One morning, a couple of weeks ago, Kim refused to get me out of bed, showered, dressed, and ready for the day, like she always had. Instead, she fed me a piece of toast and poured a glass of juice down my throat. She then wished me luck and headed out the door, leaving me helpless in my bed.
Forty-five minutes later I was startled when someone opened the front door. I heard footsteps coming toward my bedroom. There was nothing I could do, other than scream out…
Bonjour, mon ami.
Bonjour, Mr. Mitchell.
It wasn’t an intruder after all. It was my new personal care assistant, who hails from The Congo, where French was his first language.
Taking care of me, 24/7, can be overwhelming, so Kim and I had decided to hire some help. I began my research trying to determine if the state government, federal government, or medical insurance would subsidize in-home personal care. It turns out I have too many assets and too much income to qualify for assistance—a mixed blessing if ever there was one—and medical insurance simply does not cover this service.
Quite a number of businesses provide home care assistance for elderly people who are trying to avoid the dreaded nursing home. I targeted those companies. They have rules. One company required that two assistants be present, for safety reasons, if the attendant needed to use any kind of lift system to transfer the patient from bed to wheelchair, for example. At the hourly rates they charge, this was insane. Eventually I found a company which didn’t have that restriction for my type of lift equipment.
Like most of these companies, the one I hired has minimum hours requirements. To get the best rate, I need to have the helper here at least four hours per day, two days per week. They spend about an hour and a half getting me up, showered, dressed, etc., and then they spend the rest of the time doing light housework, helping me with some exercises/stretches, and feeding me lunch.
These first few weeks have generally gone well, with a few bumps. The attendant might ask me, “Where do you keep the broom.”
“I have no idea.”
“How do I start the dryer?”
“I have no idea.”
And so on…
This is the first house where I was so disabled when I moved in that I’ve never done any of the cleaning.
I hadn’t realized how long it took Kim and me to perfect our morning routines. Trying to explain each little step in the process to my caregiver is tiresome for both of us, but we get a bit better at it each session.
I’ll write more about the fascinating immigrants I have met already, once I get their permissions. Suffice it to say, they are first rate individuals, and they are making Kim and my lives better.
