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.