ONCE A CAREGIVER

ONCE A CAREGIVER, ALWAYS . . . ?

A Widow Bit – Feb. 3, 2008

By Mary Koch

I was recently visiting a glass-and-steel Seattle-area office building, when I needed to answer the call of nature. I headed down the hall to the restroom and noted this sign: “Handicapped accessible restrooms on lower floors.”

Exactly which lower floors, I wondered. If I were in a wheelchair, what would I do next? I imagined myself riding the elevator, up and down, trying to find the elusive, accessible restroom. Would I start on the first floor and work my way up or hope that the next floor down was, by definition, a “lower” floor?

And how long, I wondered, will I continue to see the world through the eyes of a wheelchair user when I have two functioning legs that take me pretty much wherever I want to go?

Not too long ago I attended an event that I would have taken John to if he were still alive. Or I would have tried. I ruefully noted that, because of the accumulated snow and ice, finding a parking place where I could have unloaded his wheelchair would have been impossible. We would have had to return home.

Maybe that’s why the stairs into the facility were shoveled and swept clean, while the wheelchair ramp had a layer of ice and snow. Did folks realize a wheelchair would never make it to the ramp? I doubt it. It was simply that no one thought about clearing it off.

How long, I wondered, will I continue to go places without considering whether John could have been there with me if he we were still alive? How long will I feel guilty about going places that would have been inaccessible to him?

If I am free to go where I want, I would also like to be free of my anger and frustration with the inefficiency, inequality and outrageous expense of what we Americans call a health care system.

Michael Moore’s documentary, “Sicko,” came to our town shortly after John died, but I couldn’t bear to go see it. I’m done with that issue, I told myself. It’s a no-winner.

Then a friend, recently disabled, was booted out of rehab, not because she was ready to go home but because her benefits were “used up for this calendar year.” And that was January.

I’m frustrated for her. Another friend, just this morning, told me that her husband has been in rehab since June ($12,000 a month that she doesn’t have to pay), and she’s so grateful he hasn’t been placed in a nursing home. I’m thrilled for her but even more frustrated.

Sometimes the system worked for John, sometimes not. It’s random. I ultimately did watch “Sicko,” and, typically for Michael Moore, it’s over the top. But Moore demonstrates that our problem is not only providing “access” for the 50 million uninsured. Even if you have insurance, getting benefits can be like playing the lottery.

Now, with the one I cared for gone, when can I stop caring? The answer is painfully obvious.

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