Last November, we put my dad in an assisted-living facility. He’s 78 years old and after taking care of him for 16 years after he suffered a catastrophic stroke, it became too physically and mentally difficult for my mom to take care of him. So we found a great place that we believed would be the best fit for him. And it has been – a great fit, for him and for us.
Placing him in the home has been, by far, the hardest thing I have ever had to watch my parents go through. They’ve been married 54 years. Placing him in a home felt like we were abandoning him and it devastated all of us, especially my mom. The golden years were supposed to be spent together.
For the first month, my mom wavered back and forth. “Should I bring him home?” she’d say with tears in her eyes. “What if he gets cold at night? Who’s going to put a blanket on him?”
I didn’t know what to say, or how to comfort her. I was at a loss. We didn’t even know these people that were to be taking care of my dad. My dad. My hero. My heart sank. No one was going to take care of him the way she did. My chest would squeeze tightly as I listened to her worries. “It will just take some time, Mom,” I’d say, even though a part of me felt the exact same fear.
We had to trust that moving him into the assisted-living facility was the right thing to do. And even though the doctor recommended it, it felt so wrong. In the beginning, mom visited him every single day. She’d walk through the halls with her eyes wide, anticipating how she would find him, how he would feel and what he would say. Then he’d greet her with “Hello beautiful” and she’d feel better about her decision. Then she’d leave and he would say, “Take me with you,” and all of the anxiety would pour right back in.
It’s been almost five months now and, sure, it continues to be hard. We truly believe, despite the sadness, it’s been the right decision. Dad has really taken to the home. He’s on a memory floor and there are activities every single day that keep him thoroughly entertained. He seems really happy, and that gives us peace of mind.
But along with the emotional burden of placing my dad in the home, has come a tremendous financial burden. Assisted-living facilities run anywhere from four to eight thousand dollars a month. Without long-term health insurance or a big, fat bank account filled with cash, that’s a big nut to crack every month. My parents have neither.
So, I’ve made it my mission to try to find a way to help my family.
My dad was in the Navy for four years and served in the Reserve for eight. I thought there might be a possibility that he could get some veterans benefits, so I began my quest in earnest.
Mom and I met with the Veterans Affairs office. “Did John serve one day during any military conflict?” they asked. My mom and I looked at each other. No. My dad joined the Navy three months after the end of the Korean War and then served in the Reserve, subject to recall through 1966, right before the Vietnam War. My dad is technically a peacetime veteran. In order to receive Aid and Attendance benefits, my Dad would have had to be serving one day during wartime. Serving just one day would qualify him.
The Cold War didn’t count. Man! And after pouring over 300 pages of my dad’s military records, I discovered that he was never on a covert confidential secret mission while he was on reserve either. Bummer. He doesn’t qualify. There’s no help available there.
Despite learning that my dad doesn’t qualify for assistance, it was such a privilege to read about his military experience. He was well liked by his superiors, and they often mentioned his sense of humor and integrity, and he performed his photographic intelligence assignments on time and with efficiency. He was a good seaman, which gave me such a sense of pride. And, oh, yes, I even found out he has pes planus (flat feet).
He can’t tell me this stuff anymore or talk about the old days. He doesn’t remember. I got to look through a little window into his life before the stroke, and I learned so much. But what I found the most interesting was buried in the application he had filled out when he joined. When asked if he had any dependents, my Dad put his parents down. It turns out that my Dad was supporting his parents when he was 22 years old. He gave them $80 a month.
I ’m sure that was a financial burden for him way back then. Sure, it wasn’t thousands of dollars, but it’s all relative. Young people didn’t make much in the 1950s.
It’s true that these past few months have been really tough. And it goes without saying that my parents golden years haven’t been so golden. But through all of this, I continue to discover that whether it is on an emotional or a financial level, supporting one’s parents in any way possible is always the right thing to do.