With coaxing from those closest to me, I forced myself to get beyond the details of everyday life and consider both the immediate future, and what would likely need to be considered for the long haul. It was becoming more and more difficult to manage Mike. It was obvious I would soon need some sort of help.
On the advice of a social worker friend, Sharon contacted Carol Kinsel of Senior Care Solutions, a Sacramento organization that specializes in matching seniors with appropriate retirement facilities and also provides other resources for those necessarily difficult transitions. Sharon and I went together for our first appointment with Carol. She listened attentively, asked all the right questions, and helped us begin the process of navigating the stormy seas of caregiving for a loved one with dementia, coupled with growing financial instability. She provided us with an extensive list of local facilities, complete with information on costs and services, and also pointed us in the direction of another local organization, the Del Oro Caregiver Resource Center.
As with all other human services during this time of recession, Del Oro’s budget had been slashed. At that time their resources to provide practical support to caregivers such as respite care, and free legal/financial consultations were severely limited. But their clinical consultant was able to secure, at a significant discount, the services of an elder attorney, to recommend a local support group that dealt specifically with issues of FTD, and to offer continued emotional and practical support through regular phone calls and emails.
Sharon, Dale, Marg, and I met with the elder attorney, Constance Hawkings. Matt participated with a conference call. Over the course of 90 minutes, Connie educated us about negotiating Medicare/Medi-Cal services, protecting assets, and getting remaining IRA accounts transferred to my sole ownership. We hashed over details of dealing with foreclosure, the advantages of bankruptcy—so many aspects of the legal system I’d never expected to need to know. I wish I could somehow rewind the tape on that meeting and relive the specifics. My memory is that the whole thing was funnier than an SNL skit, though that seems rather far-fetched given the foreshadowing of disaster beyond disaster. I don’t think our laughter was of the desperately hysterical type, but rather that we were all at the top of our form with irony and wit. Whatever the reality of the situation had been, thank the Goddess for convivial laughter.
By March, foreclosure notices started showing up in the mailbox. Where I had once blithely answered the phone whenever it rang, I no longer answered unless I knew for certain who would be on the other end when I picked up. I dreaded the mail. I dreaded the phone.
Armed with information from Senior Care Solutions, I began visiting local retirement communities. Maybe if we were somewhere that offered a lot of supervised activities, Mike would be easier to manage. I looked only at places that were three-tiered, offering independent living, assisted living, and memory care sections, thinking that Mike and I would be together in an independent living level apartment until it became necessary for him to move into a secure memory care section. When that time came, he would at least be familiar with that particular retirement community. When I found a place that seemed like a possible match, I did a second visit accompanied by Sharon and/or Dale and/or Marg, in whatever combination we could come up with. This was a huge decision, and the more observations and insights involved in the process, the better.
Even knowing it would be out of reach, Sharon and I first toured the Biltmore Plaza. This was not one of the facilities on Senior Care Solution’s list of suggested places to visit. Their list was more realistically matched to my financial constraints.
We pulled into the circular drive, handed the keys to the valet parking attendant, and entered the living room/lobby that ran a close second to that of the San Francisco Fairmont hotel. We were met by Barbara, the marketing director, who led us to her spacious office where she asked about our specific needs in a senior assisted living community, gave us a basic overview of the Biltmore’s offerings, then began the tour. She drew our attention to the living room’s large fireplace, the comfortable conversation groupings, the card and game tables, the Steinway grand piano, and the aquarium. Other than the Monterey Bay Aquarium, this was by far the largest aquarium I’d ever seen. It was about 10 feet wide on both sides of the entry between the living room and dining room, and composed the upper half of the walls on each side. The two sides were connected by a wide, graceful archway, so that when we walked from the living room to the dining, room we could look up and see neon-colored exotic fish swimming overhead.
The Biltmore was proud of their “nationally renowned” chef and their “restaurant-style” anytime dining. We were invited to come back for lunch or dinner whenever we wanted, just call a day ahead of time.
The tablecloths were crisp white linen, the dinnerware again equal to that found in any luxury hotel. A variety of California wines were available if guests so chose. There was a lounge area with a full bar, complete with bartender. The bar was open daily for happy hour from 4 to 7 p.m.
“Most of our residents like to have their dinner any time from 4 to 5:30, though, of course, the dining room is open until much later for the few who prefer a later evening meal.”
We met Lucy, the charming activities director, who told us of the huge variety of opportunities for recreation, pursuing special interests and hobbies. Every Sunday afternoon, live music was provided by members of one or another of Sacramento’s many professional groups. Last week was the Chamber Orchestra; coming up was a group from the opera company.
The model apartment was beautiful but tiny.
“We like to encourage people to be out and about,” Barbara said.
There was a gym and a brain fitness group, a quartet, writing groups, reading groups. If there wasn’t a group we wanted, Lucy assured us she could help us start one.
The residents seemed happy and friendly. As we were leaving the model apartment, a woman chugging down the hall who looked to be somewhere in her 80s stopped to say, “Move in here! It’s the best thing I ever did. More fun than a barrel of monkeys.” She laughed, then moved on.
Back downstairs, there was a group playing bridge by the fireplace and another seemingly highly amused group playing something with dominoes, maybe Mexican Train.
After a tour of the large garden courtyard, comfortable seating areas and walking paths, we talked for a while longer in Barbara’s office. We confessed that $9,000 a month was beyond our reach.
“Is your husband a veteran?” she asked.
“No.”
“Long-term care insurance?”
“No.”
She gave us the card of their social worker.
“Sometimes she finds ways of financing residencies that others have overlooked.”
We left our contact information and said our goodbyes. As we drove away, Sharon said, “If Dad would like any of those places, he’d like this one.”
I agreed. He would love the style of the place. “But can you picture us in that tiny apartment?”
Sharon laughed. “Yes, and it’s not a pretty picture.”
Next I visited Riverside. As at the Biltmore, the Riverside aquarium served as a divider between the living room and dining room, forming the upper half of the dividing wall to the right of the hallway, but not forming an archway or stretching across to the other side.
As the name implied, this place was close to the river. The grounds were fenced off, providing a secure parking lot with a gated entrance and exit. There was a pedestrian gate at the back of the property that allowed access to the river. I loved having easy access to the American River Parkway by way of the Gold River nature paths. It would be nice not to have to give that up.
As with the Biltmore, Riverside had restaurant-style dining and a well-credentialed chef. They had a full bar but, unlike at the Biltmore, their bartender was only on duty from 4:30 to 7 p.m. for Friday, Saturday and Sunday happy hours.
The marketing director was so charming, I thought we might become new best friends. I later realized that all marketing directors are charming, and there is always the implication that they might become one’s new best friend, but this was only my second visit to a retirement “facility.”
Riverside was considerably less per month than the Biltmore Plaza, but it still had an air of genteel refinement. In addition to liking the ambience, I was particularly interested in their brain fitness program. The exercises made use of previous common experiences with movies and music of our times, some political trivia, sports trivia, and other aspects of our common culture. I could picture Mike enjoying this program, and mightn’t it keep parts of his brain active at least for a while? He had been a whiz at Trivial Pursuit. I always wanted him on my side for music and movies, history and politics, but he even often managed to come up with the answers to questions in the sports category—a surprise, since his main connection to sports was his annual viewing of Super Bowl halftime extravaganzas. Halftime only. He’d already be back to an old movie on Turner Classics before the kickoff for the second half of the game.
Sharon and I visited Riverside together, as did Dale and Marg and I. We all liked the look and feel of the place. Residents were friendly and cheerful. There was a grand piano in the lobby/living room and a small upright in the second floor gathering space. The perky activities director assured us that both pianos were tuned monthly.
Riverside would be around $5,000 a month. Considerably less than the Biltmore, but still hardly affordable. The truth, though, was that nothing would be affordable. Wherever we ended up, I would be dipping into what was left of our nest egg to meet monthly expenses—not a good long-term plan.
With the major exception of affordability, Riverside more than met our criteria. As with the Biltmore, the apartments were tiny. But there was a unit on the ground floor that had a little patio and an outdoor entrance. That was bound to feel less closed in. Friends could come to our front door from the parking lot. Sunny could still have a bit of outdoor space. It would feel less institutional to enter from the outside rather than walking through the living room, down the hall to the elevators, then up to the second or third floor and down another hall to our apartment.
It was all so uncertain. If Mike only had two more years on this earth, our IRAs would cover a nice place like Riverside—a place with a look and style that Mike might warm to—a place with activities that might be a good fit with his personality. I wanted Mike to be as happy and content as possible during his continuing deterioration. On the other hand, much more than two years at a place like Riverside would have us destitute.
I was sleepless with worry. Weighing and measuring alternatives was important and, ultimately, I hoped, productive. Endless worry was not. I made a conscious choice to tuck my worries into a compartment and only let them out once or twice a day. Of course, the lock on the compartment didn’t always hold, but the practice helped me balance the tightrope between necessary action and despair.