Taking Care
by Alice D. Outwater, Ph.D.

Assisted Living At Its Best

“Your husband is in assisted living at Converse Home,” someone said to me.
As late summer turned to fall, John began losing his mental footing while I was desperately clinging to hold onto mine. His reasoning processes changed weekly. As his energy faded, his frustrations increased.
John is an engineer. Forty years ago, in addition to teaching in the Mechanical Engineering Department at the University of Vermont, he started a one-man business in the basement, manufacturing machines to test materials in labs and to make plastic piping in third-world countries. He shipped them all over the world. He spent many gratifying hours doing this. Every few years he invented a new machine to add to the inventory. And even now inquiries come in from companies.
Fifteen rather steep stairs descend to our basement; they end on a cement floor. Over his stern objections, I summoned the carpenter to build a railing -- and noticed he immediately grasped it to steady himself while going down. This gave me comfort for his safety.
By October, John would laboriously climb the stairs, slump in a chair and say, “I can’t remember how to put the darn machine together.”
I attempted to keep a modified version of my regular schedule, but the days became exhausting for us both. I kept trying to help him back to how he had been in the summer, with a memory that didn’t betray him. But that just wasn’t possible.
As winter approached, I had dif-
ficulty coaxing him to accompany me downtown and stroll up Church Street. “You must get out or you’ll lose your muscles and be in a wheelchair,” I’d say. His warm jacket was cumbersome to put on, then came the hat, gloves, finding his cane, and an unsteady walk to the car. This became arduous with his skimpy energy; yet he would return somewhat refreshed from our little forays.
I signed us both up for physical therapy and later for an elderly exercise class. New things pique his curiosity, but after three sessions he announced, “It’s ridiculous and does me no good. That’s it.” I exhausted every avenue to maintain his mobility. A helper coming in was of no use because John just sat and read, then fell asleep and didn’t want to be disturbed. Few friends dropped in for visits. I assume it was difficult for them to see this once energetic man so changed. His isolation intensified.
Our daughter, Anne, spent four months with us as she finished her Ph.D. thesis for Johns Hopkins University. She observed her father’s decline. Before returning to Tanzania, she said bluntly, “This isn’t working. Dad needs to be in a safe place with no stairs and a staff on hand. None of us can give him what he needs. I’m not leaving until you decide what to do.”
His doctor gave him a physical and confirmed he must be in a facility while he still had the skills to adjust. Anne and I looked into all possibilities and chose Converse Home. It is a handsome yellow brick building, built around 1850 for the first president of UVM. It eventually expanded as a health facility for 55 residents, then was recently renovated and seemed more like an inn. Fresh flowers and a grandfather’s clock in the reception area were welcoming.
Our children came and we all had dinner together at Converse Home. John liked it immediately and agreed to try it for ten days. I then went away and returned. The head nurse surprised me: “Oh, he’s so mannerly, a lovely old-fashioned man with his dignified ways. Everyone likes him here. We would be happy to have him permanently. You need to ask how he feels about staying.”
John had no hesitation, “I like this place, and the food is delicious. The staff are courteous; I lack for nothing. Yes, it’s just fine with me to stay but only if you’ll visit often.”
By now he had a walker, so being tottery was no longer a problem. He got exercise up and down the halls to the five public rooms and dining room. Everyone delights in mealtime with white tablecloths on the tables, ice water in goblets, and a choice of menu. Champlain students wait on the tables, adding their youthful energy. A tray of various ice creams in fluted glass dishes are offered for dessert. Nothing is rushed, none of the staff seem tired or overstressed.
There are benches in the rear area facing the lawn and vegetable garden, even a glass-topped picnic table with an impressive umbrella on the patio near the stone wall. A tiny hummingbird leaves her house to seek nectar from the flowers nearby. Songs of other birds fill the air.
Now with pleasant weather, he sits in the lovely garden or waits for my daily visits under the pergola in front. He is always delighted to see me. Our conversations are limited, his stories repetitive. I’ve heard them dozens of times and yet I am still intrigued.
I hold his hand when he says, “Oh, Alice, I’m sorry. I’m not much of a husband anymore,, but how I love you. I can’t seem to do better.”
“You’re just fine as you are,” I reassure him. He’s 86 years old, and we’ve had 56 years of marriage. We raised four children, had numerous adventures throughout the world, climbed mountains in the Alps, bicycled through France, rode camels in Egypt and elephants in Sri Lanka, been on adventures in Africa and the far East. Some days I bring a photo album of one of our trips, and we chuckle over how young we looked and how vigorous we were.
I’ll always love him, he still fascinates me. I never, ever met a man as attractive as he is. Finally I’ve accepted how he is. He surprises me now and then with a pithy observation. Childhood memories of England and summers in Norway are vivid. He still speaks Norwegian fluently. Yet he can’t always recall what he did that same morning.
There’s pride in his voice as he assures me, “I’m being nice to everyone here and making an effort to fit in. But they’re so old with grey hair and that is boring.”
I’m grateful he’s content and living in dignity in this agreeable place. Staff members are kind beyond belief, address everyone by name and attend to his physical needs. Laundry is done regularly, folded and put in his bureau drawers. A helper knocks on his door, Free Press in hand, to alert him that breakfast time is near. Does he need help dressing this morning?
He no longer yearns to make machines. The rhythm is slower here, as are the residents. People come and go -- to visit or do maintenance -- but there’s nothing jarring or unexpected. He joins in some of the activities and excursions. This is a soothing place to be and a delight to visit. Under the circumstances it’s as good as it gets.
We’ve both been blessed.