I am more than a long-term-care bed. I’m a living, breathing person

Nobody, apparently, considered our emotional survival. We were — and still are, for all the help we got — beds to be made and tended to.

The Ontario government has recently been patting itself on the back for committing to building many more long-term-care beds. I’d like to remind the government that each of those beds represents a living, breathing person. Someone who has experienced the joys and pains of life and now needs a little, or a lot, of help as we face the end of that life.

Some of us are fully aware, if not completely accepting, of where that life is now leading. Others, not so much. But we all deserve more than being regarded and referred to as “beds”.

I know that the intention here is  not necessarily dismissive, but it hurts nonetheless. This same attitude got us through COVID-19. But is simply “getting through” enough? Not from where I sit.

Before the pandemic, the home where I lived was a place of contentment. There was music, movement, even fun. We had a drumming circle, a choir, a dining club, movie nights, art classes and so much more. Each resident participated to the extent that they were capable. We were still alive. Living.

Government functionaries occasionally dropped by, to monitor, observe and chart our activities. They hid behind their clipboards and rarely, if ever, engaged with one of the “beds” they were enumerating. I had the feeling they were actually afraid one of us would bite if spoken to!

Along came COVID. We died long, lingering, lonely deaths. Some of the actually because of, well, COVID. The rest of us, still extant, were left to rot in solitary confinement – no longer able to even chat with each other in the corridors, at meals or during an activity. For 16 interminable months.

To our many families and friends, we existed solely as faces on screens they saw once or twice a week. Staff did their best, but there were too many of us, too few of them. We became in effect, “beds.” X number of beds to be tended to, as long days succeeded longer nights.

It ended, eventually, and we were returned to life. Except that we weren’t prepared. There was no transition period. Even prisoners, leaving jail, are given help when they are paroled. Not us. One moment we were “beds,” and the next “residents,” expected to function as if the 16 months of isolation had never happened.

Excep it had. And we, many of us, simply could  not cope with this new, communal reality. From solo meals in our rooms to enforced camaraderie in the dining room. It was all too much. The noise, bright lights and company where yesterday there was none – it was simply overwhelming. Screeching, screaming, crying, swearing became the new norm. Not just in the dining room. Not just during the day. Constantly. Around the clock.

Behaviours that would have been subject to grave concern “before” were simply now the norm. Charted by medical staff, yes, but largely ignored by management. Mobility was affected, too. Many of us who had been getting around on walkers B.C. (Before COVID) graduated to wheelchairs because our muscles, unused for many months, had atrophied. Others retreated to their actual beds, unable to cope with this new reality. We were bewildered and needed guidance to help us through.

But guidance never came. Nobody ever thought about just how those interminable months had changed us. Nobody, apparently, considered our emotional survival. We were — and still are, for all the help we got — beds to be made and tended to. Certainly not considered as real, live, humans who had simply been caged too long.

My message to the Ontario government is this: Before you tout the number of “beds” you’re going to build, consider me, and the others like me who will actually occupy them. Who will actually live in the homes, not “facilities,” that house them.

Talk to me. Not to another “stakeholder.” To me. I promise not to bite.