Now that my father is settled into a long stay recovering at
the rehab unit, his apartment across the courtyard is available for lodging. It’s
a flashback to the many years I lived in student dorm rooms, except quieter. While
I was initially creeped out by the idea of sleeping in his bed and watching TV
from his plush recliner, I got over it really fast. His studio room is
convenient, it’s free (he still pays rent while Medicare pays for his skilled
nursing care), and there’s a fast wifi connection. I pushed aside his guy stuff
and took over the place for the past week. Every so often a nursing aide will
pop in (no knocks) and scream when they see me instead of him. I didn’t exactly
ask for permission to move in. It’s all wink-wink on the down low, since residents
are supposed to be 80+ and need help getting dressed.
I sneak in and out, doing a lot of local trips to supplement Dad’s bland institutional meals with pizza, burgers and fries, making him very happy while increasing his health risks. He does daily physical therapy while I access the fitness center downstairs. I’ve had customized arthritis pool instruction and someone even did my laundry. That never happened in college! I’m enjoying working from the beach and navigating Sid’s care (much appreciated by staff). I’m sure he’s not having as good a time, but he’s thrilled to have me visit regularly.
This gives me pause as I ponder my own future, perhaps without as many amenities. When all the childless baby boomers get silver hair and bad backs (crap, that already happened) where will we wind up? I’ve been researching co-housing communities and hoping that a model will emerge that makes sense. In the meantime, I’m talking to myself, using the disabled parking spot, and getting a lot of practice being a quirky elder.
