Feb. 6, 2007

We've been emphasizing the need to "tell your story." The story of aging services is not an easy one to tell. Why? The reasons are many. The frailties and indignities associated with age-related conditions are often hard to face. None of us likes to think of our parents growing old, and our culture pays a fortune to makes ourselves think, look, feel and act younger. Good care is inadequately funded, yet the public thinks that government pays for everything, so people face sticker shock when they need help. Our work forces everyone to face their own mortality.

Yes, it's a hard story to tell, but we must find authentic ways to tell it. That's why we introduced the "Tell Your Story" theme at our Annual Meeting & Exposition in San Francisco, and we have a follow up theme of "Live Your Story" at our fall meeting in Orlando. We've also started a story bank where you can share the great stories you live every day.

We often let others tell our story. On one extreme, slick commercials tell a glossy tale with graying actors who wear adult diapers while they play golf or kiss each other while you guess which one wears dentures.

On the other extreme, negative stories abound in the popular media. Recently, an issue of AARP The Magazine included a story that reflected the sad experiences of a self-defined younger disabled man who had a short stay in nursing home after surgery. He was surrounded by other residents of a more traditional nursing home population and became familiar with all the sounds, smells and personalities associated with frailty in a care setting.

His complaints focused on problems inherent in institutional care — boredom, loss of control, lack of meaningful activities and relationships, a sterile, hospital-like environment and staff with various levels of concern. All of these are the dynamics you deal with every day. They are especially difficult for people like this man, a successful writer with his mental faculties intact, who died at 68 from cancer — not dementia. A truly dismal experience for him, and he had no real alternative. We can all sympathize and empathize with him and others like him that we've known in our work.

I remember Gerald, a resident at Wesley Woods when I was there. A near quadriplegic at 30-something due to an auto accident, Gerald lived in our nursing home. He died a couple of years ago. On good days, Gerald appreciated staff, was an active on the resident council, could go on outings in the van and dealt with the sights and sounds of people three times his age with good humor. On tough days, he fought bladder infections, endured impactions and complained anonymously to the state, which sent a survey team to investigate. He tried to leave the nursing home a couple of times for more independent settings, but he was vulnerable to critical clinical problems that other settings were ill-equipped to handle. Our nursing home was home. Staff was family. We all fought the complaints and conditions together. We loved Gerald — and he loved us — in spite of the inherent problems of living together. Wesley Woods was home for Gerald. An imperfect home, but home. This is not a pretty story, a perfect story nor an easy story to tell. But it is real, it is loving and it is essential for the Geralds of the world. You have your Geralds too. Neither glossy nor despairing, but an authentic story of hope and care.

But people like Gerald are not the only story. Areti Staudohar from Riverside Senior Living in Kanakee, Ill. , writes of the birthday party for a wheelchair bound, 104-year-old Lois and her two friends with Alzheimer's. Areti had rented a red Ford Mustang convertible while her car was in the shop and used it to take Lois and her friends out for a spin. Each resident told stories of their adventurous younger years. Jack, a resident who retired at age 88, told how he became a successful business man in the community after entering it on the road on which they were driving. "Punch it," Jack yelled, urging Areti to drive faster. She'll never forget the smile on his face as she did.

"I am sharing this story to help us all remember how much we touch people's lives everyday," Areti writes. "In our own way, each of us makes a huge impact on the patients and residents we serve, and they in turn give us back their own priceless gifts." Neither glossy nor despairing, but authentic.

Or, there's the story from Penacook Place, in Haverhill, Mass., of an older women with multiple problems, referred by a hospital, demanding daughter in tow. The mother died within a couple of months and the daughter told staff her mother's last year had been a tough one, but her last days at Penacook Place the best ones of the year. Not high gloss, not despairing, but authentic and reassuring.

For the many people we serve, the story is one of new-found quality of life in spite of disease or other difficulties, finding the shreds of meaning that are still available to the mind and heart. For others, it is helping them make the best of stressful and difficult circumstances in coping with a loved one.

Charles Dickens' great novel, A Tale of Two Cities, brilliantly describes the same city from two starkly different sets of experiences, making one city seem like two. You and I have the challenge of telling the tale of two cities in the work we do. And we can't let just one set of experiences — as real as they are — be told. We must continue to make the experience as meaningful as we possibly can for all the residents of "our cities." So the tale gets better in the telling as we address quality of care and quality of life for an aging population who would rather think they will be perpetually youthful and will never need our services.

And when it works, the tale and the telling can be magical for those we serve and for ourselves. Take this story from Mary Ann Johnson of Lutheran Services for the Aging in Salisbury, N.C. She wrote us about Tim Setzer, a 45-year-old father of three who came to the Lutheran Home after blowing out both knees at a softball game:

Like a Dickens novel, we have a classic human story to tell. It is a tale of two cities. We must tell both. It is incumbent upon us to improve the conditions associated with the tragic tales and illuminate the tales of hope. Gerald's life was a tale of two cities. Authentic, tragic, hopeful. You live these stories every day. Tell them!

Larry

William L. Minnix, Jr., D.Min.
AAHSA President and CEO

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