Sarah Heatwole

Dear Reader,

Over my many years in senior living I have countless stories. Some of them funny, a lot of them sad. This one has to be one of the most memorable. It was cathartic take a trip down memory lane, but I’m so glad I’m on the other side of this situation. *All names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.

Off they went. 

Billie and Donnie, two escapees of Paradise Assisted Living, in their red sports car.

            The lead care aide, Jenna, came running into my office. “We gotta go after them. I thought they were up to something, and before I knew it, he’d snuck out the side door and climbed into her car. They turned right out of the parking lot.” 

            I snatched my purse. “Let’s go.” We rolled out of the parking lot and headed to the bars up the street. 

When Billie moved in, Donnie had softened a bit, but over time the patterns of their volatile relationship became clear. There’d been a reason they divorced years ago. After a few months at Paradise, Billie got her car back and took to driving to the store, sneaking in bottles of vodka up to the room. 

Seriously? What would I do if I found them? Coerce them out to the car and give them a stern talking to? I had a bad feeling. No matter how low our occupancy, all of this wasn’t worth it. 

            No signature red car at the bar. Next, we went to their house. The state of the house mirrored their apartment. I wondered if the inside smelled like it too. Urine, feces, sweat, and filth were all blanketed in a wreath of cigarette smoke and not the stale kind, the kind where you knew he had just stubbed out the cigarette. How did I let it get this bad?     

“Are you smoking in your apartment?”  I asked him once.

            He shook his head, his dark eyes hostile.  

            “I smell it.  I’m sorry I’ll have to look and make sure you don’t have cigarettes in here.” 

Then he cursed me out.

A quick search produced a pack of cigarettes.  “You can’t smoke inside. You’ll burn the place down. You’ll need to get these from the nurse and go outside to the smoking pavilion.”  

            “I hate this place,” he responded.  

            I kept a firm tone. “One of the requirements of living here is to keep this room in better order.  Let’s start with a shower.  The caregiver told me that you declined her assistance.”  

            “That’s right. I can do it myself,” he retorted. 

            I’d heard those words before from the mouth of my two year old.  This was different; he was an adult. “Prove to me you can do it.  If you’re still unbathed by dinner time, I will come up here with the caregiver and we’ll assist.”  

            He sneered. I turned on my heel and exited. The smell lingered on my clothing the rest of the day, but at dinner time he wheeled himself down to the dining room with dripping wet hair. His mood hadn’t improved though; he got mad at the server and slammed down a saltshaker.  

            Despite our best efforts, things didn’t improve. I called his guardian and her guardian–two guardians for two people whom the state declared incompetent. “Something needs to happen. It’s unsanitary, and she’s sneaking in contraband.” 

“I understand,” they’d replied. “Alcoholic dementia is unpredictable.” They’d brushed off the concern. “You should have seen him in his glory. The state’s best worker’s comp attorney.” All their words fell short of any answers. 

Truth is, I wanted to ask them to find another place for Donnie and Billie to live but their monthly rent paid for one of my caregivers, I couldn’t afford to lose them. If I lost one–I’d lose both. So, we piddled around, band-aiding the problem as much as we could until that fateful day.            

After half an hour’s search, Jenna and I landed back at the assisted living. We watched the grainy black and white security footage as Donnie stood, abandoned his wheelchair, and shuffled right out the side door. Surely, they’d be back soon. But what if they decided to nap in a hot car? Or caused an accident in their likely drunken state.

I called corporate. They advised I report the incident to the police. 

The police showed up. My palms sweated as they took statements and reviewed the security footage. Billie’s guardian gave them the license plate number. 

The officer looked at our huddle of workers and pressed his lips in a thin line. “We’ll have to declare a Silver Alert. They need their medication. They’re vulnerable.” 

My stomach clenched, and the world spun as my heart rate quickened. A piece of me wanted to go vomit in the nearest trash can. Impossible. I was in charge– a year into my job as a first time administrator. I needed to hold it together.

Next step. The State Health Department. Swallowing the urge to hide the seriousness of the situation, I tried to reason myself out of reporting it. Maybe I didn’t need to…I scoured the regulation manual. Did it really say anything about elopement? All my attempts at justification couldn’t hide the rules spelled out in black and white. The community must self-report all elopements. My fingers found the phone and made the report. 

Within two hours, a state investigator showed up at the front door. “We’re here on a self-reportable,” she said overlooking the top of her glasses.

Never in my almost a decade in healthcare had I known surveyors to show up this quickly. My world spun out of control. My out of body self-rose to tip of the four story atrium and observed myself marching the investigators to the second floor room where they set up shop. This couldn’t be happening.

The trail of investigators went in and out of the room asking for pieces of documentation, and interviewing staff members. 

Don’t ever give them the whole chart. Only what they ask for and nothing more. The voice of Kelly Miller, fellow administrator and mentor never left me. 

In-between the copier and the nursing office, I fielded countless calls from Channel 4, 6, and 10 news. “What happened? Did I have a comment?” 

“Don’t send them through.” I advised Gloria, my secretary. “Always answer ‘no comment’, to anything they ask. Corporate is drafting a press release.” 

Evening fell. The investigators left, the Silver Alert went out, and I sat in my office, the adrenaline crashing. Would I even have a job when this is all over? I needed to go home and sleep. The investigators would be back in the morning, sometimes showing up unannounced as early as 6am. Yet I couldn’t leave. Maybe Donnie and Billie would come back. They had to. Every part of me willed a positive ending to this story.

“Call me. If they show up.” I instructed the night nurse, then trudged to my minivan and home to my young children and husband. Some days this job was too much and today was one of them. 

The next day dragged on. Around 2pm in the afternoon, the surveyors called me into their makeshift office. They were ready to exit. The entire management team stood in in a semi-circle as the lead investigator pulled out a mini voice recorder, listing off a long string of numbers associated with the case. My anxiety spiked. 

The surveyor droned on until finally, she got to the juicy part.

My breath hitched. 

The verdict. “We recommend this complaint be unsubstantiated.” 

Every muscle in my body relaxed a hair. There would be no state penalties assessed to our community, nothing that would deem us incompetent, but what about Donnie and Billie? Where were they? There were still two missing adults under my care. 

After everyone left for the day, I wandered into the nursing office. My nursing director Tom sat making out next month’s schedule. “I think I’m going to stay awhile.”

He nodded. “I have some more work to do. Let me know when you leave.” 

I went into our model apartment and paced. “Lord. Let them be alright. Bring them back safely.” My phone rang. I jumped. “Hello?”

“Sarah. This is Walt Whitaker, Donnie’s attorney.” 

My voice pinched. “Ahh yes. How can I help you.” 

“They found them.”

Warmth flooded my body and my voice came out more breathy than intended. “Thank goodness.”

“In West Virginia. Cops say Donnie and Billie were on their way to Myrtle Beach.” 

“Myrtle Beach!” I couldn’t hide the rise in my pitch. “Are you going to pick them up?”

“Heck no. I’m having the car towed back and told the cops they can ride along in the cab of the tow truck. Serves them right for all the trouble they’ve caused.”  

I paused unsure how to broach the next topic. “Mr. Whitaker. I can’t have them here unsupervised. You must understand–because they’ve escaped once, they are at risk to do so again. We will need to have someone posted outside their door until you can find another place for them to live. A secured community.” 

A beat held on the other end of the phone. 

I inhaled unsure of his response.

 “Okay. I understand,” he replied.

“I know a company who provides one on one personal care. Can I plan for them to meet the tow truck here and sit outside their door?”

An uncomfortable pause ensued. 

“It’ll be expensive but needs to be done.” 

“Do what you have to.” 

After hanging up the phone, I ran my hands through my hair. The roil of my stomach suddenly turning into hunger pains.

I went upstairs; Tom still sat at his desk. “They found them. Police stopped them in West Virginia on their way to Myrtle Beach.” I could hardly believe they’d made it that far.

He let out a low whistle and closed a chart. “Let’s go get something to eat and drink. We deserve it.” 

At Chili’s, I ate my relief in the large basket of chips and admittedly got a bit tipsy from the extra-large margarita. A glow engulfed me. They were safe.

Back at Paradise, I told Tom I would stay until they arrived. 

“Are you sure? You can go and I’ll stay.”

“I’m sure. I want to see this through till the end.” 

At 8pm my phone rang again. 

“Sarah. Mr. Whitaker here. Snag in the plan. The tow truck driver called. They stopped at McDonald’s for a bite to eat. As Donnie was climbing down out of the cab, he fell in the parking lot. They think he broke his hip. The ambulance took him and Billie to the hospital. I told the driver to bring the car back, and I’ll make other travel arrangements for them. They won’t be back until at least tomorrow.” 

I could go home. Sleep never looked more appealing. “Thanks, Mr. Whitaker. We’ll connect tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone. Grabbed my purse and walked to the car in the twilight. Another day in senior living in the books. What would tomorrow hold? I’d be back by 9am to find out.