When I met Geoffrey

I know almost nothing about Geoffrey, other than that he was an elderly resident in a secure dementia unit of a nursing home.

My elderly parents’ health had been increasingly uncertain; both were frail and unwell, Dad had some dementia (but not enough for a dementia unit at that point), insulin-dependent diabetes, and was very dependent on Mum as his carer.   The wheels fell off their situation entirely when Mum was given a diagnosis of terminal cancer and there was no question but that they both urgently needed nursing home care.

I am an only child, and was living 700km away from them, but having been watching the situation closely, with increasing worry, I had also been keeping an eye on options for suitable care.  Almost miraculously, a brand new aged care facility was opening in their suburb, and I was able to not only secure two places, but actually in adjoining rooms.  The down side was that as the place was so new, and not even fully up and running yet, they would temporarily have to be housed in the dementia unit until their permanent rooms were ready and staffed.  I had dropped everything at home, and rushed to Melbourne to organise things, so in those first few weeks, I was visiting a lot.

It was a beautifully appointed place, without that cold and institutional feel that some aged care homes have.  All the staff were kind and helpful, and sorted out any teething problems promptly.  The design of the dementia unit was such that it was not obvious that it was a secure unit, and there was a kind of circuit where wandering residents could go outside, and get back in through another door, without realising that they were locked in (and safe).  There was a way for visitors and others (including Mum and Dad) to let themselves in and out as they needed.

But Mum was not happy, let everyone know about it, and the stress and aggression affected Dad’s behaviour as well.  Every little thing set her off on a tirade of abuse at whoever was handy, and I marvelled at the staff’s patience.  One of the elderly residents with dementia took to pacing the circuit, but unfortunately when he was outside, would tap the glass of each window he passed, and guess whose room was on that side?

Then I became aware of Geoffrey.   He occupied a room near Mum and Dad, and often became lost.  If he came to a door (any door), he would try to open it and go in, and unfortunately, from time to time, it would be the door to Mum and Dad’s room.  Their door actually could be locked from the inside; the staff had showed Mum how to use the lever – there was a release on the inside so that a person could always get out, and staff had a way of getting in, in an emergency, but anyway Mum would forget to use it.

So we would be faced with an occasional shouting fit from Mum, accusing everyone, including Geoffrey, of conspiring to upset her, and someone would gently lead Geoffrey away, until next time.  I never saw Geoffrey react - he seemed to be a gentle, quiet soul, and I never once heard him speak.

Then one day when I was visiting, I opened the room door to leave, and came face to face with Geoffrey, about to come in.  Uh oh!  Hoping that Mum would not notice, I think I said something like “Oh, hello Geoffrey, you’ve come to the wrong room.  Can I help you get somewhere?”  I knew that it was nearly lunch time, so I suggested that I could take him to the dining area.  Geoffrey didn’t seem to react, but let me take his arm and lead him away.

When we reached the dining area I said something like “Well, it’s been nice seeing you, but I have to go now, so I hope you have a nice lunch.”  Geoffrey just looked at me.  Then he took my hand in his, raised it up, and kissed it.  I couldn’t say anything, so I tried to smile at him, and left.

Geoffrey taught me something important.