Desert Decision

Finally, a breakthrough. A desert decision. Decades as a head nurse deferring to doctors’ directives is likely what distilled Pam’s stubborn independence (refer to backstory: https://carolinmparadis.com/2024/03/03/desert-dementia/). Dorothée made headway with Pam in communicating the doctors’ prognosis and helped her to understand her living situation had to change. She couldn’t live alone, nor return to her apartment and former independence. She needed an assisted living arrangement.

Desert Options

Dorothée smuggled her iPad into Pam’s hospital room to avoid it going into the COVID quarantine. Already a chore to bring Pam fresh clothing, unthinkable, was another forty-eight-hour delay for an iPad to sit in an airless bag, presumably killing any lingering virus.

Calling up websites, Dorothée showed Pam local assisted living and retirement homes. Reminiscent of the old Pam, she wanted a self-contained apartment with a separate bedroom. We couldn’t fathom that level of independence in her current state, but at least she was talking about options. There were two Montreal residences she recognized by name. Places discussed at pre-pandemic luncheon get-togethers with retired nursing colleagues and friends.

I made the calls and set-up the appointments. The tours would start the next day after Dorothée’s hospital visit with Pam. But to review senior care facilities during a pandemic was no small feat. COVID had ravaged Quebec senior care homes. Jealously shielding their residents from potential pandemic carriers, with restricted touring of non-traffic areas, only one person could view the facility at a time. One of us would have to wait outside in the cold.

Desert Blessings

Who is to say? Was it luck or a blessing? I give credit to a luck-filled blessing, as when we arrived for our first appointment at a time of day with low circulation in the corridors, the attendant manager allowed us both to view the residence. When received in the same way the following day at the second residence appointment, I dropped crediting luck. We thanked God we could view and assess the facilities together.

Only one of the two residences offered tiered, assisted living care. With Pam’s deteriorating health, mandatory was the option to transition to a secondary or third level of care if needed. The first level was a tasteful and bright suite with a living area, kitchenette including a sink and mini-fridge, and a bedroom.

“She should like this place,” I said to Dorothée. “It seems spacious. I think her furniture will fit.”  

With the sun streaming through the windows, it reminded me of Pam’s bright apartment. The street view wasn’t as grand as the apartment view of Mount Royal, but tree-lined it was pleasant enough.

The facility provided meals, social events, security, and paid medical services. We happened upon a group of women residents playing bingo in a common area. From a distance, we greeted them and for a while we chatted warmly.

Good vibe, I thought. But I was worrying. Pam wanted her own independent space, yet she could barely get out of bed by herself. This set-up required the resident to be far more independent than Pam’s current capacity.

After the tour, we sat across a wide table from the facility manager, easily achieving the mandated two-metre physical distancing.

“Does your facility offer personal support workers?” Dorothée’s first question mirrored my earlier concern.

The manager’s answer was reassuring. “Yes, you can hire a PSW either through our facility or by contract with an outside agency to come in and give personal care.”

It was clear Dorothée was also pondering how to bridge the gap in care at this residence, given Pam’s current medical, physical, and mental challenges. Someone would need to take legal responsibility for everything.

When, oh when, was the notary going to return my call?

Desert Dilemma

Time was pressing. In just days, work would demand my return to Toronto. Dorothée would stay longer and rent a car. The thought of leaving her alone with everything uncertain didn’t sit well. Besides, I was the one doing the driving. I couldn’t see her happy with negotiating the convoluted street network, nor detouring around Montreal pot holes. That was my specialty.

Our nightly strategy sessions had included long-distance calls to Toronto. My cousin Sue (in Toronto) was exploring assisted living options there, providing we could convince Pam to make the move. Proximity to our extended family would assure her plenty of help, with no one of us having to drive for six hours. Sue agreed to come to Montreal to join Dorothee when I had to go home.

We had a general plan but no firm specifics. Pam had to live somewhere. But where? For years, she resisted any suggestion to move west to Toronto. And whatever happened, there was still Pam’s apartment. Another desert decision.

Sleeplessness was the restless blanket in which I wrapped myself at night.

To be continued…