“Okay, I got lucky. Humber Heights has a room. At least we have one good thing happening in this pandemic.” It was desert luck (refer backstory: https://carolinmparadis.com/2024/03/10/desert-decision/).
My cousin Sue, in Toronto, broke the news via WhatsApp as my sister-in-law, Dorothée, and I munched our dinner of salad and sandwiches. Convenience was one good thing about Pam’s apartment location. Everything needed was within walking distance. We had grabbed a hasty dinner from the local marché after returning from the rehabilitation hospital.
Convenience aside, living next to Montreal’s most prominent feature – a mountain park smack dab in the middle of the downtown core – was another reason Pam had loved living here, at least when she could walk without fear of losing her balance and falling. Promenading up and down the mountain streets had kept her in shape. But after the last fall at age ninety-one, she wouldn’t be returning to her beloved apartment.
Desert Options
Getting a room in an assisted living facility was no small feat. Sue discovered it usually took years for a vacancy to appear. Prospective tenants went on a wait list. But since the COVID pandemic, seniors were declining openings. As this was March 2021, just as the COVID vaccines were becoming available, the virus was ravaging older adults in retirement residences. Many had died. Those on waiting lists were afraid to jump on a vacancy. They were choosing to give up their place in the queue to wait longer rather than risk catching COVID.
As Sue described her findings, I wryly thought of the adage: One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure. Room availability discarded by one senior and snatched by another. How lucky this might be for Pam during a pandemic was questionable.
Then, I remembered the words from Romans 8:28 New International Version:
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.“
Desert luck had seemingly turned into desert grace. God bizarrely writing straight with crooked lines, leading us through a convoluted path during a dark and treacherous time to a place of promise. We were gaining traction on assisted living options for Pam. Only how would we convince Pam to move to Toronto.
Desert Speed
After days of uncertainty and inertia, our desert luck was moving fast. Dorothée caught another window of clarity with Pam, who was finally acknowledging the weakness of her social support system in Montreal. Like her, all her friends and colleagues were aging and/or infirm. She could no longer rely on them for help. Her only relatives were distant nieces and nephews living in England. There was little hope of their support. And Pam needed a lot of support. On her iPad Dorothée showed Pam pictures of Humber Heights. Pam agreed she would take the room and let us move her to Toronto.
While Dorothée spoke with the medical authorities about Pam’s discharge, Sue worked on the paperwork for a room at Humber Heights. Urgent was my need to speak to the notary. The inconsistent ebb and flow of Pam’s mental state was worrisome.
As I packed clothes and things Pam would need from her apartment closets and dressers, I couldn’t shake my unease. Important documents would need signing and many changes arranged on Pam’s behalf. There was her new place in Toronto; then winding up her apartment in Montreal with all associated encumbrances. Pam’s power of attorney would need to be involved.
On a positive note, and feeling slightly satisfied with myself, if we departed Montreal soon, at least I had arranged for Pam’s taxes to be done. I was scheduled the next day to pick up her completed return from H&R Block before picking up Dorothée from the rehab hospital.
There was just one more thing left to do. Again, I picked up the phone for a last-ditch call to her notary.
Desert Mission
This was it. After picking up Dorothée the next day from her hospital visit, she shared her success at getting Pam sprung from the rehab jail. In less than a day-and-a-half, on Thursday morning, we would pack my van and drive to Toronto. A plan strengthened. Pam would visit for a day with my mum in Toronto. Then she would stay with Dorothée and my brother for a week until her room at Humber Heights became available. With a deposit placed at the retirement facility and an application in process, Sue was equally successful in accomplishing her mission.
The move was coming together. We just needed contact with her power of attorney to elicit her support. I was the only one with a failed mission. But it became worse than that.
When Pam’s telephone rang mid-Wednesday afternoon, I jumped. I didn’t even try to practice my rusty French. I was so grateful the notary had called that I couldn’t risk her losing patience over my labored vocabulary.
My relief at once gave way to distress. Pam had made a will, which was fine but she wasn’t dead. There were no arrangements for powers of attorney (POA) for property or health. She had not appointed a representative for her care in the event of incapacity.
I desperately asked the notary for an immediate appointment, possibly directly from picking up Pam from the rehab hospital tomorrow morning? We could get her there by 11:00 a.m. The notary could do up the documents, securing Pam’s legal representation. Pam could sign right away, and thereafter, we would drive to Toronto. I was begging.
How on earth was anything to be done for Pam if her mental state further dissolved? No one had the authority to help her. Earlier, I had tried to cancel Pam’s telephone service before leaving Montreal, but got rebuffed by the service provider. The service rep wanted to speak directly with Pam. Fat chance, I had explained. Even if she wasn’t in a rehab hospital, she could never hear you. She is deaf as a doornail. The service rep didn’t budge and didn’t offer any other solution. That dragon would need slaying later.
There was no helping it. My unease turned to outright anxiety. The notary informed me a POA done in Quebec had no authority outside of the province. With Pam moving to Ontario, it would have to get done there. Already, my mind was racing. As soon as we landed in Toronto, we needed a lawyer’s appointment.
Desert Thursday
I now had a permanent knot in the pit of my stomach. It didn’t get better as I waited in the rehab parking lot for Pam’s discharge. Why so long to bring her out? It had been an hour since I dropped Dorothée and positioned the van with a direct view of the rehab hospital entrance and exit ramp.
Finally, I spotted Pam being rolled out in a wheelchair by an attendant followed by Dorothée. I moved the van in closer for the pickup, and smiling, jumped out to greet Pam. I hadn’t seen her in four years. The tiny, aged woman looked like Pam. But her expression and body language were wrong. Slitted eyes glaring daggers with mouth sullen and body ridged with the effort of clutching her purse to her chest, did not lend any hope for a warm welcome. Despite her fragile state, I had a powerful urge to step back. This was not the expected reunion. A quick glance at Dorothée was no more encouraging, with an expression as dour as Pam’s but with added lines of tension creasing her brow.
“She refused to take her medication and get into her clothes this morning. And she was accusing the staff of stealing her things. That’s why we took so long. We went through her belongings to show her they were there in the bag.”
Dorothée’s eyes met mine, telescoping her clear distress at the morning events.
I inhaled a deep breath. In for a penny. In for a pound. Seems our desert luck had just run out. There was no turning back.
To be continued…