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| Sentinel Photo by John Clifford |
As recently reported in the North Shore News, I have been retained to explore the feasibility of a seniors care facility on the site of West Vancouver's former Pierwell condominium development that has sadly gone into receivership. I was recently discussing this with some friends who asked why more seniors don't band together and build their own collective residence with a live-in chauffeur and care provider, rather than move into a larger facility.
This reminded me of a 2008 English article my dear friend Leonora Gaylor once sent me. I promised toshare it with my friends, but thought it might be of interest to some of you. After all, many of us are approaching our 80s and starting to wonder where we might be living next.
While this article is somewhat dated, and the English references may be a bit obtuse, I think the message is as relevant today as it was in 2008.
From The Times, August 14, 2008
Wine and fags make a good pension plan
By Carol Midgley
How very dreary that the staff of a Cornwall
care home that granted a 90-year-old woman her lifelong wish to be served fish
and chips by a man wearing a thong have been forced to apologize.
Apologize? What in God's name for? Where
would you rather end up - the type of old folks' home where the staff respect
that you are still a functioning being with a sense of humour, or the other
sort where you're left to marinate in your own urine, your boiled mince just
out of reach, while the “carers” stand around checking their eyeliner, waiting
for you to die but preferably not on their shift?
We are always hearing about places where
elderly people are addressed as if they were dribbling babies, made to share
underwear and slapped if they don't go to the toilet at the required time. So,
we should be cock-a-hoop that there's at least one - Woodland House, St Austell
- where the staff are prepared literally to get their kit off to brighten their
residents' lives.
Because everybody - absolutely everybody -
dreads ending their days in a smelly, callous care home wearing someone else's
false teeth. It's a definition of hell and an ever-looming spectre, yet we
frequently push it away because it's too grotesque to contemplate.
Women worry about it more than men. They
live, on average, seven years longer so will be stuck in that dreary day room
with its ever-blaring TV for more interminable hours. Which is why people
should do what Lorna Page has just done. Lorna, 93, recently had her first
novel published and, with the earnings, bought a big house in Weare Gifford,
Devon. Then she invited all her friends who are unhappy in their care homes to
live with her instead, the plan being that they'll all look after each other.
Unsurprisingly there has been an old-lady stampede. “Care homes can be such
miserable places,” says Lorna. “You sit there all day staring out the window
with no one to talk to... I've had dozens of offers. They are queueing up.”
I bet they are. I might even join the queue
myself. Who wouldn't swap the constant reek of cabbage and Sanilav for a Golden
Girls existence where you can get pie-eyed mixing your medication with gin and
watching 60 Minute Makeover with your mates each day? It would be a bit like
sharing a student house again but without the sex.
It's amazing that more of us don't do it (the
living together, not the sex). People are surviving longer and often sitting on
mortgage-free properties. Why not, if the need arrives, pool our resources and
bow out of life to the tune of a continual party, surrounded by people we like,
not resentful strangers? It would save your grown-up children visiting once a
week to watch the vacant expression on your face as you answer that, yes, it
was stew for lunch again and, no, you don't want any more Lucozade.
Yet we don't. We sleepwalk into the purgatory
that we've dreaded for 20 years and submit to a fate of God knows what. I know
some nursing homes are good, but many are bad. Worse than bad. The Commission
for Social Care Inspection this year produced a report that said hundreds of
care and nursing homes were so poorly run that they were a danger to residents.
Investigators uncovered examples of residents being routinely tied to their
beds and chairs, locked up or dragged around by their hair. Some were refused
food to punish “bad behaviour”. One woman of 85 had her fingernails ripped off
by a care worker, and a 78-year-old was covered in cigarette burns.
I must say that when I read things like this
it makes me wonder why everyone is so obsessed with prolonging their lives into
advanced old age, watching their alcohol units, wagging their fingers at an
iced eclair and throwing themselves around a gym three times a week. We may as
well say: “I must finish this 20k run because then I'll maximize the amount of
time I'm alive to spend sitting around in purple crimplene trousers four sizes
too big while a Nurse Ratched figure batters me with a wooden spoon.”
Surely the best policy if you hit 78 and look
like you're heading for the Shady Pines Hell Hole is to quickly double your
wine intake, up the fags by ten a day and if you don't already smoke, start. I
am serious. I have friends who solemnly declare that their real “pension plan”
is to drink themselves to death in a haze of tobacco and enjoy it. I see their
point.
The OAP days could be some of the happiest
and most hedonistic of your life, free from the middle-age checklist of
constantly having to be somewhere, doing something, answering to someone. In
Liverpool, where I live, pubs have “Mad Mondays” when pensioners pay £1 a pint
and spend all day merry on the karaoke. Sometimes I peer wistfully through the
window as I hurry past in my work heels.
Reports this week claim that care for elderly
and infirm people could soon be stripped from local authority control to end
the “postcode lottery” in which standards of care differ hugely across the
country. Fine, but I reckon that we should take matters into our own hands.
Make a pact with your friends to set up that commune and start stockpiling the
sherry today. You may end your days half-cut but that's a far brighter prospect
than wasting away on a wipe-down chair wearing a stranger's knickers.
If Gordon Brown has any holiday spending
money left, he should send a big tray of piña coladas round to the Policy
Exchange. Just when some in Labour's northern heartlands were beginning to thaw
towards the Tories, up pops David Cameron's favourite think-tank with a report
that suggests abandoning northern cities such as Liverpool and Sunderland and
urging their residents to move south. Cameron has quickly distanced himself
from the report, but it's no good. The scary ghost of Thatcher Past rises.
Before this Mr. Cameron could have expected a slightly warmer welcome than
usual when he visits Merseyside today. Now, judging by the reaction up here,
he's more likely to get a Kirkby Kiss.
