Page 51 of Too Old for This
“Welcome to Oak Manor,” a woman says. She is middle-aged, wearing a simple wrap dress and beige heels. “How may I help you?”
“I have an appointment. Lottie Jones.”
“Right this way.”
She leads me down a hall and into a large office with a desk on one side and a sitting area on the other. Now I am greeted by a man. He is also middle-aged, or maybe a bit above. It’s so hard to know where the dividing line is.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs.Jones. I’m Tom Wallace.”
“Please, call me Lottie. And thank you so much for seeing me.”
“It’s my pleasure.” He gestures to a velvet chair. It’s thicker and plusher than mine. “Why don’t we talk for a little bit? Tell me what brings you to Oak Manor Senior Living.”
—
If I don’t want to die in my house and leave behind a rotting corpse, then I have to consider moving to a place like this. That’s something I thought about during Kelsie’s funeral and something I think about now, during the tour. Is this where I want to die?
The facilities at Oak Manor are amazing. Dining hall, lounges, a pool, a workout room, medical offices. And they have classes that range from pottery to water aerobics. They also have book clubs, chess clubs, movie clubs, even one for reality TV.
The individual living units are like condos, available with one bedroom or two. Simple floor plans, single-level living, and windows with views. There are rooms with balconies, patios, or neither. It depends on how much you’re willing to spend.
After the tour, Tom hands me the price sheet. I try my best not to react. The units aren’t that expensive, all things considered. The real cost is the fee that covers all the activities, services, food, and cleaning. Thousands of dollars each month.
“I’m going to think about it,” I say.
“And you should. If you have any questions, please feel free to call. My cell number is on the card.”
Bet Tom will call me if I don’t get in touch with him.
The walk back to the car feels long and laborious, as if I’ve hit my physical limit for the day. If I lived here, I wouldn’t leave very often. Everything I need is on-site. Maybe I would even stop attending church as often. It’s happened before, with a few of the elderly parishioners who have “gone to the Manor.” Sometimes we never see them again.
But it would be an easy life. A relaxing life. And if the police ever came calling, they would find a woman without much memory left. That’s exactly how I would act until it wasn’t an act.
The money, though. That’s the big sticking point, because it depends on how much I could get for the house and how many years I have left.
It all comes down to this: When am I going to die?
The average lifespan for a woman in this country is around seventy-nine years. Can I afford Oak Manor for four years? And what happens if I beat that average?
Ugly. These questions are ugly, and I can’t avoid them any longer.
—
When I’m done at Oak Manor, I drive across town to the second place on my list, Serenity Village. Dana Ferris, the sales director, gives me a tour of the facilities.
“And over here is our dining hall,” she says.
It’s nice enough. Functional, like a family restaurant with tables and booths and lots of windows. If I hadn’t seen Oak Manor yet, I probably would have a higher opinion of it. I shouldn’t have toured the most expensive place first.
There’s nothingwrongwith Serenity Village. Everything is neat and clean, the common areas are spacious and well-appointed, and the individual units aren’t much different from the ones at Oak Manor.
But Oak Manor felt like it had more to offer, both in services and aesthetics. At Serenity, there is no velvet anywhere. No plush rugs or thick drapes. Everything is beige andeggshell, with patterned carpets to hide the stains. It looks generic, smells sterile, and feels exactly like what it is: a place for old people. Oak Manor was better at hiding that part.
Serenity is still expensive, but more in line with what I can probably afford. I won’t know for sure until my house is appraised.
“The dining hall looks nice,” I say.
Dana smiles and talks about the elevators and the lack of stairs in the individual units, no doubt because I am using my cane. She leads me down another hall to one of the lounges, where there are several seating areas, TV screens, and shelves stacked with books and games. Four old men sit at a table playing cards. In the middle, there’s a stack of poker chips.
