The nurse was calm and patient.  She spent time talking with David about his work as a reference librarian and about his move to the apartment, putting him at ease as much as possible before beginning the assessment.  Then out came the MoCA.  David and I rolled our eyes at each other.  I pretended to read while the nurse took David through the assessment.

Later that day, the nurse called me.  “He’s nowhere near the point of needing memory care,” she said.  “His assessments were good, and his living situation seems safe.  You’re providing the support he needs, so I’m not concerned about his medications or activities of daily living.  We can meet again if his condition progresses and you want another evaluation, but for now he’s just fine where he is.”  “Terrific!” I said.  “That’s excellent news!”  I texted Fiona.  I breathed.

Still later, the administrator called me.  “We’ve found a placement for David in our memory care facility in St. Cloud.  If you accept that placement, we waive the 30-day notice; you’d begin paying the fee there on the first of the month.  But you’ll need to let us know right away, and he’ll need to vacate the apartment in the next two weeks.  This is a safety issue, so whether or not he takes the memory care opening, he’ll need to move by the end of the month.” 

My head burst into flame.  “Wait, wait,” I said.  “I spoke to the nurse two hours ago, and she said David won’t need memory care for some time.  She said definitively that he’s safe where he is.”

“That was before we told her about the episode when he couldn’t re-enter the building.  That puts him at risk.”

Yes, I wanted to say.  That’s why we had the assessment in the first place. 

So: another move, more upheaval.  David wouldn’t be moving to a building he’d admired, following a plan he’d hatched.  He’d be moving to a room in a locked memory care unit.

I negotiated a tour of the locked-down memory care unit and approval of my status as “essential caregiver,” and I drove to St. Cloud to see the room.  An officious and ill-informed administrator showed me the building.  David would be moving out of a bright, well-designed apartment building into a tired and shabby nursing home – technically an assisted living facility, but one that looked and smelled like a nursing home.  He’d need his own furniture for the tiny bedroom he’d be using, so at least he could surround himself with his favorite pieces – or, at least, with a few of his favorite pieces.