Over the summer, I took a lot of long bike rides. One feature of going 20mph — OK, it was more like 17 — instead of 50 is that you notice things that you’d otherwise miss. You also notice which roads are smooth vs. perenially under construction or have so many potholes that you’re guaranteed to get a pinch flat. After so many miles of trailing, I could write a blog on this topic alone.
One thing I noticed, for the second time, was the sheer number of facilities for seniors in the area.
The first time was while my father was alive. He lived here for 4 years in a community that during his tenure had 3 different owners. It went from simply being called Farm Pond, to Emeritus Senior Living, to Brookdale Cushing Park. This is a community with a feature euphemistically called “Aging in Place”, which I know now is a highbrow way of saying that they provide both independent living and assisting living apartments. It’s a benefit when you have to move suddenly as we did – but assisted living is a totally different experience from its independent living counterpart.
Farm-Pond-Emeritus-Brookdale, however, did not have a “skilled nursing” section. This is something less than a hospital room, but not by much. I saw enough of those during his hospital recovery stints in various rehab centers. The rooms are spartan and full of medical gear. It smells like disinfectant. The lighting is industrial. There often are a lot of people shouting because ownership typically keeps nurse to patient staff ratios high to manage labor expenses, so the residents do what they can to get more attention. That is: they yell.
I would pass by places that offered skilled nursing and hope never to walk in the lobby with his belongings. Not long before he passed away, I took him to a rehab center (skilled nursing plus exercise facilities) as part of what we hoped would be a path back to this independent living apartment. It’s close to the gym where I now belong, and although it’s been over a year, passing by the Salmon Health and Rehabilitation Center still takes me back to that final week.
Passing by a community like my dad’s, I would wonder about their fee structure, whether or not they had a waiting list, whether they had vacancies, and if so, why. Quickly cycling turning this thought sequence became second-nature to me, even zipping past at 50mph or more, and nearly anywhere I went in America.
There also is an Alzheimer’s center not far from my house that I would pass several times a week, and die a little each time. I knew there was almost no chance we would end up there. Didn’t matter.
Not every place is like that. Near the Natick “Collection” (I think when you add a Nordstrom’s, you can’t call it a mall anymore) is a orthopedic office where we had a check-up after my father broke his hip. It was healing so well that the doctor didn’t quite believe it. It was a nice surprise during a process that has fewer and fewer as time goes on.
Now that a year has passed, seeing facilities no longer fills me with dread or racing thoughts. Mark Twain is noted for having said that “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.” Most of mine never happened either. My dad lived in one facility for almost all of his time here, and he was happy there. And yet – I still notice them anyway.
I had an unexpected night to myself for dinner the other night, so I hit Legal’s.
I haven’t been there much in the past year; for one, the average age at the location in Framingham is about 65, and that’s including the young families who somehow think that it’s a good idea to bring their squirmy 2 year-olds to an upscale casual seafood restaurant (pro tip: it’s not). My 5 Guys business partner loves to go to Ken’s, which is a steakhouse not far from Legal’s that I think he used to frequent because they would serve him and his underage friends. That was 40 years ago now and I don’t think they have gained any new customers in 40 years. The place is terrible. But I digress.
Legal’s was my father’s favorite restaurant when he lived here. We went there for his birthdays, for my kids’ birthdays, for my birthday, for Washington’s birthday. You name it. I used it as a motivator when he was doing physical therapy in New Jersey after his near-death experience with C-Diff and he wanted to quit. So many times my brother and I convinced him not to quit. We sat and ate chowder when he finally made it up here, weakened and still sick, but alive. It was our place and for many months, it hurt too much to consider eating there again.
Recently, I have been thinking of him a lot. It’s been about a year since he passed away, which I’m told is a milestone. I have an unusually good memory for dates, and this summer I relived the sequence last summer where things really fell apart. This was the Tuesday that I took him to the doctor who hospitalized. This was the triathlon I did last year while he was in the assisted living apartment for the first time begging me to let him go back to his old place. This is where I was standing when I got the call from the hospital that he was back, and barely responsive. This was the time of day when I said the last thing to him I ever would, which is asking him if he was thirsty. He was. He didn’t suffer much until the end and it was hard to watch. This is the time last year that I was in Rome and my brother had called to tell me he was gone.
Now though, I can feel that the memories are there, but the debilitating impact doesn’t accompany them. It’s like they exist on their own, and I can choose how I want to pay attention to them. I am starting to come to terms with what all the years as a caregiver meant. Sophie, who suffered a bad concussion about a week before he died, is finally healing. She is a brave and amazing kid, and her positive attitude has been inspirational, but all the same, it hurts to watch your child suffer. We didn’t know then how hard her year would be, and ours with it. It was a hard year. It is finally passing.
A few times in the past few weeks, I have caught myself recently feeling strangely at peace. I like it. It says something that this sensation unfamiliar enough that I noticed it.
So although I drive past Legal’s regularly on Route 9 (just before passing Ken’s on my right), it felt different recently. To celebrate that, I decided to treat myself to dinner there next time I had the chance.
In case you’re wondering, I had a Jack’s Abby Hoponius Union with my cioppino; this is one of the beers with which I would stock my father’s fridge in the days that he insisted that I keep beer there. As for the cioppino, I can report this: it tastes good again.