Goodbye, Vick’s Vaporub

Today I met with the people from the ALF I’m engaging for my dad. Here’s one sign that things are looking up: when I got out of the car, I looked at the jar of Vick’s Vaporub I keep in the center console. I rub it on my upper lip when I visit my dad, to mask the smell of excrement in his current ALF. I was about to grab it, and then I remembered: the new ALF doesn’t stink. That felt good.

The “meeting” took about 10 minutes. I was given a contract to read. The director told me she would assess my dad today or tomorrow, and that he would then be admitted. I had already chosen a room with a roommate for him, and she said it was still available.

He should be moving on Wednesday. The new ALF will send someone to go get him. I considered doing it myself, and I would like to share the moving experience with him, because I think he’ll be very glad to go, but I don’t want him to get in the car with me and get the idea that he’s coming home. It would be inconsiderate to do that to him and then drop him at yet another facility.

I won’t have to buy him any furniture up front. The previous occupant’s stuff is still there. If it’s not great stuff, that’s okay, because it will be good enough to serve until I can have something better delivered.

I got him a lift recliner last year. I cleaned it today, and I plan to drop it at the ALF if there is room. Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to give it away. I don’t think I can sell a recliner that belonged to a dementia patient, even after using bleach on it. It will be unpleasant to see the empty space in the living room where it used to sit.

Tomorrow the contract will be signed, God willing.

The ALF gives people discounts depending on how much they pay up front. Every ALF has a “community fee” which you pay at the outset. If I pay a double fee, I’ll get a permanent reduction in the monthly rate. I don’t think I’m going for that. I don’t think my dad will be there long enough to make it pay off. Sorry to say it.

I’m not sure what’s happening with my dad. He has been very upbeat for several days, and he has also been walking faster.

My friend Mike, the hospice executive, says terminal patients often experience what is called a “surge.” It means they feel better and are more alert for a short time. It’s not a good sign. It means death is around the corner. Of course, a patient who has a miraculous recovery will also experience a surge, but that would be comparatively rare. I don’t know if my dad is having a surge or what. Mike thinks he is. Maybe God is speaking to him to make him easier for me to deal with.

I am not taking my dad any more newspapers. He has suddenly stopped reading them, so I might as well keep them for myself. He says he has stopped doing crossword puzzles, too, which must mean he can’t finish them. That has to be disturbing, for a man who used to find them extremely easy. When I visited him yesterday, I saw two unread newspapers on his walker, and he won’t read the last one I brought him, either.

I still haven’t seen anyone else visiting the ALF, except for a couple of people in the parking lot. Relatives should visit, because when the cat’s away, we all know what the mice will do. ALF staffers benefit from seeing caring relatives show up. It motivates them to do their jobs better.

I only visited my dad’s mother twice after she went into a facility, but I barely knew her, and she was 900 miles away. I admit, I only went because my father and mother went. I didn’t go to her funeral. I don’t know what my cousins thought of that, but then they are also people I barely know, so it’s not like their opinion would ever get back to me.

I have the feeling that very few people visit my dad’s current ALF. I suspect that I’m unusual.

Some of the rooms have shadowboxes outside containing photos and information. One lady has 4 kids. Where are they?

It’s chilling to look at the old pictures. They are classic 60’s and 70’s photos. Big hair. Clothing in off-putting colors like rust and avocado. They look like the old photos of my parents I would have, if we had been a normal family that took a lot of photos. People who were in their forties in 1973 are completely senile and physically wiped out. Was it really that long ago? My parents’ generation is pretty much gone!

Some of the shots of women remind me of my mother’s friends from my childhood in Miami Shores. I wonder how many of them are in ALF’s or graveyards.

There are older photos, too. Some are black and white. Let’s see; a 90-year-old woman would have been born in 1928 or 1929, so photos of women that age in their youth could have been taken as early as 1948. One of the women in the ALF was an entertainer, and her shadowbox has a photo of her in a short skirt, smiling at the camera. She appeared to be of college age. I couldn’t even guess which of the patients belonged to the photo.

One of the weird things about the ALF is that they have decorations that would be appropriate for people born in 1915. They also play a lot of old music. I don’t know if they realize they’re caring for the Woodstock generation now.

While I was writing this, my dad’s current hospice nurse called. She visited him in the ALF today. I told her I was moving him, and she said she loved the ALF I had chosen. She said it was one of her favorites. How about that? It looks like God led me to the right place, and that’s saying a lot, because you can’t throw a rock around here without hitting an ALF. There must be dozens. The odds against finding the best choice by yourself are very high.

Wednesday can’t come fast enough. I want to move on and start the next phase, and I want my dad out of the present situation.