My Husband: The Saga Continues

I’ve reached the state in which so many of us older women dwell.  I married for better.  I married for worse.  Now it’s worse.

In 2013 my husband fell on his head and had a brain bleed.  I won’t even go into the recovery/non-recovery, when I spent weeks thinking I was about to become a widow.  But I will relate the intense anger I felt toward a rehabilitation doctor, who told me in the first eight hours that my husband wouldn’t recover.

Fast forward.  My husband continued to “work” for two years, thus increasing his pension.  How grateful I am for that.  But work stopped.  Then he was home with nothing to do, no one to see—except me.

My daughter and I decided we needed a vacation from life.  Looking around, I discovered I could put my husband in respite care.  He loved it.  He didn’t tell me.  Perhaps he was afraid of offending me?  But over the phone, he told my daughter that that’s where he wanted to be.

So within a week of coming back home, I had him in his first assisted living establishment.  (Let me put in an aside here.  I have been looked at weirdly by friends, acquaintances, and doctors when I say my husband’s in assisted living—alone.  Like, I should feel guilty?  I definitely don’t need assisted living.  I don’t want to be crammed into a small apartment, not have my garden, not have my freedom?  NO.  So drop your guilt bomb on someone else.)

My husband was very happy in his first place and so was I, as it was just next to my favorite pizza haunt.  But then people started dying, and the activities director left.  He absolutely hated the new one.  He wanted to move.

So what can I do?  As a wife, I listen.

Next up, a religious assisted living place.  How wonderful that they kept all the holidays.  But the food sucked.  And there were no activities for two days as they observed the Sabbath.  And then, you guess it, the activities director left.

“I want to move!”

Finally, I moved him into a new place in a ex-urban setting I had my eye on as it was being built.  Because he was mobile, etc., he went into independent living.  He was so happy.  He made friends immediately.  He loved the activities and the outings.  True, he didn’t do too well, preparing one meal a day, but he survived.  Until he fell and spent 14 hours on the floor, after which hospital and rehab.

I kept him in the same establishment but in assisted living.  He could no longer eat with his friends.  New friends were hard to come by.  When he made one, they’d move out.  Then his best friend from independent living went into memory care.

Meanwhile, my husband was deteriorating, mentally and physically.  We had to hire a caregiver because, even though this was assisted living, no one was around to assist.

True, the money was draining away, but I was willing to keep him there until they upped the level of his care, which upped the level of the cost, despite telling me straight to my face there would be no change to the expense.  The next day I got a bill that not only increased that month’s bill, but also they billed retroactively.

Recourse, anyone?  Well, those of you who have dealt with such establishments know about turnover.  Constant turnover.  Emails with the fourth executive director in a year got no response.  A meeting with him was limited.  I asked for a detailed description of the difference in services between levels and, guess what, nothing was forthcoming.

Then with this “excellent” care, my husband kept falling.  One time he had a bruise on his forehead.  But because it wasn’t reported, it didn’t happen.  The continued abuse of trust was magnified.

Time to get the hell out of there.

I called “A Place for Mom.”  Big mistake.  I didn’t realize they were a referral agency.  Ten minutes after I spoke to one of their “counselors,” I was inundated with calls from places I wouldn’t even consider.

After much touring, I found a place inconveniently located for me, but it had a nice feel about it.  They don’t allow private caregivers, but they assure me they’re perfectly able to take care of my husband.  We shall see.  But this has to be the last move because one of us isn’t going to survive another.  That someone is me!

I’m not alone in all this.  I don’t have a single friend who’s not taking care of her husband.  And I don’t know a single man who’s taking care of his wife.  Are men the weaker of the species? Yes.  But is this what we deserve?  Are memories the only joy we have to fall back on ?

But no choice, right?  Because for better—for worse.