In July 2019, our friend Kate S flew from Little Rock to Minnesota to help me visit nursing homes, select the best options, and put David’s name on their waiting lists.  I could not begin that by myself.  I had talked to friends about their family members’ experiences in nearby nursing homes, but I stalled at making appointments to visit and to talk with staff.  Kate had set up a conference call with a friend of hers with expertise in home caregiving services and long-term care, but I had so much static in my head that I could hardly make a sentence.  I needed Kate herself at my side, in my car. 

Kate guided me through websites about choosing long-term care and helped me write a list of questions.  When we interviewed nursing home directors and social workers, I’d fall silent after the first few questions and do nothing much after that except to flap my hands.  Kate picked up the questioning while I made notes.  Even though I knew that David’s first doctor was right, that David would almost certainly need skilled nursing, I couldn’t yet picture the David who would need round-the-clock care.  67-year-old David was wry and funny.  When he wanted ice cream and I had vertigo, I offered chocolate-covered almonds instead and then forgot to serve them.  After we’d watched tv for a while, he turned to me and said: “I was promised almonds in little chocolate coverings, but I have so far seen no such thing.”  And he was physically strong, muscular and powerful from weight-lifting at the gym. 

I asked David whether he wanted to come along for the visits and, if not, whether he had questions he’d like us to ask.  He said he’d prefer to wait and let us make an initial list.  He’d visit later, if we reached a point when he needed a nursing home.  In 2019, that seemed a reasonable choice.  Nobody knew what was about to happen to nursing homes.  Nobody knew that residents would be locked in and visitors would be locked out.  Nobody knew that “choice” would be a luxury from another epoch.  

Kate and I toured large nursing homes and small residential facilities, places with a “continuum of care” from assisted living to locked memory care as well as places specializing in dementia care.  Back at home between visits, I’d lie on the floor and suggest that one place was enough, two places were enough, that I now knew what questions to ask and could go by myself, so maybe we could cancel the rest of our appointments and eat ice cream on the porch.  Kate had known me for forty years, so she knew exactly what to do: she ignored me.  These visits were difficult and exhausting, and she knew I could not make them alone.  We finished the list and came up with the top three.  I called and got David’s name put on the waiting lists.