I HATE Nursing Homes

Ok, this is going to be just a rant about the conditions of one nursing home. Namely the one my father was in until 10/29 (best birthday present ever was getting to drive him home that Friday). However in talking with others I’ve found that many of my experiences are in fact shared.
I’m going to go through this more or less as a narrative of the kind of shit I saw during my father’s experience there. So, with that, here’s my story.



Service:
When you hit a button in a hospital emergency room within seconds you’ll either get an intercom with a nurse or the nurse themselves. Even in a standard room (non-ER) you’ll see someone in just a few minutes. I kid you not several times my father (or others in his room) hit their buttons a Starbucks barista could punch out 90 espresso shots in the time it took to get a response. And mind you where we were there was no intercom, but the nursing station was literally outside his door. Which leaves us at this: I’ve heard of nowhere where there is enough staff to take care of all ‘residents’ (they’re really patients, but you’d never hear this word uttered) located within. Mind you there are setups, hospices and Assisted Living Centers, where the staff to patient ratio is much better but at the same time the cost is extraordinarily higher. But for that cost they get much better care in their end years. This leads to my next item.

Suffering and Death:

Just as life is precious so too are your twilight years. As I have, over the years, have had my parents in nursing homes for temporary care I can tell you there are better places and ways to spend them. Like getting run over by a Semi or jumping off a cliff. My parents both have survived the ordeal of nursing homes for one simple reason: They weren’t going there to die. That’s what 99.99999% of the people who are placed in these hell holes are expected to do. 

And let’s not just talk about generalities, as real world experience of pain and suffering were more the evident on my father’s recent trip. Every room at this place had 3 beds, labeled A, B, and C. I’ll go through my father’s roommates hence:

• First night my father got there he was placed in Bed B. Bed C was taken by a man suffering the end result of a brain tumor. And though his wife, who was there taking care of him, was nice I could sense the drain on her soul this was all taking (3 years, she told me). Well, her wait wasn’t long for the next morning her husband was unresponsive, and by that evening passed on. My father, oddly, asked to take over his bed. It was right by the window, the only sunlight in the whole room. He remained there until I got him out that Friday. The man himself wasn't much better that night, as I remember them using a patient crane to move him to the bathroom and back while we were getting my father settled in to his stay. When I did peek around the curtains he just had a sheet draped over him, emaciated and pale skin, a shell where a person once was. 
• Taking over Bed B from my father was a man I will just refer to as Moan. Sadly Moan had 2 major issues: He was suffering from dementia, in the now at one moment, back in the past with no clue of the present in the next. The other problem was bed sores. For those whom might not know there are 4 levels of them, with 4 being the worst. He had stage 3. By what my sister, who works in an assisted living center, told me takes months of lying in the same position to acquire. And thus he got his name from these, as it sounded like a Navaho Indian revival when they came in to turn him. You’d just need a beating drum and the image would be set. Except it would be sad, as it was the man slowly dying. 
• In Bed A for the most of my father stay was a man we'll name Gone. Terminal colon cancer. (I seem to remember the line, right now, from Fight Club that went like "I am Jack's colon. I get cancer, I kill Jack.") Gone stayed an incredible 19 days in the home. I say incredible because at one point early on he was told that, basically, he wasn't dying fast enough. Not directly those words, but something close (never did find out the reason). When told this Gone's reply was "If you let me out of here, I will stand out in front of the first car I see and die." That ended that discussion as I guess the thought of having a release/suicide on their hands was less appealing that letting him stay. Next to Moan I say he had the worst outlook of all. 
• After Gone, well, went gone several more people occupied Bed A. The last man there (I don't feel like getting a cutsie name for) suffered from major dementia. When his family was there he was fine. Without them he was back to his children's childhoods. I remember the first time I saw him and walked by to go see my dad a few Sundays back. As I walked by he yelled "Damn it Debbie, I told you again don't go running by the water!" Oddly, given everything else I had been through and seen I didn't bat an eyelash as I continued walking. Debbie was his daughter's name, and he was back in a time and place long past but real in his mind. 

Ok, this just turned into a really long post. I'm glad to have my father home, and that matters more than what I saw there and my gripes about it.