12. Twilight

Bleary-eyed, I shuffle forward in the lineup for the early-morning flight from Montreal to the Toronto Island airport. The incessant beep-beep-beep of the alarm at five in the morning had abruptly ended my fitful slumber—the kind that comes when I fret about having to wake up early.

It's a dreary, grey March day, cold and tedious as those days when winter drags on far too long. Through the large windows of the airport terminal, the feeble morning light struggles to pierce the heavy clouds. I am thinking about my ninety-six-year-old father's increasingly frail condition and what it means for my retirement dream of living in different cities for a few months each year.

As my dad's physical condition deteriorated, he found it increasingly difficult to make his way to the dining room from his small apartment in the retirement home, even with the aid of his walker. A year prior, the staff had convened a family meeting, which my sisters and I attended along with our father. During the meeting, they described his expected decline and recommended that we start looking for a place that could provide a higher level of care. He sat stoically, navy blazer and striped tie, hands folded on the conference table, taking it all in. The image of him sitting there still makes my heart ache.

The moment we had discussed during that meeting has arrived. Today is the first of what will be many regular trips to Toronto for the next three years to visit my elderly dad. My new retirement plan.

The decision—and my dad’s agreement—to move from Sarnia, where he had lived for sixty-five years, to a long-term care residence in Toronto will make visits more manageable for us, his daughters. One sister lived in Toronto, I could easily visit from Montreal, and the distance for my other sister from her home in Ohio remained about the same.

I knew I would hate the place even before I step inside for the first time. My reaction has nothing to do with my sister making all the arrangements. It has everything to do with my dad slowly dying. Long-term care will be his last home. The last stop.

"Third floor," says the older man behind the desk, his Garda Security uniform and yellow turban lending an air of authority as his finger taps lightly on the sign-in book.

As I wait for the elevator across from the Hospitality Shop in the lobby, where a woman wearing a lanyard that identifies her as a volunteer sells chocolate bars and bags of chips, my gaze falls upon a lineup of wheelchairs positioned in front of what appears to be a common room. Each wheelchair is occupied by a frail elderly person—some slumped over, others seemingly napping, many wearing slippers. Two caregivers, dressed in pastel scrubs and bright Adidas, chat nearby.

"Bingo, Thursday at 1 p.m.," states the sign outside the door.

Shit, I think, I hope they won’t try to get my dad to play bingo. He will flat-out refuse.

On the third floor, I make my way down a long corridor lined with overflowing medical carts—lotions, potions, and blood pressure machines cluttering their shelves. The yellow bio-hazard boxes on the walls beside each room’s entrance announce the activities within. I have a sinking feeling as I walk past a TV room filled with frail elderly women and one lone man slumped in their wheelchairs, watching a rerun or an old movie, their heads drooping as they struggle to stay awake.

I wonder about the end of my own life. This place feels like a stark departure from how I want to live my last years. While providing care for those with dementia or substantial physical needs like my father is challenging, I don't want to end up institutionalized in a place like this.

A tiny woman in a floral cotton dress is pacing in the corridor outside my father's room, muttering to herself and pulling at the sleeve of her tightly buttoned cardigan sweater.

"Is this the hospital?" she stops me, her eyes wide with confusion. "Do you know when I go home?"

I haven't yet become familiar with the anxious and frightened expressions often exhibited by those with severe dementia. Within a few visits, she will become part of the fabric of this place for me. I will say hello and reassure her that her room is right there, that she isn't lost. I will come to know her as the Serbian lady who lives across the hall from my father. Her children have done an excellent job making her room homey with photos and a colourful comforter. They have even brought in a table lamp, providing her with subdued lighting and lessening the institutional feel cast by the overhead neon. Her hospital bed is positioned low to the ground, so she can easily manoeuvre in and out, something I have to accept my father will never be able to manage again.

My father is imprisoned by legs that no longer function. I hate knowing this and thinking about the indignity of having to ring a bell and wait for someone to come and hoist him onto the toilet with a contraption called a “patient lift.” I hate that my father has lost his autonomy. I hate thinking that his life has been reduced to getting up, getting dressed, eating three meals, having a snack brought to his room in the afternoon, receiving an occasional visitor, and enduring the interminable wait for assistance when he rings for help.

If I lived in the same town as my father, would I be able to take care of him at home? He needs support and special equipment for many of his daily activities. Long-term care means no further trips to the emergency room. It’s the best situation for him. But I have trouble accepting that this will be his last home, and his life is reduced to one room with a hospital bed.

After a few visits, I will grow accustomed to the place. The discomfort I initially felt lessens, partly because the residence is Catholic. Hanging a crucifix in my father's room isn’t out of place, and he can attend a daily Mass in the same common area where they play bingo in the afternoons. Many elderly priests and nuns are residents, including Sister Mary Teresa, who lives on the same floor as my father and flits around like a little bird, dispensing cheery hellos and pecks on the head to everyone.

The people who work here are friendly, from the Sikh man behind the reception desk, soon asking about my trip from Montreal and the health of my children, to the caregivers and nurses who seem to be primarily new immigrants from the Caribbean islands and the Philippines, cheerfully greeting me each time we pass in the corridor. It's hard to complain when people are genuinely kind.

On many visits, I find my father seated in his wheelchair at his assigned dining table—his personal spot. Each wing of the long-term care residence has a separate dining room, so the residents don’t have far to go. My father's regular dining companion is cheerful Lillian, one of the few residents on the floor who, like him, still has a clear mind. A round, chubby woman with steel-grey hair hanging limply around her face, she lives next door to the Serbian lady and favours oversized T-shirts and baggy sweatpants. Try as she might to engage my father in casual conversations, he isn’t gifted at small talk.

Lillian always seems pleased to see me and enjoys our chit-chats covering the same topics: where she is from (Pickering), the weather (she doesn’t care since she hardly goes outside), and her children (missing in action). I will sit through many unappetizing-looking meals and chat with Lillian while my father slowly spears each forkful and brings it shakily to his mouth, each bite a struggle. Many residents have caregivers to feed them. Some can only eat pureed food—green, rounded, ice cream-like scoops for vegetables, white for potatoes, and brown for meat.

It doesn’t matter what I will ever think about the place. My father will accept it and his losses with grace. As always, he’ll go with the flow—his mind and spirit, thankfully, still intact. My father will remain his optimistic, grateful, and resilient self.

I reluctantly accept that Toronto will be my most frequent travel destination and that this long-term care home is my father's final stop. But I’ll never get used to the feeling that his life, at this stage, is like the twilight—a gradual fading of the light of day.