Hopefuly, his spirit made it home.

I remember Frank. He came to Birchwood, the nursing home, on Dec. 23, 2003. About a month after Jeanne. Frank had a stroke. That caused the dementia. Also, Frank fell at the nursing home. Broke a hip. Frank lived in the memory care unit, down the hall from Jeanne. And he hadn’t been home even once since his arrival. Frank wanted to go home so desperately. But his wife and daughter didn’t think that would be a good idea. “He’d want to stay home,” his wife said. “We’d have great difficulty getting him back to the nursing home.” Frank went through periods of deep depression. He lamented. He said he wouldn’t give anyone trouble. “I’d come back without a fight,” he promised. “I just want to go home for a few hours.” I was on Frank’s side. His advocate. I kept trying to persuade Frank’s wife to take him home. For just a little while. His wife was a very nice woman. She visited almost daily. Missed only three times, I think. But she steadfastly resisted bringing Frank home again. It was only 10 miles away. Frank was wheelchair-bound. I offered to assist. To help move Frank. To bring him home for a few precious hours. I thought it was worth the risk. I said, “Let’s see if it works. If it doesn’t, we won’t do it again. If it helps Frank’s morale, then maybe we can do it again and again and again.” Some days, Frank became so depressed that he cried. “I want to go home,” he said. "Please, please take me home." In the evening, I routinely wheeled Frank up and down the hallway. To try to lift his spirits. A little. To relax him. Maybe he was pretending that he was on a ride home. We talked. And maybe Frank dreamed each night. Of being home. I told Frank so often that we’d work on it. Together. I thought his wife was starting to budge. A little. But Frank died. Too soon. Hopefully, his spirit made it home. –Jim Broede