Residents of Sentinel Hill in West Vancouver tried to block the passing of a new seniors care facility focusing on dementia-care in their neighbourhood, claiming their property values would plummet… Council has decided to go ahead with the new facility. “We cannot, if we call ourselves a community, be content with shuffling off people as they come to the end of their life and they're infirm,” [Mayor Michael Smith] said.
In August 1993, my father had a stroke which left him paralysed on his right side. My strong – and even stronger-willed, always-in-charge father became dependent on others. My parents (read, my father) stubbornly remained on their 5-acre property, determined to stay in their home. Finally, in May 1997, after a group of juveniles broke into the garage of their home, my father finally conceded that he could no longer protect my mother, and they moved into a house in the suburb.
It was a classic suburban neighbourhood: middle-class families consisting of parents in their mid-30s to mid-50s, and children ranging from tots to teens. Word spread quickly when my parents moved into the area; my father was 85 years old, my mother was 73. Within a week, everyone knew my mother. “Hello, Olga,” they would say as she went on one of her three walks per day. They became the neighbourhood grandparents. Peter would come to clear their driveway of snow; Greg was always ready to help in times of need; the teenage boys at the corner mowed the lawn in return for a $20 bill, and their father did the edging; and their next door neighbour, a retired plumber, fixed the gate or the garburator, and received a bag of home-made perogies for his effort. My younger sister’s kids would drop by after school for cookies and milk until my sister was able to pick them up.
As my mother’s memory fogged, and she became confused – and at times lost – on her daily walks, the neighbourhood kept a watchful eye on her. More than once, a car would pull over, and the driver would ask if she needed help, which she would gladly accept. To these anonymous people we are grateful. When we hired Susana, a live-in caregiver, the community was ready to provide support. After we moved mom into a care facility, her neighbours quietly acknowledged our decision.
Interestingly, the retired couple who bought my parent’s home were told it was on the market by their daughter, who lived down the street with her family. Perhaps they are now the neighbourhood grandparents.
In August 1993, my father had a stroke which left him paralysed on his right side. My strong – and even stronger-willed, always-in-charge father became dependent on others. My parents (read, my father) stubbornly remained on their 5-acre property, determined to stay in their home. Finally, in May 1997, after a group of juveniles broke into the garage of their home, my father finally conceded that he could no longer protect my mother, and they moved into a house in the suburb.
It was a classic suburban neighbourhood: middle-class families consisting of parents in their mid-30s to mid-50s, and children ranging from tots to teens. Word spread quickly when my parents moved into the area; my father was 85 years old, my mother was 73. Within a week, everyone knew my mother. “Hello, Olga,” they would say as she went on one of her three walks per day. They became the neighbourhood grandparents. Peter would come to clear their driveway of snow; Greg was always ready to help in times of need; the teenage boys at the corner mowed the lawn in return for a $20 bill, and their father did the edging; and their next door neighbour, a retired plumber, fixed the gate or the garburator, and received a bag of home-made perogies for his effort. My younger sister’s kids would drop by after school for cookies and milk until my sister was able to pick them up.
As my mother’s memory fogged, and she became confused – and at times lost – on her daily walks, the neighbourhood kept a watchful eye on her. More than once, a car would pull over, and the driver would ask if she needed help, which she would gladly accept. To these anonymous people we are grateful. When we hired Susana, a live-in caregiver, the community was ready to provide support. After we moved mom into a care facility, her neighbours quietly acknowledged our decision.
Interestingly, the retired couple who bought my parent’s home were told it was on the market by their daughter, who lived down the street with her family. Perhaps they are now the neighbourhood grandparents.