Journal: "Oh, The Places You'll Go!"

 

As I scanned old photos last week, I came upon this brilliant sunset, taken from our front porch when we lived in town, November 16, 1995.  I had written in the album, “No filter.”

Last Tuesday morning, I was scurrying around getting ready to go to Loren’s house, as a couple of social workers from one of the nursing homes were supposed to come to his house at 1:30 p.m.

I discovered that an insurance adjustor had called earlier and left a voicemail on my phone:  “Hi!  My name is Mort, and I’ll be coming to look at your house in a little while!”

I wondered if he knew he was supposed to look at Loren’s house, not mine.

I listened to the second voicemail, which had been left an hour after the first:  “Hi!  This is Mort!  Disregard previous voicemail.  Mert will be coming instead of me.  He hadn’t signed the ticket, so I thought it was up for grabs.”  (Or something like that.)

I had no time to worry about insurance adjustors who may or may not have read the entire ‘ticket’.  I was still getting dressed when someone knocked on my door. 

Since there aren’t two of me, I went on getting dressed.

My phone rang.

There were not yet two of me, so I went on getting dressed.

Getting that accomplished shortly, I grabbed my phone and listened to a third voicemail.

Mert was in my drive.  Why don’t these people read their work tickets?

I called him and gave him Loren’s address.  (“Oh!  I should’ve scrolled down!” he said, scrolling down.  “There’s the address right there.”  [Yes, Mert, you should’ve scrolled down.])  I told him Larry was there, and I would be there shortly. 

I got to Loren’s house at 1:20 p.m.  The adjustor was atop the roof, and Larry was pointing out the areas where shingles had come loose and the gutter had been twisted when the tornado came so close to his house a couple of weeks earlier.

When I walked into Loren’s house, it was like a blast furnace – he had the temperature set at 85°!  Ugh, it was practically unbearable in there.  I turned the temperature down to 72°, and Larry opened a window.  I turned some backwards-facing chairs in the living room around the right way.  Loren was lying on the couch, awake.

The social workers finally came straggling in, one at 1:45 p.m., the other at 2:00 p.m.  The 2 p.m. one had gotten lost on her way there. 

It was a good thing I had printed another copy of the overview I’d written for the doctor, because they didn’t ask nearly enough questions to learn how Loren really is.

One of their first questions was, “What do you need help with?”

“Nothing,” Loren replied adamantly and without hesitation, finally deigning to sit up. 

Both ladies rolled their eyeballs in my direction.  I considered waving at them with a friendly ‘Hi!  How ya doin’!’ air.

Some of their questions were plumb embarrassing.  A wee bit of friendly introduction first would’ve been nice, for pity’s sake!  They seemed to have no real clue what questions they should’ve been asking to determine if a potential patient actually needed care at their facility, and what level of care he might require.  Unlike the doctor, they appeared unable to read my overview and ask questions at the same time.  So... when they asked things I didn’t want to answer right in front of Loren, I pointed to various paragraphs that would answer the question.

I got a strong notion that I would have to be very involved with his care, should he be admitted to their facility (which I plan to be, in any case).

They weren’t unkind; they were genuinely trying to be helpful.  And we appreciated that, for we need help, and we need it as soon as possible.

When talking with Larry or the doctor or the social workers, Loren is agreeable to moving to a nursing home.  With me, not so much, for he seems to think I’m responsible for all the ill that betides him – getting hauled into the North Platte State Patrol office (“You called the police on me!”)... having a hitch lock put on his camper (“You’re trying to derail me!”)... taking away his keys (“You’ve had way more car wrecks than I have!”)...

It is possible Loren will wind up happier in a nursing home than he is in his house.  It was just a couple of weeks ago that he said multiple times that he needed to ‘go home’, and that he ‘couldn’t stay alone in this house’, and that he has ‘never lived alone’.

The social workers said the process could be two weeks... or a month.  The doctor the previous day had said it might be a couple of days.  I imagine the social workers have the more accurate timetable.

Some time after they had gone, I headed home again to pay some bills and to cook some supper:  for Loren, soup; for Larry and me, chicken enchiladas.

The wind blew at 50-60 mph that evening.  The house sounded like it was coming apart at the hinges.  The temperature was 15°, down from about 50° earlier in the day, and the wind chill was 4° below zero.

Loren has been enjoying the pictures that scroll through on the screensaver on my old laptop that Larry has at Loren’s house.  He has particularly been enjoying the older photos I have recently scanned.  That evening, I ordered a 17” digital picture frame for him.  A digital picture frame in his room at the nursing home would be comforting and helpful for him, I think.

Wednesday, one of the social workers called to ask for Loren’s insurance information (Medicare, and any supplemental insurance).  In sending her the information, I noticed an automatic withdrawal in Loren’s bank account that I thought I should check into.  Why I had not thought it odd before, I have no idea.

After a whole lot of sleuthing trying to find the correct company, the correct phone number, and the correct person to talk to, I finally learned it was for an active insurance policy for Norma!  Good grief.  A good while later, I was eventually given an email address whereby I could send Norma’s death certificate and request a reimbursement. 

It wasn’t long before a social worker contacted me to say that the nursing home would not accept Loren’s insurance, “as he does not have a skillable need.”  None of the nursing homes will – they are private pay only.  A person has to be practically destitute to qualify for Medicaid.

‘Skillable.’  Do people ever look things up before they make up words?? 

‘Skillable’ is not in any dictionaries, though I did find it, just once, in a hodgepodge of medical jargon.  However, there was this impressive sentence at the Slang Lang(uage) site:  “I gots mad skillabilities fer dis jobby!”

I asked the lady, “What does that mean – ‘skillable needs’?” 

She explained that it was when a patient needed oxygen, an IV, physical or speech therapy, wound therapy, or something on that order.  Dementia alone is not considered ‘skillable’. 

The cost of that particular nursing home was extremely high.  In all my reading on the matter and asking questions of those who know about these things, it seems that nursing homes take everything a person has until they have nearly nothing left, at which time the patient is eligible to apply for Medicaid.  The only way a person doesn’t have to pay anything is if they don’t have anything in the first place.

Some have avoided this by taking everything out of the patient’s name when he is still able to understand and conduct financial matters. 

I sincerely doubt that Loren would’ve allowed that.  In any case, it’s a moot point now.

I went on calling other facilities in town, and made an appointment for a tour of one of the homes the next morning.  I managed to get a number of old photos scanned while I was on the phone.  Here’s Lydia, 4 ½, on November 1, 1995.  I sewed her taffeta dress with the Venice lace for Christmas; it was her first year in the program.

That evening, as he’s been doing lately, Larry pulled up the church service on my old laptop, and he and Loren watched it.  Loren enjoys doing that – though afterwards he asks over and over (and over) again, “How did you like the services?”

Thursday morning we toured Cottonwood Place nursing home.  It was -4°, and with winds at 31 mph, the wind chill was -29°.

It was a lovely retirement home, but they don’t have nursing for people like Loren, and the building and grounds are not secure enough.  I called another place, Emerald, to say we were in town, and to ask if we might have a tour there.  We could.

They seemed to have all the nursing and help he might need, but there were no private rooms available at the moment, and we think Loren would do better with a private room.  The status of availability changes often at nursing homes, of course.  The lady promised to put everything in motion for Loren’s admittance as soon as possible.

That morning, Victoria sent pictures of Violet in the dress we gave her for Christmas, and of Carolyn in the sweater we gave her.

Friday morning, the social worker from Emerald called.  The board had had their meeting – and decided they could not accept Loren, as he is too ambulatory, and they fear he might walk away from the facility without their notice.

I called the last two nursing homes in town, and left messages and my phone number.  A large one that I thought might be promising always puts me on hold (I’d called there several times during the week) with LOUD music reminiscent of the children’s Airport Game with Buzzy the Knowledge Bug that was on our first computer back in 1999.  After it plays for several minutes, a recording tells me to leave a message or press star for operator.  I press star... the same lady comes on... and the process starts over again.  I change tacks, leave a message, and it falls into a deep, dark hole, never to be seen (or heard) again.

At the other one, Edgewood, a small place with only a couple dozen residents at a time, the ‘correct person to talk to’ had not been available.  I eventually learned that it was because she has Covid.  She has been working from home for the last several days, and is doing her best to help us.

We were given an appointment for a tour at 12:30 p.m.

It’s like multiple vacations, all these tours!

Or not.

Edgewood is very much like a home setting.  The nurses are specially trained to care for dementia and Alzheimer’s patients.  I saw one nurse spoon-feeding one of the residents, and she was gentle and patient and encouraging.  There is no private room available at the moment, but there will likely be one soon.

We came back home, and Larry ate some lunch.  Bobby texted, asking if Larry could get permission for him to go hunting on his friend Joe’s property near Genoa.

Larry texted Joe to ask – only he mistakenly texted Bobby instead of Joe.  Bobby immediately texted back, giving himself permission.  hee hee

I then looked up ‘funny texts to the wrong person’, and we entertained ourselves for a few minutes with nonsense and balderdash.  Here’s an example:

Gus:  Your father just died

Gil:  Took him long enough; he’s been buried since 1994

Gus:  You’re a rude pig; all you had to say was wrong number

Gil:  No, YOU are the rude pig; if someone’s dad dies, they deserve an actual phone call, not a bleepin’ text!

 

Hannah is still having a difficult time with her throat and mouth after the tonsillectomy.  I sure wish she could get through this and feel better!

Friday night I finished scanning one album and started on the next.  This was our Christmas picture for 1995.

Saturday, since Larry was here in the middle of the afternoon, I baked a couple of large chicken breast filets and cooked some mixed vegetables for him to take back to Loren’s house for their supper.

The BMW wouldn’t start Sunday morning; the battery was dead.  This has happened two or three times since Larry installed the backup camera.  It plugs into a 12V outlet, and it evidently drains the battery.  We’ll have to unplug the camera each time we turn off the car.

I drove the Jeep to church.  It has one or more bad injectors and misses so badly it shakes.  The more it is driven, the worse it gets.  I hope Larry can fix it soon so we can sell it for a decent price.

Larry came and put his battery pack on the BMW, and left it charging until time for me to go to the evening service.  On his way back to Loren’s house, he stopped at KFC and got himself and Loren KFC casserole bowls.

Here’s the pair of socks Victoria handknitted for me for Christmas.  They’re soooo soft and nice.

Larry returned at 20 ’til 6 and took the charger off.  The vehicle started fine.  He put the battery pack inside it in case I needed it after church.  The battery is under the passenger’s seat, so he showed me where to hook the charger under the hood, if I needed to.  (I didn’t need to; the BMW started without any trouble after the service.)

We left home at about ten after 6 – me to go to church, Larry to go back to Loren’s house.

I looked at the Moultrie camera when I got home from church, and saw that Larry had gotten back to Loren’s house at 6:24 p.m.  However, at 6:05 and thereabouts, Loren was going in and out his front door, turning the outside lights on and off – and he was dressed in suit pants, dress shirt, and tie!

Loren had decided to try going to church on his own, not long after Larry had left to come home, remove the charger, and make sure the BMW started.

When Larry pulled into Loren’s driveway, before he even opened his door he could hear Loren yelling to him from the front porch.

Larry got out, and Loren began telling him, “I couldn’t get the lights on out here!”

But he’d been turning them on (and off) just fine.

Probably he had tried opening his garage door, and it wouldn’t work, since Larry had unplugged it a week or two ago.

Larry told him they were not going to church, but were going to watch the service on the laptop.  Loren said that was fine, as he was ‘all upset’ now.  Maybe because he thought his Jeep was ‘trapped’ in the garage?  Hard to tell.  Larry thought Loren didn’t want to tell him exactly what he’d been planning to do, since he was trying to do it on the sly – but he also has trouble finding the words to describe things, so there’s that.  Also, he regularly forgets what he’s doing... or doesn’t know in the first place.

In the late morning, Loren had eaten heaps and piles of Biscoff cookies.  Larry told him he was going to make himself sick, which fazed him not at all; he kept right on scarfing them down.

He then ate quite a lot of the food from KFC at 3:00, and when Larry got back from our house a little before 6:30, he saw that Loren had polished off the rest.

As his appetite has increased, so has his activity.  He’s ‘washed’ dishes – that is, he puts dirty dishes in the sink, then grabs the sink sprayer and sprays water around, on, and over them, and calls it done.  He puts dishes and silverware in odd places such as in the wrong cupboards (sometimes still wet), in the kitchen tool drawer, or all over the counter.

Later, he has no idea who has done the dishes.

After I got home from church, Larry texted me, “Want to go on a date to the grocery store?”

Yep, I did.  Thinking Loren had finally gone to sleep, Larry came home to get me.  But I noticed on the Moultrie cam that there was a light on in Loren’s house as Larry was leaving, so first we drove to Loren’s house and made sure he’d gone back to bed.  It was a couple of hours past his bedtime, and Larry knew he was tired.  He would sleep for a while.

Here’s another shot of the children, November 19, 1995.  Note the faces of the two littlest ones, Lydia on the left and Caleb on the right, in picture #2.  🤣

Hannah, upon seeing these, asked, “I wonder what Daddy did that time? 😁”

Haha  He was indeed entertaining the kids as I took the pictures.  He stood behind me and pulled all sorts of shenanigans to make the children laugh.  (Or grimace, if you happened to be a Lydia.)

This morning I started a load of clothes washing, filled bird feeders in the front yard and on the back deck, cleaned both litterboxes, curled my hair, and read the funnies.  Next, I called the Edgewood nursing home director to say that we would be willing to have Loren placed in one of their facilities in nearby towns, if possible.

She called me back before too long; she had contacted the homes in Norfolk, Hastings, and Fremont.  The first two have no room for another resident; Fremont has yet to call her back.  However, she tells me that it’s fairly certain there will be an opening here in Columbus within a week, two at the most, as they have a gentleman there who is not doing well.

“Tell your husband to hang in there!” she said.

Yeah.  He’s a-hangin’.  He took Loren with him to Genoa this morning to have the sheriff inspect a vehicle for him.  Loren repeated himself over and over, asking the same question time and again, the entire way there, and the entire way back.  This particular issue has gotten a whole lot worse in just the last couple of weeks.

Larry answered him each time as he had the first time.

I suggested, “Maybe we should answer the question differently each time, just to keep things interesting!”  🤣

Teddy stayed with Loren for three hours this afternoon while Larry ran a few errands.  Teddy had his laptop with him, and worked on his online bookselling.

As I type, I’m sipping one of my favorite flavors of coffee, Georgia peach.  

The last load of clothes has been folded and put away, the dishes are washed, and my recliner is calling.

,,,>^..^<,,,          Sarah Lynn           ,,,>^..^<,,,