Caregivers

This week, the thing on the forefront of my mind is my last living grandparent, my sweet 92-year-old Italian grandfather, Albert. He’s in the hospital. Pneumonia. And that’s on top of some other issues. He’s had congestive heart failure for years. His eyesight is extremely poor due to macular degeneration. And then, a few months ago, he had a stroke.

When I think of my grandpa, I immediately picture his broad smile and barrel-chested hugs. But these days that smile is dimmer and those hugs aren’t as tight. He’s changed a lot since my grandmother, Helen, passed away suddenly just over a year ago. But what should I expect? The two were married for 68 years. “Devastating” is the word that comes to mind when I think about what it’s been like for him to have lost the person he’d spent nearly three-quarters of his life with.

The two of them lived independently up until she died. Grandma was their eyes; she’d read mail and keep up with bills. She also kept them busy with social engagements. Grandpa would fix things around their immaculately kept house, tend the garden and do much of the cooking. It was a true partnership.

After my grandmother’s death, my mom began checking in on her father regularly—with frequent trips to the San Joaquin Valley, his lifelong home—and then, after the stroke, has barely left his side. Recently, she’s been helping him get adjusted to life in an assisted-living facility. It’s been a difficult transition, one that’s still in flux. I visited Grandpa at his new place last weekend. It’s nice, but not yet home, and I’m not sure it ever will be.

Major props to those who, like my baby boomer mom, have become a caregiver to a parent or parents. It’s a stressful and oftentimes heartbreaking task. My grandfather is fortunate to have her as an advocate.

I realized that recently when I received a letter from an elderly Paradise woman who lost her husband of 30 years last spring. That led to her losing a huge chunk of income, which has put her on the verge of homelessness. She’s desperate for a more affordable place to live on her modest income—roughly $900 a month. Thing is, she wrote, the landlords she’s found require an income of two- to three times higher than the cost of rent.

It doesn’t matter, she lamented, that she’s always paid her bills on time, has no pets or criminal record, and has a spotless rental history. And she’s not looking for anything fancy; doesn’t need a dishwasher or microwave, she noted. “Now I’m sitting here with my husband’s old room full of packed boxes and nowhere to go,” she wrote.

When you look to the editor of the local community newspaper for a way to avoid being destitute, you’re definitely in a bad way. I feel pretty helpless here. I’m not a landlord. Obviously, I have the power of words on a page. If any readers know of resources for this woman, please contact me.