More from Rosewood

As my United, Canadair flight from Denver descended over Bakersfield toward the Meadows Field airport, my phone indicated the arrival of a text message. My brother Gary was asking, “Where are you?”  I responded: “Just landing—early”. It was 8:10 pm Thursday (March 1) with a scheduled arrival of 8:25pm. I noticed that my Brother’s text was sent at 5:15 pm, a bit after my scheduled arrival in Denver of 5:04pm. He picked me up with a smile and no further comment.

Gary delivered me to my father at the Rosewood Retirement residence. My mother’s mother had lived and died there, as had her three daughters, including my mother two and a half years earlier.

My dad’s door on the second floor was locked, which was very unusual. He let me in and explained that some lady down the hall kept coming into his room if he left the door unlocked. We hugged and he said, “You need to lose some weight.”

My dad has always had a very good memory. He has always been a great game player (especially bridge) and still wins regularly at Rosewood bridge games. But his memory is fading in some areas these days (he will be 95 in May). He had slipped in his bathroom some weeks earlier and hit his forehead on the sink on the way down. He lay there pushing on the emergency call button on his wrist wondering why no one came until (after 5 – 10 minutes he said but who knows) he realized that he was pushing on his watch on the other wrist by mistake.

He recently lost his address book of many years (the old paper kind), in which over half of the names are now crossed off, and was trying to recollect the missing phone numbers and addresses. He called a woman he had attended classes with in grammar school, now living in Northern California, chatted for a while, and then carefully wrote down her address information. An hour later he could no longer find it to put in his new address books, which he couldn’t find either.

But he forgets nothing in bridge. He runs a weekly group of two tables and complained how much work and time it takes him to keep two tables filled. People are always dropping out or forgetting to come. He told me that a women’s bridge group had started inviting him to join their group when one of their regulars couldn’t make it. Eventually they asked him if he would like to become a regular member.

He remembers the batting averages of the big baseball stars from before I was born and which team won the World Series each year for the last thirty years. He is also up to the minute on the accomplishments of our local teams. He eagerly told me that the Drillers (his and my high school teams) had won the wrestling tournament over the weekend, totally forgetting that I have no interest in wrestling, baseball, basketball, or football whatsoever.

Most of dad’s life he was happy to sit quietly by while mom ran his life. This was because he had no objections to the way she ran things. When he did, we all knew it. After she died, he stepped forward and became more extroverted. The monthly Rosewood newsletter listed him as Mr. Social. We are all kind of shocked.

He complains that he is very busy all the time. It seems that it takes him much of the day going through his mail. I have not been able to convince him that he does not need to open and read everything sent to him.

Major progress has been made, I think, toward separating him from his car (which, fortunately, he seldom drives). Rosewood provides a small bus for transporting residents to various places.  But he doesn’t always find that convenient and the idea of taking a taxi is totally alien to him. It really comes down to his sense of freedom. For several years I have been planting the seed that he should save all that insurance money and give the car to his grand-daughter (Gary’s daughter Kristin) who lives here in Bakersfield. He says that he will. Coming home from lunch Friday I said: “Dad, why don’t you bit the bullet and give Kristin the keys to the car when she comes over for dinner this evening.” He snapped: “I will give up the car when I am ready and I am not ready yet.” An hour later he said, “When I move into the new apartment next week with the larger refrigerator, I want to stock it with food and I will give Kristin the car after that.”  Stay toned.

Notes from a Visit to Rosewood

My father and I left my parent’s assisted living apartment for lunch just a short walk down the hall on the second floor of Rosewood. If you said you were on the second floor, all Rosewood residents knew you were in assisted living, midway health-wise between independent retirement living in the tower, and the Health Center in the adjoining building. My mother had just been returned from a local hospital to the Health Center.

Two dinning rooms stand out in my experience as particularly memorable: the massive mess in one of the ballrooms in Saddam Hussein’s Republican Palace in Baghdad (another story) and the assisted living dinning room on the second floor of Rosewood. The entrance to the dining room was lined on both sides with “parked” walkers. My dad parked his and walked stooped over the rest of the way to his seat at the table. An extra place had been set for me–the visiting son.

Our fellow 2nd floor diners were a very diverse group of old women and few men, about 20 people in all. They all arrived ten minutes before the official start of lunch. Most spoke cheerfully about past or upcoming events. Rosewood offers and organizes a lot of activities for its senior residents. Some made jokes about this or that. The Rosewood staff efficiently and warmly serviced the group the day’s offerings. The food was surprisingly good.

A few stared silently ahead and ate slowly. One lady who sat across the table and four seats to the right of my father and me alternated between making angry comments about the service rudely at one moment then somewhat politely at another moment. Her relatively short hair was combed straight back and tended to stand up reminding me of Jack Nicholson in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” (or most any other Jack Nicholson movie). At our first breakfast together in the second floor dining room the same lady came earlier than scheduled and asked the lady next to her whether she wanted her food and if not whether she could eat it. She yelled at the servers for not serving her more quickly and
shouted that she would fire them all. We soon learned that the poor lady had had nothing to eat since lunch the day before because she was having her blood taken at 8:00 that morning and it was still only 7:50. She was not allowed to eat for a bit longer. The room fell silent.

The lady who sat directly across from me was very attractive despite her wrinkles. Her hair was carefully and tastefully combed and each day she wore a different outfit with very nice colors. She had heard that my mother had been returned to Rosewood to the Health Center and she asked me how she was. “Not very well” I replied. My father and I eat on in silence. A few minutes later the attractive lady across the table asked: “How is your mother?” “Not very well,” I replied.

After lunch dad and I walked over to the Health Center to visit mom.  The flower gardens
along the way were lovely; the sun was bright and warm. Entering the Center, we passed the dining room on the right of the entrance. It was very well appointed with a high ceiling and chandeliers and round tables widely spaced to allow diners to eat from their wheel chairs. Wheel chairs and walkers were not allowed in the dining room on the second floor where the residents had to be able to walk. The flower gardens could be seen from the dinning room window. My mother would have loved it but she had never made it to the dining room in the Center.

We passed through the TV room to the left of the entrance toward my mom’s room. The usual viewer was sitting in his wheel chair in his usual place up against the screen watching a Jimmy Stewart movie. Down the hall we passed several people sitting quietly in their wheel chairs looking vacantly at nothing in particular and one man was exercising his legs by pulling himself down the hall in his wheel chair.

My mom was awake when we entered her room and actually smiled at me.

“I want to get up and go walking with my son,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her that she was too weak to walk or whether I should play along.

“Why don’t we take a spin in the wheel chair just to warm up? This place is really lovely and you should see it,” I finally said.

Mom seemed almost in high spirits. Thank God for antidepressants. The nurses lifted
her into her wheel chair. She insisted on putting on her lipstick and the nurse combed her hair. I was beginning to think we might enjoy this.

With the first attempt to move her into the hall, she slumped a bit and said: “I
feel sick, please put me back in bed.” Back in bed she said, “Why am I here? Where is my furniture,” and she fell asleep.

Dad and I walked back to the tower building and took the elevator to the second floor. We shared the elevator with another of Rosewood’s senior residents. She was holding on to her walker firmly. “Growing old is not for sissies,” she said with a smile.

The next day I packed for my flight back to Washington, DC, finalized arrangements for my father to move to a smaller unit, and ran a few other last minute errands for him. I then walked over to the Health Center to join dad and to say goodbye to mom.

“She has been asleep the whole time I have been here” he said.

“Should we try to wake her?” I asked. “Let’s try gently. Mom…, mom…, I want to say goodbye.” She opened her eyes and turned her head toward me.

“Leave me alone. Why is God punishing me this way?”

As dad and I walked back down the hall toward the entrance, the elder residents had lined up along the wall in their wheel chairs waiting for the opening of the dining room for lunch.

One very bedraggled and frightened looking woman said: “I don’t know the way home.” And then she repeated more loudly: “I DON’T KNOW THE WAY HOME. I WANT TO GO HOME!” Then she cried in loud sobs. I was trembling.