Alden times

I'm sorry to say I'm not really impressed with the place we transferred monshu to on Saturday. At first I made a lot of allowances for the fact that it was a weekend transfer, since those are always problematic. But here we are, four days in, and some basics (like making sure he has a wheelchair) still haven't been taken care of. I don't think I realised myself how many issues there were until I got a QA call yesterday and heard the sympathetic clucking of the survey-taker.

I figured having roommates would be the biggest adjustment. After all, unless you count me sleeping over three times a week while we were dating and him staying in my apartment for two weeks after his was sold, he hasn't had to go without a room of his own in probably 30 years. I was loath to tell him about that aspect, in fact, but he shrugged it off. We haven't done too badly. The one is pretty quiet--like the GWO, he seems to be recovering from a severe injury, but he's not so far along. He keeps to himself and channel surfs to pass the time.

The other has been in the building for 17 years and is--as you would expect--rather territorial. (After his third passive-aggressive reminder of the posted visiting hours--which don't apply to close family, like spouses--I asked to have the policy printed out so I could tape it to the wall.) He spends most of the day listening to music and only occasionally trying to start a conversation about his handful of idées fixes. I feel sorry for him, but not enough to be much more than civil. As monshu says, he's "so 50s" that neither of us have much in common with him. (His favourite opera is La fanciulla del West and he watches lots of Bonanza.) I've had more interesting chats with a couple of the guys who hang out in the common area most of the time, even if one of them is a natural member of Trump's constituency. (He was dissing his roommate for playing "Mexican music" even though this is the "US of A", but the young Black activities director ganged up with an Italian-born grandfather to shut him down right quick.)

But, really, I think the biggest adjustment is the level of care and level of service. As I told the survey-taker, I couldn't stand in the hallway of the other places we've been for more than a minute without someone asking me if we needed anything. Here I feel invisible to the CNAs and even staking out the nurses' station generally isn't enough to get their attention. It's not entirely their fault--they seem badly overworked. (One of the CNAs subtly indicated this when the nursing supervisor told me their ratio is 1:8 and she quietly added, "It's supposed to be eight"; from what I can see, the norm actually seems closer to twelve.) But some screw-ups--like completely forgetting to bring his dinner the other evening--are hard to excuse.

But one of my biggest concerns is being met: the amount of time he's spending in therapy is at least double what it was, and it's all one-on-one rather than group. This is huge, because it's hard to imagine having him home if he's still not able to make it out of bed without assistance. Moreover, he never warmed to the physical therapist at the last place, but so far everyone on the time here has been great. Also, after four months in places who make a fetish out of isolating patients from the out-of-doors as much as humanly possible, we finally have a patio we can go to (even if it requires a damn hall pass to get him out there). The alone is worth worlds.