All change . . . All change . . .

 

And just like that, Doug has been moved from the hospital unit back to his long term care home, and we are only a 15 minutes drive away from each other!

Because he transferred from a Yellow Zone into a Green Zone (Ontario Covid-19 tiered system) he has to quarantine for 14 days. Never mind that six hours after we arrived it was announced that the Yellow Zone was being raised to a Green Zone - which would have eliminated the need for quarantine. Never mind that he transferred from a Covid-free facility into a Covid-free facility. These are rules we'll follow, because we care about the health of strangers. 

I can find a lot to be thankful for: He’s been given a double room to himself, on the ground floor, with a lovely view of the coniferous forest, and a birdhouse which attracts Chickadees, squirrels, blue jays, and pheasants. We’ve had lots of snow in the past week, so the firs are Christmas-card pretty. He is wearing his glasses this week (not always the case), so it’s possible he sees some of the birds. At the very least, the window means his room is filled with light during the day. 

The door is always open, and the chest-high plastic banner works surprisingly well as a barrier. I have been granted “Essential Caregiver” status so am allowed to visit him whenever, and for as long as I like, despite the province-wide lockdown which resumed on Boxing Day. I arrive in the morning - sometimes he’s up and having breakfast, sometimes he’s been fed, sometimes he’s dozing in bed. He’s always cheerful, and soon after breakfast has a nap in the comfy chair. We pass the day together listening to music, dancing, playing with a beach ball, petting his kitty cat, watching people walk by in the hallway, and looking out the window. I feed him his lunch and supper, hold his hands during his care (toileting), tuck him into bed at night, and read poetry to him until he’s asleep. 

There were, and are, challenges: Doug has developed a distrust of elevators, and didn’t want to get in the one that took us down three floors to my car. It took three of us to help him into the car. (In May, he could still get in and out of a car by himself.) He was distressed for the duration of the drive. I envisioned being a passenger in a vehicle I didn’t recognise, on a highway I didn’t recognise, with no understanding of where I was or where I was going, and no control at all . . . it was easy to imagine how scared I’d be. But we arrived, and he appeared to settle in, more quickly than I’d dared hope. 

I was extremely worried that he would suffer, being kept in a bedroom for two weeks. Walking the halls is an important part of his daily routine, and his only form of exercise. It appears to make far less of a difference to him that I’d thought it would. 

The sad reality: I’m not sure how aware he is about all the changes in his life this past week. If he knows he’s no longer where he was for the past eight months, or knows he’s return to the place where he lived before that, I can’t tell. 

Heartbreaking (to me): This is first year that Doug has given no indication that “Christmas” means anything at all to him. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’d hoped that the sound of carols, music, CBC’s Fireside Al Maitland reading Forsyth’s The Shepherd on Christmas Eve, or the taste of shortbread and rum balls, or the act of opening a stocking, unwrapping a present, holding a Christmas card . . . . I’d hoped that something would trigger a happy memory for him. If it did, I was unable to read any expression of recognition, and he was unable to communicate that happiness. 

I am deeply grateful for this time we’re able to spend together. The first several days were heart-rendering more often than heart-warming; I hoped he was experiencing time differently than I do - that the days were not so long or so empty for him. Now that I’ve better adjusted to this new routine, I am able to appreciate moments, fleeting as they may be, and all the wins. He buttoned and unbuttoned his shirt, he counted to 11, he caught a ball and threw it back, he made a face imitating an opera singer, he reached for a piece of pie and ate it with clear pleasure. He laughs, he smiles, he often replies "hello" when he's greeted, and sometimes he looks up, sees me, and says, "Hi there." 

He is safe, he is loved, he is being very well cared for, he is cheerful far more often than not, and we are spending our days together. This is enough. 

Onwards with love.