Health Care in this country is pretty darn fantastic.
Unfortunately, one cannot say the same for health care insurance.
My dad has Medicare and MediCal, the federal and state (California) run health care programs. Probably as good as any other, they have absurd limits on what they will pay for.
After having his stroke, my dad was sent to St. Mary's excellent Acute Rehab Unit. He was also put on a combination of Cumadin and Heparin which caused a hematoma in his leg (a blood vessel broke -- much like a "blood blister", only on a much larger scale.) So they took him off the blood thinners, including his gout medicine.
Which meant he couldn't put weight on either leg -- the right one with the hematoma or the left with the gout -- due to the pain. Plus his right arm started acting up. The therapists really couldn't do anything with him.
Once the hematoma cleared up a bit and they were able to give him his gout medicine, he started making a bit of progress in therapy.
Unfortunately, by this time, his allotted three weeks in Rehab were up. Luckily, St. Mary's is more interested in curing their patients than following the letter of the law, so they put him in their Skilled Nursing Facility and kept the therapy going.
Even so, he only gets two weeks in the SNF at the hospital, and there was no way he would be ready to go home so soon. We had to find an outside SNF he could go to for more therapy before coming home.
Note: The goal has always been, and always will be, to have him come home. In order for that to happen, however, he needs to be 1) medically stable and 2) able to help at least somewhat with his transfers. That means more therapy to get his right leg and arm working again, and to get him to stop pushing the wrong way with his left.So, last Thursday, Rachel and I toured one of the SNF's that had been recommended to us by the case worker at the hospital. Rachel and I both have had experiences with such facilities, both good and bad. This one was pretty darn good. They had a cat that roamed the facility, and concerts, and so on.
But it was still a SNF. It looked like a SNF, smelled like a SNF, it was a SNF. Dad would hate it there. And you couldn't blame him.
We pretended like it might make dad work harder to come home, but deep down, we knew it would only serve to make him more depressed, and unhappy, quite possibly leading to him just giving up. Dad has always been a fighter, but even the most doggedly determined sometimes get hit once too many times.
That afternoon, as I was working at the hospital, the case worker came by and told me that she had talked to the case worker at the Jewish Home and had set up an appointment for us to tour it the next morning at 9:30.
Rachel and I had planned to rent a U-haul to move the last of her stuff over to my place, as well as get rid of a bunch of giant monitors that had found their way to her garage. Needless to say, we tossed that idea out the window.
We did actually pick up the truck, but we just parked it at Grilleyville and headed off to the Jewish Home.
Now, the Jewish Home for the Aged is a beautiful old building in the outer mission district. It sits on a piece of land that has to be worth at least 10 mil in San Francisco's outrageous real estate market. The building, built before the war, is brick and displays the quality and detail that only older buildings have.
Shortly after we began the tour, our attitude changed from one of interviewer to that of an interviewee. We walked in the door with the intent of deciding if it was good enough; we soon began trying to convince our guide that we -- and Dad -- were good enough to be patients there.
They had birds, fish, and other animals. They had gardens and a killer fountain. They had a library, auditorium, and a gift shop. They had a coffee shop! Most importantly, it didn't look like an old folks' home.
The halls were open and spacious; they were lined with works of art -- most done by the residents in the various arts and crafts classes. Instead of solid white walls, much of the facility had glass walls looking out on to the gardens or recreation areas.
The wing that my dad would be in was newer than the rest; it looked much like a modern business hotel or a country club resort. It didn't have the appearance that one associates with medical facilities. There was color everywhere, and the residents weren't left to twiddle their thumbs in the hallways.
Naturally, you could tell it was a SNF, but the nursing station looked more like a hotel lobby desk, or the reference desk at a library, than a nursing station. The rooms, while spartan, seemed more cozy than small.
All in all, it was a delightful place -- I think I wouldn't have minded being there myself. The only question was, could he get in?
As you might expect, the waiting list is measured in years and the cost is phenomenal. But, Dad has Medicare and MediCal which pay for most of it, so we didn't have to worry about the cost (sometimes it pays to be poor!) The only other concern, then, was availability.
We were in luck -- they had a bed available for a short term (rehab) patient. If it turned out that Dad couldn't go home he wouldn't be able to stay there, but we were counting on him coming home anyway (and the doctors and therapists think he will.)
Now, the Jewish Home for the Aged is, as you might guess, limited to those of Jewish descent. Luckily, however, Dad is of Jewish heritage! Actually, he is pretty darn Jewish, since as far as I can tell, being oppressed is one of the prime criteria, and the more the better.
My grandparents sent him to America in 1939, expecting to follow him with his sisters. They never made it. They died in a concentration camp in Germany, and my dad grew up in a Jewish orphanage here in San Francisco. Although he has never really practiced any religion, (other than tagging along with my mother,) they decided to accept him.
I was pretty stoked. Of course, being the colossal cynic that I am, I won't believe it until he's actually moved in there. Nonetheless, things are looking good.
And, to top things off, that afternoon at the hospital, Dad actually stood, unassisted, for 20 seconds. That's pretty damn good for someone who really has no control over one of his legs!
All in all, it got the weekend off to a good start. Of course, something will come along shortly to make things even worse than before, but for now, I'm going to enjoy life a bit.