Odds and An End

The kitchen was the least efficient area of the facility with resignations and firings common. Some days one person had to prepare one or more meals. During the week-long flu outbreak, the staffing was particularly stressed, with illness added to the mix.

The smells emanating from the kitchen were as indistinguishable as the food, and not always pleasant, and I still doubt that eggs for breakfast an average of five days a week is particularly healthy.

An inordinate number of the staff are related to each other and/or the residents. I can't prove that means anything.

Three regular forms of "entertainment" were not for me:

Bingo -- It's boring even if you're playing with people who can understand, stay awake and pay attention.

"The Price Is Right" -- It's always annoying, especially as background noise every weekday morning, and

The community sing -- Call it fun, call it church, call me gone.

I almost forgot to tell you about the older social services lady who scurried about the facility. With a shock of bleached blonde hair, she floated like a wraith in her ankle-length black or deep maroon dresses with black shoes and black nylons. No, really, every day.

I knew it was time to leave when I began to look forward to the "Ice Cream Social" each Friday. (After all, it was REAL ice cream with Hershey syrup. . . . )

The facility provided one final annoyance (until I see the bill). They told me a walker and a wheelchair would be delivered to my home. I would rent the chair for $35 a month and insurance would cover the cost of the walker. It turns out that, although the medical supply house's yellow page advertisement promises delivery "in the county and surrounding areas," that doesn't mean 10-12 miles into the adjacent county, even though I suspect the UPS rates are pretty much standard for the whole state.

When my daughter went to pick them up, the wheelchair rental was actually $5 per day. I'm doing without. For the walker, they wanted the money up front. I got them on the phone and assured them the insurance would cover it. "No, that's not our procedure," they said.

"Perhaps I should go somewhere else," I said.

My daughter was given the walker, nothing down, but with the admonition, "Good luck with your father." Was that a double entendre?