Barry Friedman - The Old Folks At Home: Warehouse Them or Leave Them on the Ice Floe (7 page)

The man riding with me in the Independent Living elevator a week or so after my last visit to Assisted Living, was about forty, too young to be one of our residents. His arms were loaded with clothing, some on hangers.

“Moving in or out?” I said.

He raised his head to peer over the pile. “Neither. I’m helping my folks move.”

“Oh, who are they?”

“Frank and Mary Todd. They’re being moved to the Assisted Living section.”

I knew the Todds. Harriet and I had been seated at dinner with them on at least three occasions. They were a pleasant couple. Frank, as I recall, was a retired insurance executive. He was probably in the early stages of dementia, repeating the same stories at least three times at each sitting. Mary was bent over with osteoporosis and used a walker.

 
Knowing that I had been in the pharmaceutical industry, Mary had called me once to ask whether a certain medication that had been prescribed for Frank, was compatible with a cholesterol-lowering drug he was taking. It happens our company manufactured a drug with the same components as the generic drug she inquired about. I gave her what information I had, but told her to check with her doctor.

“Sure. Try to reach him. I called his office a dozen times and was always told they’d check with the doctor and call back. That was last Tuesday. I’m still waiting.”

I knew the drill. Her phone message was probably at the bottom of a pile that the busy doctor went through at the end of a fatiguing day. Eventually, he would probably get to it, but who could hold their breath that long? I was sure the two drugs were compatible, but the responsibility still lay with Frank’s doctor. I expressed my sympathy, but told her to keep trying. Now, the couple was on their way to the Assisted Living facility.

At the first floor lobby, both young Todd and I got off the elevator. I said, “My name is Henry Callins. I know your folks. Give them my best. Tell them I’ll visit them.”

“That would be swell. They feel as though they’ve been sentenced to
Siberia
. At least Mom does. Dad, well, he’s lost some of his sharpness. I think the whole move is bewildering.”

I walked down the corridor with him. “Can I relieve you of some of that load?”

“Thanks, but I can manage. I’m young and strong.”

I laughed. “As opposed to my being old and weak. “

“No. I only meant…”

“I know what you meant. I was only kidding. Do you live around here?”

“No. I live in
Memphis
, but I wanted to be sure the folks were settled in. My name is Ken.”

We walked up the ramp and reached the door to the
Care
Center
and Assisted Living. His arms were occupied, so I said, “Let me buzz you in.”

We waited for someone to answer the intercom. On the spur of the moment, I decided I’d go in along with Ken. Give me another chance to case the joint.

The door opened and there holding the door, was my pal Fredricka. She looked from Ken to me, then opened the door. Ken edged in and I followed close behind. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Fredricka said, “Where are
you
going?”

“I’m helping with the move.” Let her try to stop me.

Ken said, “Mr. Callins is helping me.”

Fredricka gave me a look that would have frozen
Lake Erie
in July. But I had her at a disadvantage. She may not have been prepared for me, but I was prepared for her. She stood silent and pouting in the elevator as we rode up to the Assisted Living floor. I kept pace with Ken and she tagged along in the corridor, probably debating how to toss my sorry ass out of there. At the door to 204, Ken stopped. “This is my folks’ apartment, isn’t it?”

Fredricka managed a curt nod.

I opened the door and walked in right after Ken. Then I slammed it shut in Fredricka’s face.

Frank and Mary were fully dressed, seated together on a small love seat at the foot of the twin beds. Frank tried to struggle to his feet. “Here, son, let me give you a hand with these.”

Ken freed one arm, dropping several pieces of clothing. He put up a hand. “No, Dad. Sit down. I’ll handle it.” He started hanging the clothes in the closet.

Frank sat. I noticed that he had his shoes on reversed. The left shoe on the right foot.

I said, “How’re you doing, Frank?”

“Fine, fine. Only thing bothers me is my feet. They hurt. I don’t know why.”

I knew why, but looked over at Mary. She gave a small shrug. “We needed someone to help Frank dressing. I can’t anymore. That’s why we’re here.”

Frank rose up, scowled. “What do you mean ‘help me dressing’. I can damned well dress myself.” He turned his back on Mary and mumbled something.

I tried to defuse the argument. “I’m sure you can. Say, what about those Padres!”

He brightened. The argument already history. “Yeah. They killed the—the—who they played the other night.”

That was actually last week, but who was counting. At least he knew who won.

I turned to Mary. “Did you ever reach the doctor about that medicine?”

She snorted. “Finally. He was all apologies. It was as you said, no problem. The two medications were compatible.”

Frank said, “What medications?”

I rescued Mary. “It was some medicine I was taking.”

Frank said, “I take a bunch, don’t I Mary?”

Mary nodded. Sighed.

Frank said, “Say, did you meet my son—?” He searched for a name. Came up empty. He pointed to the closet where Ken was still sorting out the clothes and hanging them up. “Son, this is my friend—.”

“Henry,” I prompted.

“Henry,” echoed Frank.

Ken waved. “Nice meeting you, Henry.” He glanced at me and rolled his eyes.

I felt as though I was in the way. Besides, I thought I’d do a little exploring before I left the floor. “Well, I’m on my way out. So long Frank, Mary.” I called over to Ken. “Good luck, Ken. How long are you staying?”

“I’m going back tomorrow.”

“How about having dinner with Harriet and me tonight?”

“Thanks, but I’m arranging to have it here with Mom and Dad in their apartment.”

“I understand. You’re a good son. Have a safe trip back home.”

I opened the door. Fredricka was there, leaning on the door frame with one hand, the other hand on her hip. So much for exploring.

Wordlessly, she pointed to the elevator and walked behind me like I was a horse being led to a corral, and was trying to escape. Which I was. The escape part.

At the first floor she unlocked the door to the ramp, and I heard the deadbolt click into place as I left. At least I had another excuse to visit the Assisted Living floor. The Todds. Small victory.

After giving Frank and Mary Todd a few days to settle in, I thought I’d pay them a visit. At the same time, I’d visit the
Rogers
again. A double-header if I could pull it off.

I phoned Chet to let him know I was coming. Who am I kidding? It was to get the official stamp of approval.

He said, “I guess you haven’t heard. We’re shut down. No visitors to the
Care
Center
or Assisted Living.”

Shut down? My first reaction was that one of the inmates had escaped, and the entire joint was on lock-down, like in a prison. I said, “Has someone gone over the wall?”

He chuckled. “No. It’s because of the diarrhea.”

“And the floors are slippery?”

“Huh?”

“From all the crap.”

He sounded puzzled. “It’s probably an outbreak of no virus” At least, that’s what it sounded like.

Now
I
was puzzled. “”Wait a minute. If it’s not a virus what is it?”

“
Nor
virus.” Subtext,
you idiot
.

I’d heard of the norvirus, of course. A highly contagious gastrointestinal disease that can become epidemic in institutions. As a precaution, to prevent spread, contact between individuals is minimized.

I immediately thought about Harriet and her card games. “How about bridge?”

“No bridge.”

“Golf?”

“No golf.”

“Movies?”

“No movies.”

“Tea and cookies?”

“No tea and cookies.”

“Mail?’

“Of course the mail will be delivered. And your meals will be brought to your apartment. And wash your hands.” He sounded like he was talking to a five-year-old autistic. Which is what I l felt like.

After I hung up, I decided to take a stroll in the corridors to stretch my legs.

In the elevator, a posted notice told me essentially what I had heard from Chet. The corridors were deserted. The common rooms, usually bursting with activity, were closed. On the doors were signs, “Closed until further notice.”

In one corridor I came upon a group of three residents. All grumbling. I could make out fragments of conversation: “…locked down.” Grumble, grumble. “…what do they think we are, children?” Grumble, grumble. “…quarantine the ones who are sick.” Grumble, grumble.

Farther down the hall I ran into another small group. All grumbling. I inched my way into the huddle, and one woman asked me what I thought.

“It’s probably for our protection,” I said, meekly.

They all stared at me. One woman bared her teeth. All false, of course.

I added, “So we won’t catch the disease.”

They turned their backs and walked away from me. Already I felt sick to my stomach—and not from any virus,
nor
or otherwise.

Obviously, I was a pariah. This being my first experience with lock-down, I didn’t realize I was supposed to be angry, although I wasn’t quite sure what I should be angry about.
 

 
On my way back to the elevator, I ran into Bob Harris one of the residents with whom I had been friendly.

Bob said, “What do you think of the shut down?” He appeared ready to pounce if I gave the wrong answer.

I said, “It’s
really
something, isn’t it.” How’s that for being
 
non-committal?.

While I was waiting for the elevator, Chet came along.

I said, “A lot of people are upset about management’s
 
decision to shut down.”

He shrugged. “We’re not doing it as punishment. It’s for their protection. Norvirus is highly contagious. We’re doing what we have to in order to keep it from spreading.”

“I see your point. They’re saying you should quarantine the people who are sick, and free up the rest.”

“The problem with that is some of the people may have been infected, but the symptoms haven’t appeared yet. They’re just as contagious as those who are symptomatic.”

“You have a point.” He was scoring lots of points. I felt like I was back on the debating team in college. My opponents were always able to convince me of their side of the argument. No surprise I was kicked off the team.

“What about the idea of a quarantine?”

He snorted. “How do you lock anybody in their apartment?. We’d be sued for false imprisonment.”

Another point. The score so far was Management 3, Me 0.

 
“Couldn’t they be put in isolation in the
Care
Center
?” I thought I’d had him checkmated.

Chet snorted. He did a lot of snorting. “First place, there’s no room in the
Care
Center
. Even if there was, we’d need a corps of nurses and aides who had the know-how of isolation techniques.”

I was clearly no match for him. I was rapidly becoming an advocate for shutting down. Fortunately the elevator came before I could raise a banner in favor of management.

Until I reached my floor.

 
Bill Haney stood waiting for an elevator going down. He muttered, “This damn shut-down is a bunch of crap, isn’t it?”

“Great pun.”

“Huh?”

“ ‘Bunch of crap.’ Norvirus infection, right? Heh, heh.”

He scowled. “Look, it’s not funny. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

I didn’t know we were divided into teams. Bill was six-two and weighed in at 265 pounds.

“I’m on your side, “ I whimpered.

“Okay. That’s better.”

“Chet says it’s for our protection.”

“Yeah, like I need his protection. The little floozy.”

I was saved by the elevator again.

My head was spinning. Many residents felt that management had over-reacted. No one knew how many had been infected. If it was only one or two individuals, why shut down activities for the remaining 300? These folks had paid their big bucks for amenities and by God they were going to get them come hell or loose stools.

Since I didn’t know the correct answer—if there was one—I decided to stay out of the fight. I’d agree with whoever approached me on the subject. A real diplomat, no?

So I stayed in my apartment and tried to placate Harriet who couldn’t understand why she couldn’t get into the card room.