Jenn said, “Oh, dickhead dear?”
“Yes, honeypants?”
“The door?”
I held it open for her and we walked into the lobby. It was airy and inviting, with a terrazzo floor and fieldstone walls and light pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. A fountain burbled water into a small pool on the left side; on the right was a security desk where a burly man in a navy blazer watched a bank of monitors showing closed-circuit feeds. His name tag identified him as John. I signed us in as Mr. amp; Mrs. Allan Gold. The cameras, from what I could see, covered all entrances to the building, as well as a number of corridors and common areas.
When we asked John about a tour of the facility, he pointed at a slim, handsome woman of fifty or so across the lobby. She wore a cream silk jacket and skirt, and her blonde hair was pulled back into a chignon. “Ms. Stockwell is the administrator here. She’ll just be a moment.”
Alice Stockwell was engaged in a serious conversation with an earnest young man in a gorgeously tailored lightweight grey suit. I wondered if he was here to place a parent, or already had one in residence. Either way, he seemed displeased, lecturing Stockwell urgently through tight lips. Maybe he was another dissatisfied client like Errol Boyko, who feared something was amiss with his parent’s care. But Stockwell must have allayed his concerns because they finally shook hands and he headed out the glass doors.
She came clicking over the tile floor toward us, hand extended, and we introduced ourselves without any flubs.
“Did you have an appointment, Mr. Gold?”
I shook my head apologetically. “Ms. Tunney did say we should call ahead but I’ve had so much on my mind since Mom’s stroke…”
“Darlene Tunney referred you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“She had great things to say,” Jenn added. “You should be proud.”
“Then I don’t see any problem,” Stockwell said, all sympathy but for the one quick look she flashed Jenn: taller, younger, blonder than she. Like one Siamese fighting fish finding another in the same aquarium.
“Before I show you the facility, tell me about your mother. You mentioned a stroke. Would you say the effects are mainly physical or cognitive as well?”
I had decided to make “Mom” sound as incapacitated, and therefore vulnerable, as possible. “Both.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” Stockwell said.
“She can’t remember things from one minute to the next,” I said with a downcast look. “I’m afraid if she’s left alone she’ll turn on the stove and forget about it, or take her medication more than once-or not at all.” Jenn put her hand on my shoulder and patted it for support.
“And she’s on so many medications,” I added. “Even before the stroke she was dealing with diabetes and high blood pressure. I take it the staff here is well trained in dispensing medication?”
She smiled coolly. “As good as you’d find in any hospital.”
Given the state of health care in Ontario these days that was hardly a ringing endorsement, but I smiled back as if reassured.
“Let’s start our tour at the front desk, with our state-of-the-art security system,” Stockwell said. Big John took his cue and stared intently at his bank of monitors. “We watch every exit and entrance around the clock to ensure no one wanders. That’s very important for clients like your mother, Mr. Gold. If they leave the home-which does happen at less vigilant facilities-they die of exposure, hypothermia, dehydration. They get hit by cars. It’s terrible. And it simply will not happen at Meadowvale, will it, John?”
“Not on my watch, ma’am.”
The script was corny but I gave them points for tight execution.
Stockwell led us across the lobby toward three glass doors, our steps echoing off the stone walls. “Through the door on the left is a locked ward where clients with cognitive deficits reside. In addition to the cameras, all the doors in that wing are alarmed for extra security. Straight ahead through the middle door are the common areas: the dining room, day room, games room, clinic, dispensary and so on.”
“Dispensary?” I asked.
“An on-site pharmacy where medications are kept and distributed. And on the right is where people who are still functioning and ambulatory reside. They don’t need the same level of care and monitoring as someone like your mother would. Why don’t we visit the common areas first,” Stockwell suggested. “Lunch is over but you can see the sort of activities and interaction that take place on a typical day.”
We went through the door into a hallway that led to a large sunny room whose windows faced out onto the grounds. There were forty or fifty residents in the room, along with a dozen or so attendants, all black or Filipina. “There is at least one registered nurse on duty at all times,” Stockwell said, “along with nurse’s aides and caregivers.”
About half of the residents in the room were involved in some kind of activity: playing cards, backgammon, chess or checkers, chatting in groups or watching television in a semicircle of wheelchairs and club chairs. The others were lost in their own worlds: nodding 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 was held 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.”