Free Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney Page B

could have stayed overnight with him, but I didn’t know I had that option. Once he was settled in his room, I left him alone and went home. What was I thinking!
    When I returned at 6:30 in the morning, a nurse said, “Mr. Tierney got out of bed and was walking around the corridors looking for his wife.” “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked. They had no answer to that. The solution? They gave him Ativan for sleep. And they gave this confused, drug-sensitive, ambulatory dementia patient more than one dose. When I arrived, he was in bed – out cold. When he finally came out of his drugged state, he could barely sit up, much less stand, and, when he did, he managed to climb out of bed, moving like a drunk and promptly urinated on the floor.
    This was the morning that the social workers from the different nursing homes and assisted-living facilities were scheduled to evaluate him. When they came into his room, what they saw was a helpless man who could barely stand; the assisted-living residences rejected him. In fact, only one skilled nursing home accepted him.
    Because he was being discharged from a hospital directly to a nursing home, Medicare paid the charges. A courtesy van took us to the facility. Everyone was gracious. I was feeling hopeful. Maybe a ‘home’ would be better for him. The administration understood we were ‘trying it out’ for two weeks.
    Jim was given a pretty room with a couch for me. I slept when Jim did, woke up quietly around 3:00 am, tiptoed out to go home, shower, change and return by 4:00. I selected his meals from a list of splendid choices. We were served at a long table in a private dining room where other patients ate as well – unaided. Jim only said, “Hello.”
    But why did they wake him by turning on his lights at midnight to check on him? Why were breakfast, shift change and shower all scheduled for 7:00? The staff could only do so much, so I helped him shower, dress and go to the breakfast room by 7:00. I thought, “What is going to happen if I am not here to help?” Meanwhile, Jim kept saying, “I want to go back over the bridge.” True, I understood that he needed time to adjust, but what was I doing? How long could I keep driving back and forth in the middle of the night to be sure that he was showered, dressed and ready for breakfast? And, no surprise, the staff readily accepted my help.
    For Jim to remain Medicare-eligible at the facility, he needed physical therapy, and he refused it. Quite simply, he would not participate, unless the “leader,” Denny, approved. Denny did not work at the nursing facility; he worked at the Rehab Center. Jim was adamant; the leader had to approve. Clearly, he wasn’t going to meet Medicare’s requirements.
    During the week, a minister came into Jim’s room, sat down on the sofa beside him and patted his hand. “You are a Catholic, aren’t you?” he said. Jim looked down at the hand resting on his own, lifted the man’s hand and removed it, then graciously said, “Excuse me, my wife and I are late to lunch.” Jim took my hand and walked me out of the room with the bewildered minister looking on.
    Jim didn’t meet Medicare’s requirements at the time; he wanted to go home, and I was pooped. I had gone home as usual in the middle of the night, but this time, I had delayed my return until mid-afternoon. When I returned, Jim was packing and wanted to go back “over the bridge.” We went home. I had tried ‘putting him away’ – for all of a week.
    After our sojourn I was more determined to maintain Jim at home, to give him care and security and whatever modicum of joy I could. Being at home meant no schedules and no other residents. He could wake up when he wanted, take an hour to eat, or start a meal and finish it later. He could eat what I knew he liked – fish, seafood and more fish. He could shower when he