The Good Gestapo.

My friend Julie put her Alzheimer-riddled father into a nursing home. A very expensive one. In a beautiful location. Pine trees on the expansive grounds. Meandering walkways, too. Nice spacious rooms. Plush furnishings. Paintings hanging on the walls.  Cozy congregate dining rooms. Big-screen televisions. In the rooms and lounges.  But dad isn’t getting what he needs most.  Tender loving care. Good vibes therapy. Around the clock. Yes, one-on-one attention. Face to face. Mindful stimulation. Tailored specifically for dad. The only way he’ll get it is if Julie shows up. If she skips a few days, dad’s hearing aids won’t be in. Dad will be sloppily attired. Off by himself. Alone. Untended. Yes, dad is getting everything but the precious and vital care he needs. When my dear sweet Jeanne spent the last 38 months of her life in a nursing home, she got what she needed. Only because I was there. For 8 to 10 hours a day. It was the only way. The effective way. I was a supplemental care-giver. Advocate and protector.  Loving husband. There to see that things went right. And when they went wrong, I raised a fuss. Holy hell sometimes. Or I shut up. Stepped in, and provided the care myself. Daily showers. Hand-fed lunch and supper in Jeanne’s room. Daily outings.  In a wheelchair. Which I often pushed on a 6-mile round trip to our lake shore home. When Jeanne fell asleep at night, it was to soothing recorded music from earphones. She also got a goodnight kiss.  Every night. None of this stuff. If I had not been there. Wasn’t a swank nursing home by any means. But didn’t matter. As long as I was there. To deal with incompetent staff. Of course, there were some good, dedicated people, too.  But the place was grossly understaffed.  Like every nursing home that I’ve been in. The good employees are underpaid, too.  Anyway, I talk to Julie. Almost every day. To console her. To ease her conscience. And her pain. Because she can’t show up every day.  When she does, she tries not to alienate the staff. “I don’t want them to think I’m the Gestapo,’ she says. ‘I calmly put in dad’s hearing aids. I comb his hair. Fix his clothes. Look him in the eyes. And try to enter his world.’  Yes, she provides exactly what a nursing home should be providing. Every day. Proper care. I tell Julie it’s all right. To become the Gestapo. Yes, the Good Gestapo. –Jim Broede