CATCHING UP
BY DUNCAN
BLOOR REDDING - DUNCAN - MARQUETTE MANOR - LUNCH
When I returned from my whirlwind trip to the lower reaches of the United States, I had to take a few days to decompress. I lived in Florida for five years and don’t mind returning occasionally. I still have wonderful friends who invite me down. I meet new people all the time who always give me a thrill. Florida is a unique environment.
Now, back home, I need to check on my friend and former boss, Bloor Redding, who is staying at a senior retirement facility called Marquette Manor. Bloor is in his early 90s and has lost most of his eyesight, but he still welcomes visitors. (Even me.)
I have a love/hate relationship with Marquette Manor. My father (George R. Duncan) stayed there when he was recovering from prostate surgery. During the early 1980s, I discovered that Marquette Manor was a business. Like all senior living facilities, it measures its success by “the number of cheeks on the sheets!” Make no mistake about these places—it’s a business.
I shall not dwell on the negative aspects of a group of people who believe they are offering a needed service. However, I still can’t get over a nurse who got in my face and yelled at me when I was taking Dad home.
“He needs to stay here; if you take him home, you are going to kill your father!”
Before this confrontation, my father's insurance was running out, and I had to meet with a very attractive, red-headed, mature woman in a well-appointed private office. She closed the heavy wooden door, and I sat in a plush chair at her desk. Her job was to tell me as gently as possible that Dad’s health insurance was running out, and the monthly bill or rent for Dad's stay would be my responsibility beginning the following month.
I would be responsible for $6,000 a month for Dad sharing a room with someone or $9,000 monthly for a private room. I was taken aback by the number.
The beautiful red-headed woman was more than compassionate. She understood the look on my face, as I’m sure she had seen the same look of astonishment one hundred times before. Getting old and going to a “HOME” is expensive. I lacked the means of paying $9,000 a month. This creates a real problem that must be solved quickly.
The solution to the problem is to take Dad home. Or take Dad home and hire a “Home Health Care Service.” The attractive red-headed woman came around the desk, sat close to me, and showed me brochures of Home Health Care Companies. She held my hand for a few seconds to assure me things would work out so I could move forward.
My antenna went up when she touched my hand. This hand-holding was a service beyond the call of duty. I was stunned at the cost. I was not weeping or emotionally out of control. Do other people lose it, and then she sympathetically touches them? I asked a few questions about how long I had before I had to make the decision. She indicated I had a little over a month.
We ended our conversation, and she encouraged me to visit her regularly in her office to give her information on how I would handle the dilemma. A few days later, I peeked into her office. She noticed me standing in the doorway. She smiled, encouraged me to enter her office, and she asks me to close the door. I will admit I had an attitude. Here I am; my father is being priced out of this place. I have a feeling that I have lost control.
I asked her, point blank as gently as I could. “Do you always close your door when you talk to clients? After all, you are a very attractive woman, and where I come from, it would be problematic if a man and an attractive woman like yourself were in the same room with the door closed.”
“I trust you know how to behave. There is no reason for you or me to feel uncomfortable. I’m sure you’ve been with other beautiful women before in a closed room. Have you not?”
The pattern—it's always there. I sat back in my chair and looked at her briefly before answering.
“Tell me about yourself. I know nothing about you except that you have a nice office with no windows and a heavy wooden door. I notice there is a lock on the door. Is there a reason you lock your office door? Do you have secrets or confidential information in your office that you need to lock up at night? Plus, I could not help but notice the sparkle in your eyes when you told me the cost of living in this place. I’m sure you do the same thing day after day. You must get restless to do something else once in a while. Are you married?
“Yes.”
“Kids?”
“No”
“What does your husband do for a living?”
“He’s a cop.”
“Well, then, let's get down to business. I have contacted three home healthcare companies. I plan to talk with them this coming week. Do you have any information on any of them that would be helpful to me?”
“My oh my, are you afraid of doing the wrong thing? It shouldn’t be that difficult to figure out what to do.”
She got up from her chair and moved around her desk; I stood, too. She moved to the heavy wooden office door and touched the doorknob. She stopped and said,
“Are you having trepidations about this decision? There is nothing for you to worry about; you only need a good hug. You know how to handle the situation. Now, hug me, and get out of here. She then handed me a business card,
“My personal cell phone number is on this card. I may or may not answer; if I don’t, not to worry; I will call you back.”
This is an interesting way to run a ship. The long carpeted hallways are all very plush. I walked back to Dad’s room. He has no idea he is about to see a major change in his life. I was under the gun. I had places to be; I had to interview people and make decisions. Somehow, I had to get Dad out of Marquette Manor. And I had a month to figure it out.
BLOOR REDDING IN HIS APARTMENT
