An old man died last night in Manchester.
That bottom line omits the richness of his life and the challenges of his last days.
Born and raised on Long Island, my friend George claimed he never cared for “the city” — yet knew the good restaurants of Greenwich Village and remembered how much it cost for a daytime show at Radio City. His father died young while his mother closed in on a century, a combination he often wished had been reversed.
Clear of the draft in the Vietnam era, he still enlisted in the Air Force, rising to staff sergeant. He returned from service and worked as a Communications Worker of American technician for AT&T, graduating to central office work and then to handling major projects – such as installing 9-1-1- systems. He transferred to Texas because, “I didn’t want to spend my days putting extension phones in teenagers’ bedrooms.” In Texas he put in scores of special systems around Houston and made many friends. One, Carolyn, loved to dance. They married right before they both reached 40. By then he had a pilot’s license, a boat, a motorcycle and lots along a lake north of Houston: Carolyn got her own motorcycle and traveled with George.
Three decades ago George transferred to St. Louis (where he could keep doing the challenging jobs) and Carolyn retired from her job and came too. She volunteered at Circle Of Concern. When George retired she gave him one day off – then brought him to the charity to ‘qualify’ as a van driver. Over the years their love never flickered. Time and again I heard George end a phone conversation with “I love you” and other times I heard Carolyn, “loves you more.”
When ill health hit George they retired from Circle. As his memory and her body faded they adapted. George would go to the store, then call Carolyn on his cell. She would guide him aisle by aisle through the store, then remind him of the route home.
The plan called for her to outlive him. Fate played it the other way. I had promised Carolyn I’d look after George and that became a thing.
George needed 24/7 care. He wanted to stay in his home, with their two cats. Staring at the cost of such care, I investigated forming a limited liability corporation to provide it. An insurance broker friend killed that idea, laughing as he explained that worker compensation rates for home health care workers were higher than for people working with explosives. We never even got into the other pesky details…
Yes, the cost of keeping George in his home was huge – much higher than most quality nursing homes. Alas, that is the nature of the system. The infrastructure costs for a home health firm go beyond the astronomical worker comp rates to include the need for finding and vetting good aides, supervising and scheduling their work and making that happen every day.
For George in-home care was attainable. He could have his wish. With no children or debt, I could direct his resources to keeping him where he wanted to be. Most Americans – including most all middle class folks – couldn’t afford that choice.
Oh, in the first couple of years after his wife’s passing he could have been the forgetful kindly relative in the extra bedroom. He always had a joke and never gave a serious answer to a question if he could help it. (Are you hungry? No, I’m George. How do you feel? With my hands.)
In his last days his body failed him too.
He went to a major metro hospital by ambulance – and promptly got placed in a Covid-restricted room where no one (not even his primary care physician) could visit him. (No, he didn’t have coronavirus.)
Imagine being elderly, short on memory and stuck alone in a room where a gowned nurse appeared for a couple of minutes every couple of hours. That’s reality in those fancy hospital towers.
Again, because George had resources, he came home. He passed in his home, a friendly hand holding his.
Yes, an old man died last night in Manchester. There’s more to it than that.
Glenn