Will any place ever be good enough?

So.
Dad moved into the Private Room at the Stratford. I was so happy I could barely contain myself. I was looking forward to what it was like when he was there before...I had a little time to rest for once, and I had peace of mind that he was actually being fed and given his meds and, hmmm, not being harrassed over intercoms...
But this time around something had changed. Dammit (shaking my fist at the sky).
Within the first week, I was called about 13 times...not by my Dad, but by the people that worked there. If they didn't get me at home, they'd immediately call my cell, which I ONLY use for emergencies. These weren't emergencies. It would be "to let me know" that Dad had bumped his elbow, Dad had an accident (didn't make it to the bathroom), or something else that they really didn't need to tell me right then or at all. Of course, if he had a new bruise, then yes, let me know so when I came in I wasn't wondering, but it never was.
Then I started getting phone calls at 2 and 3 am. Uh, NO. And again, NOT emergencies...Daddy wasn't on his way to the hospital, they were calling me at 2 am to tell me that he'd had fallen out of bed...but that he was fine. Uh, okay, then call me at freakin' 8 am! Maybe that sounds cold, I don't know, but waking an entire household of people for a bump...please.
Then they started sending him to the ER. Oh, here we go. I got bills for MONTHS just for the first ER visit...for a goddamn bandaid. NO, not kidding. He'd wandered into someone else's room, scraped his elbow somehow, and when a caregiver asked him what he was doing, he said he "thought" maybe he'd bumped his head. So, though they saw no SIGN of a head injury...no bump, no swelling, no redness, no word from him at an area that hurt...off to the ER he went...and $3000.00 later, that was one hell of an expensive BANDAID.
Then there were the Stratford caregivers. Some of them were the same from before, some weren't. A few are really great people and are definitely in the right career...they are compassionate and caring and try to use common sense before only utilizing "policies" that don't help anyone. They help us and don't make our lives harder. Unfortunately they are the exception.
The dementia area is divided...there are two little dining areas to keep some people separated...some get a little loud and rowdy at times, so I can see how having "separated" areas could be beneficial. Each side also has this long row of recliners in front of the TV's each side has. One caregiver would ALWAYS be sitting in a chair behind a recliner (a recliner that had a resident sitting in it), resting her head on the back of said chair...ASLEEP.
Another caregiver, who called me one of the times at 2 am to tell me about something completely ridiculous, wouldn't even make eye contact with me anymore after our badly-timed call. Apparently when someone gets called at 2 am, you're supposed to be AWAKE, perky and ready for pleasant conversation...? Uh, no, I will not apologize for being groggy and saying "what?" at least 3 times at TWO in the morning. Not only was I dead asleep, but I JUST couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I HAD to be called at that time to be told, "Hi, this is Annoyalita from the Stratford...you're Dad is fine, but he scraped his knee."
I replied, "Uhhhhh, okay...so wait, he's okay?" to which she replied, "Yes, he's fine". Back to me: "So...then couldn't you have called me at say, 7 or 8 am to tell me this?"...to which she said she was "just doing her job".
I had to have an actual conversation the next day with the Director about the fact that, no, it really was not necessary to call me in the middle of the night unless it's a real emergency. I mean, why the hell would we go against everything we believe in by putting my Dad in a facility and pay out the rear for care and false peace JUST to be woken up at all hours with stupid nonsense...? Hmmm. Me thinks we wouldn't.
So anyway, lots of little annoyances kept happening this time around at the Stratford. Some things were not their fault...like the fact that they must go along with the exact Doctors med. order...if that makes no sense it's because you haven't been there yet. When you get a prescription, clearly it (and/or your Doctor or Pharmacist) tells you what dose to take. And, usually they tell you if that dose doesn't work, to take more, or half, etc. In my Dad's case, he's always given some prescription that has the possibility of making his symptoms worse, to which, if that happened, we would change the dose or stop it altogether. If he needs to change dosages, it takes a ridiculous amount of time to do this. There are faxes, too many phone calls...and then if the Dr. even responds, it's more calls and faxes. Too much waiting when I could just change the dosage myself or stop calling in for refills! I am pretty well versed on on these insipid meds by now, and I use a pill-cutter like a champ. Facilities can't do that. There are too many regulations that prevent any sort of smooth flow to anything, and it really becomes more work for family members.
All of the residents of these facilities are on so many drugs, it's insane. Probably none of the meds are doing them a damn bit of good, but most of these people have been dumped off and no one speaks for them or the fact that their sleeping pill is actually keeping them awake or causing them to roam the halls all night. Then there are the drug interactions, the "possible" drug interactions, the side effects you can definitely expect, and the side effects you "may" expect. And then with my Dad, there is a huge list of drugs that he should NEVER take because of his particular disease. You can find this information everywhere, yet most Doctors are just pill pushers. They say that the benefits "probably" outweigh the risks.
NO.
I think I can say with confidence that my Dad on over half of the available anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, anti-psychotics, cholesterol lowering drugs, blood sugar stabilizers...you name it, he's taken it. Never have I honestly seen any of these drugs help him more than they hurt him. Even the "miracle drug" Aricept that he's been taking has "coincidentally" caused complete insomnia, more rigidity (Parkinson's symptoms) and an overall sense of doom. When I've asked his Doctors about this, they just stare. My Dad is a lost cause to them. He has a terminal illness, and all of these issues with meds are inconsequential, like...why does it matter?
Anyway, life in a facility is harder, not easier. The only people I've come across who are truly happy with how their loved one's life is like in a care home, are the one's who don't visit or are completely numb to anything really happening.
It's true that my health had gotten worse since taking all of this on, and that I have had to sacrifice time with my children and friends (the ones who stuck around anyway) to take care of what I think my Dad needs and deserves. I know that I should've maybe built up some sort of immunity to all of my Dad's complaints or my expectations...well, I don't know...I guess. I know that if I were the one with dementia, I would be heartbroken if my kids had to go through what I've gone through with my Dad...all the hassle, frustration, tears, guilt...and nothing really ever changed or made him happier anyway. I just don't know. It's a struggle to find balance. Maybe the people who drop their family members off are half right and I'm half right. Where is the happy middle ground? Where? Is it better to be selfish and go on with my life, knowing that he is in a facility, miserable and sad? Would I even be able to do that? How could I move on at all without guilt overriding everything, including sleep...oh, beautiful sleep that I have missed...when he is lonely in a facility with strangers?
BUT...how am I really doing anyone else in my family, or myself, any good by being completely burned out, exasperated beyond belief and unable to enjoy life...what little life I have, anyway?
All I know is that there's been no real peace in any facility he's been in so far. I fail to see how paying over $4000 a month but still receiving phone calls at 3 am, having to rush over, stopping everything I'm doing, dragging my kids from their lives and dealing with pissed off or lazy caregivers makes any sense. But does it make sense to bring him here, knowing that, yes, we won't be shelling out $4000 a month, but our lives will be 100% devoted to him and his hallucinations and needs?
I was still at odds with what was the right thing to do here, versus what is reasonable...am I really supposed to not have a life to make sure my Dad has a resemblance of one?
All I do know right now is that no facility we've found is good enough.
Some are so horrible that no living thing should be there.
Some have potential, but I doubt they will ever live up to it.
And ALL of them are failing to see that whether you are one of the family members who drops your loved one off and never returns, or you are like me and comes in probably too much...the decision to place someone in a facility is hard. REALLY hard.
Every facility is only as strong as the people they employ and most are sorely lacking in people skills, understanding or sympathy for the reality of the situations the residents and family members are truly in.
After far too much deliberation, and being sent to the edge of insanity, we decided to bring Daddy to our house again.
At the very least, even if it's going to be temporary, one thing I hope to accomplish is to detox him from all his medications. Once this is accomplished, we can see where Daddy really is in this damn disease. When sleeping pills chase away sleep even more so, diabetes meds are keeping his blood sugar dangerously low, the depression and anxiety meds seem to be about as effective as a candy bar...something has to give. No Doctor is willing to admit the drug they've prescribed is making things worse, and the facilities are not allowed to stop or change any prescription without the consent of the ignorant Doctors, so I feel this is a necessary evil to face....to, at least for the sake of getting him off all of these drugs...to bring him to my house in order to do that. Bringing him home, my God, the thought makes me nauseated...but I refuse to pump my Dad full of more drugs and keep him in a vegetative state so he's easier to deal with. He's been on and off soooooo many drugs over the past few years, it seems impossible at this point to even know what behavior is caused by what...is it the progression of the disease? Side effects? What?
While I am ALL for people taking medications that help them, I don't see how anyone with diseases like this are being helped by adding more drugs. There IS no cure. There IS NO wonder drug that really even alleviates symptoms long enough to be worth the trouble they cause.
Aricept can cause more symptoms than anything it can really help. I don't see how taking a drug with so many possible side effects is worth it when you might have an extra 10 minutes of clarity a day. If it was me, I would want nature to take its course. There is no quality of life anymore. Anxiety, paranoia, restlessness, and wandring rule the day and most nights. No drug has changed that. If anything, they've made things worse.
So detox here we come.
We've been frantically getting everything into place...setting up the downstairs rooms, dementia-proofing everything with locks and deterrents, and the thought crossed my mind too that he should have his own pantry of snacks in his room too. This, because, well, he snacks...a lot...and honestly...unless we are going to start washing his hands every half hour...ew...I just can't bear the thought of allowing my little ones to be sharing the same box of crackers with Grandpa when god only knows where his hands have been or if he washed properly after using the bathroom.
Ugh.
His room is all freshly painted and waiting for him. The downstairs portion of the house is ready. I hope. We'll see.