. Fredricka slipped the deadbolt and gestured toward the exit.

  The door hissed closed as I stepped out.

  I spoke to the closed door. “And you have a nice day, too.”

  Chapter Twelve

  One of the problems being retired and living in an Old Fo—excuse me—Senior Living Community, is that there’s too much time on your hands. Your meals are prepared and served, you can chose from several activities de jour, you can attend Resident Association or committee meetings, take walks, exercise, or just stay in your apartment and read or watch TV.

  There is one activity that takes precedence over all others: going for the mail. Harriet, for one, could hardly wait each day for Ray, the mailman. I have a sneaking suspicion she had something going with Ray, but at her age what could happen?

  Around noon every day but Sunday, Ray would drag in bins loaded with mail and distribute it into the residents’ mailboxes. When the word came out that the Postal Service was considering discontinuing Saturday deliveries, you’d have thought someone had died. Several people wrote indignant letters to the Postmaster General voicing their extreme displeasure. Of course, the letters were sent e-mail, the main reason the Postal Service was becoming bankrupt.

  The letters Ray stuffed into our boxes were filled with vital information. Examples: Final Notice, your membership in the Alzheimer Foundation is expiring; Please help the hungry children of (any country from column B); Please help the hungry people of (any country from column C), etc.

  A wastebasket for recycled material sat alongside the mailboxes, and most of the letters and circulars that filled our mailboxes went, unopened, into the wastebasket.

  The exceptions: letters from charities that enclosed a nickel or dime for priming the donation pump. The coin was dug out, then the letter was trashed. At mail time, residents who had bought in to The Bowers for close to a million dollars, walked away jingling their coins. It was the March of their Dimes.

  Adjacent to the Postal Service mail boxes, were open slots for each apartment, in which in-house notices were placed. Here’s where we could find the current week’s menus, a list of the planned activities for the week, notices that the water would be shut off from 10 PM to 5 AM on a certain date in order to repair a broken sewer line, and the like.

  A resident could leave a note for another resident in the slot. corresponding to the recipient’s apartment number.

  Several weeks after I’d visited Larry and Christine Rogers in the Assisted Living Facility, I found in my mailbox, a handwritten envelope with a Troy, NY postmark. Since I knew no one in Troy, I thought it was probably another letter asking for my donation, but disguised by the handwritten address. Tricky. I ripped open the envelope expecting to find a letter that gave me the choice of a $50, $100, or $1,000 donation for the protection of hoot owls. To my surprise, the envelope contained a real letter that read:

  Dear Mr. Callins,

  I am the daughter of Larry and Christine Rogers. I live in Troy, NY, and at least twice a year, I visit them. Because the distance makes travel difficult and expensive, I phone them every week,. I am their only living relative.

  I know you and your wife are friends of my parents. In fact, you may remember we met during one of my visits.

  The reason for this letter is my concern for their well-being. For a week, I’d been trying to phone them, but was only able to reach the Assisted Living administrator’s office. Each time, I was told that they were in some activity and could not come to the phone. I asked the person to whom I spoke, to have them phone me. But apparently they did not receive the message.

  Finally, today I did reach them by phone and spoke to my mother. Our conversation was weird. When I asked how they were, she said, “Fine.” Usually, either Mom or Dad, before his stroke, would tell me what they’d been doing and we’d have a lively conversation. Today, I did practically all the talking. I’d receive a one-word response to my questions or comments. I had the feeling that they were hiding something from me. I called the administrator’s office back and asked how they really were. I was assured that they were in good health; their spirits were high. She told me that at the moment they were in an aquatic exercise class. Exercise class! It was hard to believe since Dad, for as long as I can remember, got his only exercise turning the pages of a newspaper. Since his stroke, he could hardly get around, let alone do water exercises. Mom would never go near the water either because she’d just had her hair or nails done. Now, her increasing blindness, I’m sure, was a further deterrent.

  I apologize for this rambling letter, but I am worried and would appreciate hearing from you. You can reach me at the number in the letterhead or at my cell phone…

  Sincerely.

  Helen Simpson

  Funny, I had the same reaction as their daughter when I visited the Rogers in their Assisted Living apartment.

  After reading the letter, I phoned Helen. I wanted her to know of my visit to Larry and Christine and that they seemed to be healthy and relatively happy. In fact, robust. “Yet,” I said, “there was something different about their behavior, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  Helen said, “Well, I’m somewhat relieved. Maybe it’s that they’re no longer in Independent Living. But that would be out of the question in their present conditions.”

  “You may be right, that it’s the change in their life style.” I said it without conviction, but wanted to allay Helen’s concerns.

  “I even thought I’d drop everything, hop a plane and spend a few days with them. It would be difficult. I have two children, and I help my husband in his business. But unless you think it’s necessary to come, I’ll depend on you for my information.”

  “I plan to visit them from time-to-time,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  Easy to say, but based on my experience, I knew it would be easier to get into the White House Oval Office.

  Chapter Thirteen

  For several days after my phone conversation with Helen Simpson, I mulle
d over how to carry out my mission: to find out what the hell was it with the Assisted Living facility. I knew I was just putting off as long as possible my confrontation with Fredricka, the Nazi, and the person who presumably had her on a leash, Kurt Berman, the facility’s administrator.

  First, I would try the direct approach. I‘d phone to find out when I could visit the Rogers again. No, damn it, no pussyfooting around. I’d tell whoever answered that I was coming over and they’d better open the door to the facility or I’d get a battering ram.

  That’s me, Fearless Fosdick. I was getting so worked up I had to take two blood pressure pills to calm me down.

  Then I picked up the phone.

  The person who answered, sounded like Fredricka, greeted me effusively. Her opening words were, “What do you want?”

  I said, “And hello to you, too.”

  There was silence from her end.

  “Hello,” I said. “Are you still there?”

  She said, “I’m waiting for an answer to my question. What do you want?”

  What I really wanted was to shove a firecracker up her fat ass. But I said, “Please, I’d like to make an appointment to visit the Rogers. That is, if it’s convenient.” That’s telling her, right? Pussy Fosdick.

  “You are who again?”

  “Henry Callins, 1087.” My apartment number.

  I heard some rustling of papers. Then, “I can squeeze you in at 3:15.”

  “Today?”

  “No, next Christmas. Of course today.” Unsaid was “You moron.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said. If I sounded grateful, I was. In fact, I could hardly believe it had been that easy. Had I been mistaken, and falsely assumed there was something mysterious and ominous going on in Assisted Living? Obviously, my trepidation was a figment of my imagination. More proof, if I needed any, that I was a chronic worrier. I saw demons under the bed when there were only dust balls.