Beach Haven

Mum called.  They had found a new place.  She was happy, the rest of the whanau were happy.  It was a place we had initially crossed off our list for lack of space but now that Dad was a dribbling, shuffling shadow of his former self he didn't need the space.  He needed good care, in a permanent home.  The new unit was in Beach Haven.

Beach Haven Hospital suited the whanau just fine for a number of reasons.  Both my sisters live nearby and are able to visit often and Mum can stay with them when she comes down to visit.    The unit doesn't mind the odd bit of rongoa either.  Being part of a mixed ethnicity community, largely Maori and PI, they are used to whanau wanting input so, provided we keep them informed, they are happy for us to massage, use herbals or whatever we want.  The home doesn't have lock down and they encourage family to visit.  And though there isn't a paddock for space outdoors, there is a small lawn and garden with outdoor decks.

Mum's concern once he was in the unit was reducing Dad's zombie meds.  The doctors said they would do what they could over time and have stuck to their word though Mum did worry it was taking longer than she wanted.  Dad has been there for the last year.  In that time he's been moved out of the high care dementia unit to the other side with 'less real crazies' as my son likes to say.

We are so glad the placement roller coaster is over.  It was a long, long year.  And it was only a year!  I think it took a while for us all to settle into this unit.  For some time we were holding our breaths, expecting to be thrown into disarray again at any moment.  Thankfully Beach Haven has been just that a haven - for all of us.

The Possible Problem Identified.

We discovered, through a round about fashion, that Dad was receiving medical care for 'something' though mum wasn't quite sure what the something was.  Eventually, at the family's insistence, a doctor sat down with mum and said something like this:  'We think your husband has a kidney infection.  To treat the infection he needs to be on meds.  To keep him compliant we need to dose him to the hilt on zombie drugs.  It's highly likely that your husbands irascible attitude in the care unit was because he was in pain but couldn't tell anyone'.

I don't think Mum knew Dad was being irascible in the unit, at least, not more so than usual.  Every time the family visited we were told he was fine, hence the shock when he was moved out.  Units shouldn't lie to families.  It's not nice.

The information on the kidney infection we could digest.  But why does he seem to be getting worse? Because he certainly wasn't getting better. The Machine couldn't answer that.
They did tell us, however, to prepare for the worst.
That's shocking news when you get it!

Then one Doctor, one who didn't want to give up so easily, told Mum that they could better identify Dad's problem if he had a CT Scan.
How are you going to get him to lie still for that? the whanau asked.
We'll knock him out! they said.
Say what? the whanau said.
And be prepared for him not to respond well to that, they said.

An email was duly sent to all the whanau explaining what The Machine had suggested and the implications and asking for whanau input into the decision.  One of the questions was, 'What's the point, he's old, every one dies sooner or later'  Another was, 'If they do find something what will they do about it?  If he needs surgery there's a high chance he won't survive it because he's old, so again, What's the point?'  And then there was always the thought, 'He deserves the best.  How do we give him that?'

And while we were all mulling this over my sister's partner, who cares for mentally disabled and elderly people in their homes, asked a simple question.  'Has anyone from the Dementia Unit or Geriatrics been in to assess him?'

Well, the Machine stopped.
Ummm, actually, No, they said.
Don't you think it might be a good idea? my sisters partner said.
I guess that might be an idea, they said.

You see, when Dad was sent from his last home he went straight to a medical ward.
He was still on a medical ward.
Medical doctors were looking at him from a medical point of view which isn't always a good idea for the elderly who can't articulate how or what they are feeling.

So someone from geriatrics came in and guess what?
Dad was on the wrong drugs at too high a dose for an old fulla.
That's why he was getting worse.
Meds were changed and in no time he was improving.
No need for a CT scan.
No waiting for the worst.

'Well, bugger me! we all said.

And then, after heaving a huge sigh of relief, the Machine wanted him out.  So the search was on again for a new solution to his housing problem, because his last lovely home couldn't take him back.

Bumps and bruises

Every so often we would turn up and find Dad with plasters covering various bumps and bruises.
It did make us wonder what the heck sort of supervision was provided in the care facility. 

On one occasion Dad was playing the piano and one of the gents took exception to it.   I'll admit he's no Beethoven, not by any means, but he's never got a fat lip before because of his playing.   Staff told us the gentleman in question was usually so quiet and he and Dad used to get along famously....Uh huh.

The two questions - How the heck did ths happen? and How can you make sure it won't happen again? were run by management.  To be honest, I can't recall what their response was. 

It's quite upsetting visiting your confused father with a swollen lip and plasters on his face.  One does contemplate, just for a moment, finding the offender and giving him the evil eye.  Though that's kind of childish and pointless.  It's obvious he's stuck in the same hell condition as Dad and I can only presume, based on his outbursts at home, that Dad is not always nice as pie toward the other patients either.  Energy is better spent on a positive visit with Dad who, by the way, has no memory of being biffed at all.

The fact is grown men thrown together will get on each others wick and get angsty - verbally or sometimes physically, either pushing and shoving or the occasional fisty cuff.

Most times the staff can intervene and send the boys to their corners long enough for them to forget they were shitty in the first place and no one gets hurt.   Other times management had to call Mum and tell her the damage.

We've been told staff are on higher alert when the moon is full - the patients tend to get more aggressive then.   I wonder if the first werewolf story was the result of an Alzheimer's patient going off?

It's quite hilarious, and slightly frightening, watching elder men setting to each other.  I do wonder how they stay on their feet given their age makes them wobbly before they decide to throw a wide punch.

This makes Alzheimer's units sound like boxing rings.  They aren't.  The other factor that adds to bruising is age.  Falls are common.  And any bumps will show up on the skin - I have watched Dad try to force himself and his walker through tables and chairs because his mind was dead set on going that way.  No amount of coaxing would change is course so he was left to bump his way through.

And sometimes it is necessary for staff to man-handle the men.  They may be old, but they can also be stubborn and surprisingly strong when they decide to 'go off'.  And man-handling the elderly, regardless of how carefully you try to do it, tends to leave bumps and bruises.

Helping Dad

The family decided the facility was not appropriately helping Dad by providing the sort of activities he would better enjoy.

Though this place did have a number of men on its payroll, they were there as carers, not occupational therapists or recreational assistants.

Prior to his being admitted the manager did say they would be getting a gardener, however, in the time Dad was there a male did not materialise who was available to spend man-time doing man things with the men.

I'm not sure they were actually that keen to get such a program implemented.  Not surprising really, there were obvious dangers to a gardening and building program for the mentally and behaviorally challenged, such as taking to each other with a hammer!

So we came up with a plan ourselves of helping Dad out.

Basically, we wanted someone who could spend more one on one time with Dad and encourage him to do the sorts of things we knew he enjoyed - like pottering in the yard, building ti-tree fences, walking to the shops or painting what ever picture took his fancy on whatever space was available.  I envisaged this person would bring the necessary tools and take them home again at the end of the visit (to keep the management happy).

A family friend, who worked in health, liked what we had in mind and pointed us in the right direction to find a suitable worker to join Dad for a couple of hours a day.

The person we found was a lady.
I don't think she ever brought tools.
Dad, however, did get used to her company. 
He loved the one on one when he wanted to chat.  She had sense enough to recognise when he wanted alone time - so she left him alone.

Her presence did seem to settle him.  I think it made mum feel better too, that someone was on site whose sole purpose was helping Dad.