[TIMELINE: JULY–AUGUST 2019]
In July, we learned that a spot had finally opened up for Peggy at our assisted living facility of choice, and we scheduled a move-in date of August 16, 2019. I hired a company, Caring Transitions, to help us set everything up. They were fantastic. We packed up her belongings in the morning, and by the end of the day, Peggy was settled in to her one-bedroom apartment with all of her furniture and décor arranged, right down to the photos hanging on the walls.
Peggy had been so skeptical of the move, and fretted the whole day, but she was pleasantly surprised when she saw how great her room looked. All of her clothes were put away in the closet, her beloved “wine jail” was against the wall stocked with her favorite wines, framed family photos were lined up on a shelf, and her bathroom was all set up. And she got to keep her two cats—a big plus, because she wasn’t going to go anywhere willingly without Jezebel and Chloe!
I was so relieved to have her out of our parents’ house and into a new home where I knew she would get the care she needed, and have lots of other people around to talk to and befriend.
The move itself went smoothly thanks to Caring Transitions, and also the meticulous planning by my partner Jon and me. We nailed down all the necessary details right in the beginning, before Peggy even packed! Not only had we measured the apartment’s dimensions, we made scaled paper cut-outs of the furniture to ensure ahead of time that everything she needed would fit.
Peggy really liked the layout of her new apartment and so did I. It was less than 1,000 square feet but very livable, and decorated with her favorite things. She loved that she had a great view of a courtyard and fountain right from her large living room window, plus the living room itself was very spacious. It was large enough for her big-screen TV, rocking chair, wine jail (which held about 80 bottles), the coffee table that belonged to our parents, plus a desk and chair.
I’ll add quickly that Peggy wasn’t drinking any wine at this point; she just liked having her wine collection displayed nearby since it reminded her of better times in her life. She liked being reminded that—before her diagnosis—she was a full and vibrant person who went on outings and adventures with friends, who had learning experiences, who shared her talents and preferences. In the beginning, that all meant a lot to her. And the wine jail itself was so pretty!
The kitchenette was tiny, holding just a half-refrigerator, microwave, sink, and a few cabinets, but she really didn’t need much of a kitchen since she could have three meals a day (and snacks) in the dining room if she wanted. I was happy that there was only a microwave, so Peggy was in no danger of burning anything down once her disease had progressed that far. This also meant that she would probably be able to stay longer in the apartment than she otherwise would have if there had been a stove. Best of all, staff were very accessible if she needed help. Beyond their twice-a-day visits to administer her medications, staff could be summoned at any time via safety cords.
For a person with dementia, the layout of Peggy’s apartment seemed pretty ideal. Once you walked in through its front door, you could see through to all of the rooms except for the bathroom. I hoped this design would, later on, help delay the inevitable time when Peggy would get lost in her own home. (and looking back, I am happy to say that it did just that.)
The wall dividing the living room from the bedroom had a large cutout so that you could see inside the bedroom from the living room and vice versa. The large window in the living room kept both rooms filled with light. Peggy’s bedroom was big enough for a double bed, three dressers (yes, three), our mom’s standing jewelry armoire (thankfully it had a lock), and my mom’s cedar chest. Impressive! A tiny hall, maybe three steps long, connected the bathroom to the bedroom.
On either side of the hall were two good-sized closets, for her clothes plus extra storage. The bathroom itself was fairly large as far as apartment bathrooms go. In fact, I think it was larger than the one we had in our apartment in San Francisco!
Peggy was able to pack a lot of her stuff into that apartment, but in spite of this it never felt overfilled. There was plenty of space to walk around and to sit. There was even a place for me to sleep comfortably enough (on the floor) when I came to visit her on weekends.
I was sorry Peggy couldn’t remain at our parents’ house, but it was clearly too much for her to deal with. She had moved back there just before her retirement to enjoy a more suburban life, and I know she really wanted to live there. After diagnosis, however, it was obvious she would need more help and structure, and the stress from interacting with our brother Les was getting to be too much for her. So this move to a new home came at exactly the right time for her.
Once we Peggy got settled, it was off to REI for me, since I fully intended to keep my promise to spend some nights at her apartment with her. In order to do that, I needed gear.
Honestly, I never need to be forced to go to that store; it’s like catnip to me! I quickly found a sleeping bag and a good air mattress (more like an air mat, shaped like it was meant for a mummy bag) but these were perfect for my needs and for Peggy’s space. Each morning, when I was done with the mattress for the night, I could let the air out and roll it up to maybe just a foot long and a few inches wide. The sleeping bag packed down small, too, once it was in its stuff sack. Both pieces easily stowed on the top shelf in Peggy’s storage closet.
Ah, stowing away my sleeping gear—it was so familiar to me. Commuting across states a few times a month (sometimes more) was familiar too. It reminded me of all the years I had split my time between San Francisco and Seattle, which Jon and I alternated doing for 20 years for work. And each time, I would leave a little bit of my stuff stored in each of my ports of call.
I guess I was always meant to be on the move in some fashion; I must take after my paternal grandmother who everyone used to say had “itchy feet.” But now my ease with travel had really become important, because this time it was for my sister. And unlike all the years previously, all I had to worry about at the time was just a sleeping bag and a simple little air mat.
It all worked really well—until COVID came to town. But that’s another story for another day.