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We need to take care of our own – all of them
Op-Ed Commentary
There is just all this stuff. And I don’t know where to put it.
When my thrift store loving, borderline clothes hoarding sister Daphne died two years ago, her parting joke was leaving me her collection of clothing and shoes. That was a lot of stuff. But I sorted it, donated the bulk of it, kept the hippy sweaters to give various nieces, nephews and grandsons as they grow up. A bit her of for them.
I cannot speak out loud of Daphne, not in a memorial way. I felt my throat close up when I was supposed to say a few words at our sibling gathering at FamCamp the summer after she died.
The things I need to say, I will say to the ocean one day on a beach in Costa Rica. I promised her that.
When my friend Deb died it was like losing another sister. I felt (and she would love that I am using this term in her own marvellously dark, twisted way) eviscerated. I made a point of standing in line to tell John Barrowman she loved him at Expo last year. Not sure he cared, but I did. And it needed to be done. She suffered no fools and had a brand of tough love that brooked no argument. I hear her in the back of my head even now, telling me to “get it together, Debdammit.”
When my dad died just before this past Christmas, it was like the trifecta of heartbreak was complete. And I am not certain I can sustain another loss for a while, so everyone just buckle up, eat your greens and take things slow.
I will not say one loss was harder than the other, because all were hard for their own reasons.
But my dad… to watch my tall, powerful Daddio defeated by time and cruel circumstance… that was a whole new level of difficult.
Dad, when things went south in the last couple of years of your life, and then sharply south again last spring and summer, I talked the family into bringing you back to the valley. I was sure it would all go smoothly, that there would be a wonderful long term care room for you in no time.
But I was wrong. I failed. The system definitely failed. That room never came. Instead you moved in with Sharon, and she and Dennis gave you a better final few months that we could have hoped for.
When the first respite date was cancelled, Sharon asked if we could bring you here to the ranch for a week. Neither Tony nor I hesitated. Of course you could come stay with us. And while I think I got about eight total of hours sleep that entire week, it was such a gift to have that time with you.
I made all the treats I could think of, we talked about your grandmother and her mother and their healing prowess. You pored over an old atlas as best you could, looking for spots you had visited.
I asked for stories, as did Tony, and you were happy to oblige. You would nap in the chair by the window, the sun warming you, cat curled up on your lap, the dogs your wake up call, kissing you in the ear whenever they came in. You woke up smiling every time.
There were moments you were frustrated. Moments I felt woefully inadequate to take care of you. But mostly, there was love.
Sometimes, when you were looking into the distance, I could see the man you were once, the man you still were inside, looking out, angry at the betrayal of your body. I had to hide my tears then, wishing desperately I could fix things for you. It was just so unfair.
But I am so thankful for that time. I never seemed to have any before. I worked constantly, and did not make the time I should have with you.
I am so sorry for that. Your last year was a difficult one, and I am thankful you are at peace now.
So much stuff. Bags and bags of it.
But also a new awareness of the state of our elder care in this country. The woeful lack of beds, an even more woeful lack of funding for both beds and staff.
I will never be able to adequately thank my sister Sharon and her son for taking such loving care of dad the last few of months of his life. The only other option we had was to ship him away to some other town in some other facility, and she stepped up in a way none of the rest of us could, in a way few people actually can. Being sent away to another place must be like a prison sentence for many seniors. Even if the care is exemplary, being ripped away from your family and community for committing the heinous sin of growing older and needing care is cruel in the extreme, and speaks volumes about where our society is failing.
Acute care is no place for a lonely senior, staying at home is just not an option for many. If a family member cannot for whatever reason take them in, we need to ensure there is safe, welcoming place they can be… that they can afford.
Anyone caring for a senior should be helped financially to make it possible to have them at home, the narrow parameters for what assistance there is made wider and more accessible.
What we have here in Invermere for senior’s residence is good, but there is simply not enough. Not nearly. And I doubt we are unique in that scenario.
(Quite frankly, housing in general is a crisis scenario. More on that soon, trust me, but right now I am talking about seniors).
There are more of us aging than not. If you have a parent or loved one who is going to need to live in a place like Columbia or Ivy House, or if you are going to need to, understand this: there is no room right now, and the waiting list is long.
Our youngest and oldest community members are our most vulnerable. We need to ensure when they are young and their parent(s) need childcare it is available and affordable. And we need to ensure when our seniors need a care home, it is there. And we need to ensure that if a family member is willing and able to help in either situation that we help make that financially feasible.
I feel fairly confident that the nurses, doctors and care aides all have similar sentiments.
To all our members of local, regional, provincial and federal government, if you are not already aware, you need to be. You need to talk to people who are waiting. And talk to people who have been placed far from home. You need to hear the stories, see the tears, hear the hurt in their voices. And you must not shy away from throwing out every idea you have and insisting your fellow elected do the same. Keep at it doggedly enough and you will come up with something. You have the studies. Now for the action.
My dad was so lucky to have first one of my sisters help him stay independent as long as he did and another care for him at the end of his life. It was not easy for either, not by a long shot, but he had them.
Far more are not that lucky.
We need to take care of our own… ALL of them.
– Stephanie Stevens is a Columbia Valley based writer and rancher.