Enter the Assisted-Living Facility.

After an intensive search, exhausting all of my patience and time and faith in myself to care for Daddy, I found an assisted-living facility that didn't resemble an abandoned whorehouse: Paramount Park in Turlock.
The cost was astro-freakin-nomical. $3700 a month (of course now I know that is CHEAP as far as facilities go, which is just UNbelievable), which Daddy could afford for a while since he got the money from Nany's passing.
I was very upfront with the staff at Paramount Park about my Dad's symptoms and that he'd been diagnosed with some sort of dementia. The Administrators seemed confident he would do well at their facility, but of course, if he became too much to handle, he would have to move to the other end of the facility, which was the "dementia unit". The facility was really very nice, hotel-like. His room was much like a regular apartment...he had two rooms, like his Senior apartment...a bedroom, bathroom, and small living room. There was a small kitchenette where he could have a microwave and refrigerator. They would take care of all his meals, laundry, even meds. We'd been storing all his stuff from his old place at my house, so we moved it in. He was set. Things were going pretty smoothly.
But within a few weeks, the hallucinations started back. The Chair Man returned. The staff was having sex with each other. The residents (all at least in their 70's) were having orgies on a daily basis. Someone kept stealing his keys, his money...and his car...the one I'd sold quite a while back.
My visits became a daily thing again...sometimes more than daily. The calls, because he had his own phone, were too numerous to count. The nasty messages, the yelling, the urgent need to have to me come over, right then, and not a second later. Of course I'd go and find everything he said had been stolen right where it should be, or maybe just on a different table, but still in plain sight.
The management at Paramount started telling me he was "scaring the girls"...the girls, meaning the caregivers. I said "the girls" needed to get a different job then...because unfortunately this is exactly what came along with assisted living facilites...illnesses of old age...what's to be "scared of"? He wasn't violent, he was wasn't threatening anyone, he was just anxious about these DAMN people that he saw everywhere! "The Girls" were all barely 20 years old and looked scared of their own shadow to begin with. I thought perhaps they should go back to the Burger King drive-thru window where they belonged.
The facility started calling 911 and sending my Dad to the ER because of the hallucinations. Ridiculous...what is an ER going to do? The ER doctors, even after the 1st visit, were furious with the facility. They treated EMERGENCIES, not hallucinations caused by an incurable illness. One of the caregivers talked to me privately and told me there were other things going on there that weren't right, things I won't list here ONLY because they are heresay and I didn't see it myself...although I do believe she was being truthful and it wasn't pretty.
After one of the times they sent him to the ER, Paramount Parks Administrator told me they were refusing to allow my Dad back at their facility. Uh-NO. Oh, to be able to replay that conversation...if only I could. Long story short, I reminded them how they INSISTED they were fully equipped to care for my Dad...that I had asked if he needed to be in the "dementia wing"...but at their "assessment", their opinion was that he was able to live on the "assisted" side. Oh, I went OFF. And the ER Dr., this Hector Lopez jerk, was SO unbelievably condescending and basically denied ANY sort of care to my Dad, but they couldn't and wouldn't release him. Uh, how the hell does THAT work, exactly? After about 18 hours in the ER, no food, barely any water (yes, you suck Emanuel Hospital), and a few choice words later, Daddy was released, and Paramount Park DID allow him to go back that evening. Bastards, every one of them.
On the last trip to the ER, there was an actual reason for him to go...he'd "accidentally" drank peroxide. Daddy said he thought it was a bottle of water and was very annoyed that we thought he would purposely drink peroxide. My argument to him was this: what's worse...that he drank it on purpose knowing it was peroxide, or that he thought the enormous brown bottle of peroxide was water?
I got into the conversation with the Nurses at Paramount about moving him to the actual "Dementia Unit" portion of their facility. They told me they were not trained to deal with him. This was frightening to me. They advertised being equipped and trained to care for people with dementia's, alzheimer's, etc., but they couldn't handle my Dad? His disease was only in the beginning stages at this point...so I wondered outloud just "who" they accepted or were "able to handle" then? They actually admitted to me that "they preferred" dealing with residents that were "pleasantly confused".
Pleasantly confused.
Show me ONE person with any kind of dementia that stays "pleasantly confused" and I will show you this tree in my backyard I genetically modified to grow real money.
The idiocy is magnificent.
So the search for another facility began. Again.
And my search for more advice from a lawyer and/or financial people began. My brother had come with me to set up CD's for our Dad so he could gain interest and hopefully not run out of money. But everytime we dealt with people they acted one of two ways. Either they looked at us cross-eyed, I'm assuming because of our ages and the amount of money we were open accounts with...or they'd take one look at those zeros and say stuff like, "Wow, well, I can see that you are one of our executive clients" and practically drool all over the place. I wasn't shy with these people, I flat out said that this was NOT my money, I just handled it for my Dad, who they'd never see, so the drooling and fake fawning could stop.
I toured so many facilities I lost count how many I saw. I revisited a few I'd crossed off my list the first time and crossed them off again. Some places that advertised they cared for Dementia patients now said they didn't. Some acted like Dementia was the plague and said they didn't admit people with Dementia. Turlock Rehab and Nursing told me that they can't care for demented people, but I now know that at least half of the people in my support group (for caregivers of people WITH Dementia) have had their loved ones at this facility. Some places welcomed me to come visit their "home-like residences"...many were listed with a zillion gold stars and touted as "so great when my Nana was there"...and they were actually ghetto-riffic ratholes whose caregivers sat in a circle of cigarette smoke outside or looked like THEY needed to be "cared for". I was disgusted.
Some smelled like dog urine (Season's at Modesto). Some had people sitting in wheelchairs drooling on themselves in hallways, clearly neglected. Some had people sitting in wheelchairs drooling all over themselves OUTSIDE with flies swarming all around them (Lifesprings in Turlock). Some had caregivers so young I knew there was no way in hell they'd be able to handle much more than a frail little lady who just wanted to be served tea. Some had mostly foreign caregivers that seriously spoke so little english even I had a hard time understanding them, so I knew someone with a mental impairment would be completely lost in their mumbled words.
My Dad was "lucky" that his mother had passed and left him money, because there was no way any of us could contribute to the costs of any of these facilites, if I ever found another one I could even stomach the thought of leaving him at.
I found a support group in my area and got my brother to come with me the first time. I needed answers from people going through this nonsense. I needed advice from people who'd dealt with this...talking to financial people and lawyers was a waste. If you talked to 3 lawyers, you got 3 different pieces of advice. I didn't want their "facts and figures" and "what's supposed to happen". I wanted reality.
I came across the Stratford in Modesto (angels singing!!!!) It was this really nice, hotel-like residence with one "assisted" side and a side solely dedicated to people with dementia.
The Staff would take care of all his needs...meds, food, etc. The only catch was that he'd have a roommate because it was the only room available at the time. But we had to compromise. Daddy was against the idea, but we had to try. We told him it was temporary until a private room opened, which was true because he was first in line to get one, not that we planned on doing that unless he didn't adjust (everyone I had talked with so far had said they thought having a roommate was better for him since he tends to isolate himself constantly). The place was great...they handled his hallucinations and everything with ease. So much so that I never really heard about what he was doing unless I asked them. And they'd just shrug it off because they knew he was just acting like someone with Dementia. What? This must be Heaven! I felt like I was getting a mild break from all the madness.
But then came the GUILT. How could I have put my Dad in a home? What was wrong with me? Was he really that bad, or was I just remembering his behavior wrong?
Now, they only let Dad call once a day, but he was freaked out when he did. And when I'd visit, he was SO upset about the roommate thing, I just couldn't stand it anymore. Then his roommate 'went away' to get his meds straightened out because he'd gotten combative. Poor guy never came back, he passed away in the hospital.
So, Dad's roommate was now gone and there weren't any moving in yet, but Daddy didn't even want to look at the empty bed, knowing what it meant. His hallucinations, while they (finally) weren't bothering anyone else (like the previous insipid caregivers), they were bothering me. My Dad was also upset because this new place really didn't have a lot of room for him to walk, which was "his thing". He loved to walk now. It was his only outlet. And of course, the whole issue of him being "locked" inside was not going over well. Though this place was awesome and I was getting the first break in quite some time, I wasn't happy because my Dad wasn't happy. I wanted him to be able to have an area to walk outside. I wanted him to be at ease with where he was. And I caved. I was stupid. I let my guilt at the fact that he "wasn't happy" get the best of me.
Sigh.
I began looking at facilities again.
This time, out of exhaustion, I allowed my Dad to look for himself at the ONE facility left in my area that would even take him...that I could with any conscience let him stay in: St. Francis Assisted Living in Turlock. It was one of many I had crossed off my list twice because it really wasn't very nice. It was older, and in need of repairs. But this time around, they were doing renovations. This gave me hope...?
My Dad was happy about the place. With the upgrades, and what was supposed to be coming, I hoped it wouldn't be so bad. He'd be MUCH closer to me, so there'd be no commute to hear about hallucinations, it was gated but he had tons of room to walk on the property, and like the other places, they were to take care of his necessities...AND it was "only" $2500/month versus the $3800/month at the Stratford.
When I gave notice at the Stratford, the Administrator, Nicole, warned me that my Dad was never going to be happy...that I needed to look out for myself too and just let him be settled somewhere. Deep down, I knew that she was 100% right, but I am stubborn. I was sure I could make it work...and that having him closer would be better. I am just one of those people who is determined to find a way to make things work and I was NOT going to be defeated by a disease. I saw that half my family had died in the past few years and that I had gotten through cancer treatment myself, so THIS would not be my defeat. No way. Nicole WAS right, I knew this. And I really did love everything at The Stratford, but I just had to do this.
Although I felt like I was going to let him live in a place I really didn't like, he wanted to live there. He said he didn't need anything fancy (god only knows some of the dumpy rentals we'd lived in growing up) and he just wanted room to walk and have his "own room". Well, he'd have that at St. Francis, so I just...I dunno...had to try it to see if he could be happy somewhere.
We could make it work, right? I'd be close, I could check in on him daily, and he got to pick the place himself so he felt independent again...he'd be happy...and safe, right?
Wait, what's that?
Hear that horrible screaching? That creaking noise?
That would be the gates of hell opening.