He is in the Room

Diane Dennis

50plus Magazine

 

Once a prominent lawyer, his expression holds remnants of his influence, wisdom and character. His posture belies his eminence now, bent from arthritis.

The group is seated in the dining room turned makeshift boardroom to make decisions about the fate of the man’s last years. Gathered are two younger sisters, his son and niece — all polite but fidgety with their individual (some opposing) agendas. They are uncomfortable in their inability to come to a consensus about where he should live now that dementia has addled his mind.

His son prefers he stay home with care. The sisters think a facility with round-the-clock supervision is more appropriate. Everyone has their time to pontificate their opinions. Everyone, that is, except him.

I am there to help mediate, a common role as Geriatric Case Manager. I steal a glance at him. He clears his throat, gazing down at his hands neatly folded on his lap. He checks his watch for the time.

Addressing him I say, “It must be difficult having your family discussing your condition, talking about you while you sit here?”

He gives me a knowing glance. With a twinkle in his eye, as if awoken from a dream he replies, “Yes, dehumanizing, don’t you think?” My gaze assures him I do. A hush falls over the table.

As if I’ve given him permission to own the room, his dignity returns. This meeting is taking place in his home, a lovely midcentury modern appointed with sculptures — no doubt authentic and expensive — with a view overlooking the lush valley.

There is an abashed hush in the room now that he has spoken. The family gives him the floor, some blushing for disregarding him while arguing his fate.

Now that my voice has broken through but not broken up the meeting I begin tending to his needs and asking questions about what he wants.

The end result is a decision seconded and sanctioned by him, the one for whom the meeting is being held. He will remain in his beautiful home with a lifetime of memories, long shared with his recently deceased wife. Caregivers will support the activities of daily living he now needs assistance with. His family will take an active role in helping more, running errands and visiting.

As I stand to leave, he shifts in his chair and gazes up at me. He gives me a whispered thank-you and a wink.

I think we will become good friends, comrades with a mission to keep his dignity alive as I help him navigate the next stretch of path on his journey.