Things I Think
Will He Who Shall Not be Named start tweeting about me now? Will I get a pejorative nickname like Lyin’ Ted or Crooked HIllary? Testy Tetz perhaps?
If you’ve ever secretly longed for a way to combine the impenetrability of American healthcare policy with the ease of 21st century communication technology, you’ll be relieved and delighted to learn CMS now has a podcast.
Isn’t finding a long-term addition to the team mostly about the culture and the fit? That’s why it’s imperative to find out how he or she is likely to behave on a freeway on-ramp (or office hallway).
After nights of sleepless worry on consultants’ behalf, I’ve developed a tweak to the old consulting model that will transform the way they do business and make their skills newly marketable.
So, let me get this straight: While others are sprinkling Xanax on their Lucky Charms every morning, I found a long-term care leader who’s excited about PDPM? Something clearly wasn’t right with the man.
Yikes. That’s about all I can think to say here at the start of 2019 in long-term care.
Thanks for being the supercharged superheroes of love and compassion you become every December.
I’ll admit it. I’m still a little angry. If righteous indignation were an alternative fuel source, I could solve climate change all on my own.
It was my birthday yesterday — the same day I found out that Fernald, a World War II veteran and one of the wisest, bravest and most adorable people I’ve ever known, had passed away.
Strolling with an adorable dog through my neighborhood at twilight last night was an eerie journey into the macabre. The neighbors’ yards have been scary for weeks — there’s an election going on, after all. But now the creepy dial was cranked to 11.
Ever tempted to lose your faith in the essential goodness of human nature? Worried that our country is irreparably divided? A flight across the country with a group of iconic war heroes from long-term care facilities can do wonders for restoring one’s faith in humanity and hope for the future.
A friend of mine had grown concerned about the condition of her mother, who is a resident at a skilled nursing facility in another state. It tears at her heart being so far away, and she doesn’t get there nearly as often as she’d like. One experience in particular didn’t help.
In an ego-driven, impermanent world where possessions masquerade as precious, every genuine human interaction matters and no effort is ever wasted. The kitchen has been swept and the broken remains of that cheap Texaco glassware long ago discarded, but my last conversation with Fran will nourish my heart forever.
When I ask rehab patients about the precipitating event that brought them to therapy, they can at least answer the question. Maybe they tripped on a zucchini vine, slipped on a grape in the grocery store or toppled off a bicycle while swerving to avoid a raccoon, but at least they know what happened. Not me.
People often ask me what long-term care is like in Canada.* Trying to keep the peace, I usually answer, “Different.” I choose this passive path because a) I’m Canadian, so it’s genetic, and b) I know how quickly conversations can escalate these days.
Did you know we’re experiencing a global sand shortage right now? Please don’t panic, however. This only affects long-term care if your existing properties or future projects require glass or concrete, or if you use computers or one of those new, hand-held phone things.
It sits on the facility reception desk, blinking bright purple as I approach, but somehow escapes my initial notice. After all, I have so very many things — urgent things, funny things, deeply profound things, I’m sure — that desperately need to be shared with that person wearing the headset.
Nothing ever makes me feel more empathy for those we care for than my own occasional reluctant forays into our American healthcare pseudo-system. I just walked a mile in somebody else’s figurative moccasins — and then some.
In the long-term care profession, we exist to provide care to vulnerable seniors, and like the rest of us, they tend to exist 24/7.
I haven’t perched in a tree waiting for Bigfoot, or spent a morning with binoculars in a rowboat on Loch Ness. But I recently had a ringside seat for one of those elusive rehab therapy triumphs — the kind I always hear about, but had never personally witnessed.