off, staring into space, moving wet lips silently as if in prayer, picking invisible things off their skin and clothes, their frail bodies bent at near impossible angles in wheelchairs and hospital beds.
“If you look at the schedule on the wall there, you’ll see we have interesting and uplifting activities virtually every day,” Stockwell went on. “This afternoon, for example, we have a singalong with the choir director from a local church and you wouldn’t believe how she gets them singing. We have art classes, movies, bingo. Always something going on.”
I looked at one birdlike old girl twisted in a wheelchair. Her fine white hair floated up off her mottled scalp and washeld by static to the headrest of her wheelchair. Her cloudy gaze wasn’t focused on anything I could see.
Not everyone had something going on.
Stockwell moved us through the dining room, where she sang the praises of the staff dietitian and low-sodium, low-everything-else menu, then took us along a hallway that led to the residential wards.
“What’s through there?” I asked as we passed a pebbled glass door marked Private.
“The staff offices and lounge.”
Stockwell used a pass card to open the door to the locked ward. Most of the residents were in the dining room or day room, so she let us peer into rooms whose doors were open. There were both private and semi-private rooms, all with washrooms equipped with safety bars, non-slip surfaces and cords that could be yanked to summon help. Each room had different furniture, some of it quite old.
“Residents can bring their own furniture if it fits,” Stockwell explained. “They’re often comforted by familiar things. It can be the difference between feeling like they’re in an institution or at home.”
“That’s good to know,” I said. “Mom is very attached to her things.”
“As Ms. Tunney probably explained, the government sets the basic accommodation rate on July 1 of every year,” Stockwell said. “That’s this coming Saturday, of course, and the rates will undoubtedly be going up, but since you came in today I’ll guarantee you this year’s rates even if you sign next week.”
“That’s very kind.”
“The basic rate would put your mother into a semi-private room. Many families prefer to upgrade their parents to private—it’s more restful that way. There is of course a premium for that but we can go over the fee schedule at the end of your visit.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Dad left Mom well cared for when he passed.” Our financial status thus assured, I cut closer to the chase. “Would Mom’s physician have privileges here?”
“Yes, if need be. But we are fortunate to have an extremely dedicated and capable medical director, Dr. Paul Bader, who works out of this very facility. Very well known in his field. Most families find it more convenient to have him supervise their loved one’s care because he can keep better track of their condition and respond more quickly to any emergency.”
There it was. The first push toward Bader.
“How long has he been with you?” I asked Stockwell.
“About two years.”
“He moves around a lot.”
“I’m sorry?” Her gaze sharpened a little.
“I looked at his biography on your website and he seems to have worked in a lot of different places. Should we be concerned?”
“On the contrary. I think it’s a credit to his abilities that so many institutions have wanted him on staff,” she said.
“Is he here today? Can we meet him?”
“I’ll have to check his office.”
“Please do.”
Stockwell looked us both over, worked up a passable smile and walked to a nursing station at the far end of the corridor to make the call.
“Whatever they’re up to, she’s in on it,” Jenn said.
“Right up to her chignon. Listen, when we meet Bader, let’s see if we can find where they keep the medication records. If the opportunity arises, say you need the washroom and scope it out.”
“Looking
“If you look at the schedule on the wall there, you’ll see we have interesting and uplifting activities virtually every day,” Stockwell went on. “This afternoon, for example, we have a singalong with the choir director from a local church and you wouldn’t believe how she gets them singing. We have art classes, movies, bingo. Always something going on.”
I looked at one birdlike old girl twisted in a wheelchair. Her fine white hair floated up off her mottled scalp and washeld by static to the headrest of her wheelchair. Her cloudy gaze wasn’t focused on anything I could see.
Not everyone had something going on.
Stockwell moved us through the dining room, where she sang the praises of the staff dietitian and low-sodium, low-everything-else menu, then took us along a hallway that led to the residential wards.
“What’s through there?” I asked as we passed a pebbled glass door marked Private.
“The staff offices and lounge.”
Stockwell used a pass card to open the door to the locked ward. Most of the residents were in the dining room or day room, so she let us peer into rooms whose doors were open. There were both private and semi-private rooms, all with washrooms equipped with safety bars, non-slip surfaces and cords that could be yanked to summon help. Each room had different furniture, some of it quite old.
“Residents can bring their own furniture if it fits,” Stockwell explained. “They’re often comforted by familiar things. It can be the difference between feeling like they’re in an institution or at home.”
“That’s good to know,” I said. “Mom is very attached to her things.”
“As Ms. Tunney probably explained, the government sets the basic accommodation rate on July 1 of every year,” Stockwell said. “That’s this coming Saturday, of course, and the rates will undoubtedly be going up, but since you came in today I’ll guarantee you this year’s rates even if you sign next week.”
“That’s very kind.”
“The basic rate would put your mother into a semi-private room. Many families prefer to upgrade their parents to private—it’s more restful that way. There is of course a premium for that but we can go over the fee schedule at the end of your visit.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Dad left Mom well cared for when he passed.” Our financial status thus assured, I cut closer to the chase. “Would Mom’s physician have privileges here?”
“Yes, if need be. But we are fortunate to have an extremely dedicated and capable medical director, Dr. Paul Bader, who works out of this very facility. Very well known in his field. Most families find it more convenient to have him supervise their loved one’s care because he can keep better track of their condition and respond more quickly to any emergency.”
There it was. The first push toward Bader.
“How long has he been with you?” I asked Stockwell.
“About two years.”
“He moves around a lot.”
“I’m sorry?” Her gaze sharpened a little.
“I looked at his biography on your website and he seems to have worked in a lot of different places. Should we be concerned?”
“On the contrary. I think it’s a credit to his abilities that so many institutions have wanted him on staff,” she said.
“Is he here today? Can we meet him?”
“I’ll have to check his office.”
“Please do.”
Stockwell looked us both over, worked up a passable smile and walked to a nursing station at the far end of the corridor to make the call.
“Whatever they’re up to, she’s in on it,” Jenn said.
“Right up to her chignon. Listen, when we meet Bader, let’s see if we can find where they keep the medication records. If the opportunity arises, say you need the washroom and scope it out.”
“Looking
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