“The scariest moment is always just before you start” ~Stephen King

Writing an opinion column is hard. Writing a daily blog is hard. Writing is hard! 

It’s one thing to express yourself in a coffee shop among friends and quite another to put it out in media for people to consume and comment on. Fortunately, I already do it every day on CJBK. My new column in Our London, Brandt’s Rant, is just an expanded and less chatty version of it.

Topic selection is another sticky wicket. I could write about Donald Trump every time. I certainly have enough opinions about him and he provides enough fodder to comment on, but after giving it some hard thought I decided that this little piece of bi-weekly print real estate needs to reflect the things I think are most important in our community. It’s my opportunity to set myself apart from everyone else who’s writing about Trump and Trump-like issues. Maybe I will write about him but I can also choose not to, and that’s what I’ve done for my first two entries.

This week, it’s a Rant about an issue that’s close to my heart: long-term care. You think you know what it will be like and you think you’re getting correct information. Then you access the system and see so many things that are wrong with it. While people tend to worry about big, dramatic things it’s actually death by a thousand tiny cuts.

Few people want to think about later-life and end-of-life matters until they rise up and force you to. It isn’t a sexy subject but it’s an important one. The Ontario NDP is pressuring the Wynne Liberals for a full system review and to make sorely-needed changes. Families understandably worry that their vulnerable loved one will be abused or fall prey to a serial killer like Elizabeth Wettlaufer, however it’s more likely they’ll endure a series of small, preventable indignities. Most Personal Support Workers (PSWs), nurses and administrators are compassionate and attentive but they’re bound by an unrealistically small budget.

My family had to navigate the murky waters of long-term care earlier this year, once Parkinson’s disease robbed my Dad of his autonomy and dementia set in. (This happened before Community Care Access Centres (CCAC) were absorbed by Local Health Integration Networks (LHINs).) The system gives the appearance of empowering the family but it’s actually a quagmire of testing, applications and a mysterious ranking system. Five different people handled my Dad’s file in less than a year. Each time, we’d catch the new caseworker up on Dad’s status and needs and were given different information about how he could move up on the priority list. It was difficult to stay patient when he missed an opening in a preferred home because a temporary case worker made a major error in his file.

Finally, the call came. In late January we moved him into a cheery, bright home with optional daily activities. He didn’t like the food but he seemed to settle in fairly well. Everyone on staff knew who my Dad was, and remarked on his unshakable sense of humour.

A week into Dad’s stay, he developed an angry, red patch on his forehead. We discovered that the home stocked the cheapest, bulk-purchased lotion available. It was making his skin blister and peel so we immediately replaced it with a name brand.

One night, a PSW forced Dad to go to bed at 7 pm, just as his favourite TV shows were starting. TV takes on a new importance when you can no longer get around on your own.  He was humiliated by being treated like a child and we were livid. To her credit, the PSW later apologized to him in person and explained how stressed she felt by time constraints. One PSW told me they were allotted seven minutes per patient in the morning to get them out of bed, cleaned and dressed. My Dad needed more time; fortunately, others needed less.

Sometimes when Dad rang his buzzer, which he did reluctantly, no one came for as long as half an hour or more. Two strong people were needed to lift him out of his chair, and at other times only one was available. He was always stoic and didn’t complain but it chipped away at his sunny outlook.

These incidents pale in comparison to the rare horrors some families have experienced but when it’s your loved one, it all matters. My Dad died in April, which meant another anxious family could finally get a room. Our parents deserve dignity and respect in their later years and one day, we will too.