(Jun 9, 2007)

Something is wrong. Dementia prevents Blair Eddy from knowing what. But he understands his daughter is upset despite her smiles and soothing words.

He watches her pack his belongings into two big shopping bags, growing increasingly agitated with each sweater and pair of socks she throws in.

"That's my stuff," he says to her for at least the third time.

"You're being moved tomorrow," Lynda Eddy patiently explains again. "Don't worry."

"Do you know where I'll be?" he asks.

"I'm going to meet you there tomorrow afternoon," she reassures him.

"It's short notice," complains Blair. "They never notified me."

Lynda takes a last look around the private room at St. Joseph's Villa in Dundas where her father was moved three months ago to get him out of Henderson General Hospital while he waited for a permanent long-term care bed.

"I'm going to take your blanket, Dad. They missed it the last time," she says, picking up the fuzzy, oversized throw that warms her father when his blood thinners leave him cold.

It's the last straw for Blair.

"Why are they making me move?" he demands. "By law, I don't think they can do that -- say you have to live in a certain place."

Lynda laughs to derail any tears. Somehow her 84-year-old father, who for months has thought he's back in Nova Scotia living with boarders his mother has taken in, has articulated exactly what is happening to him.

He's being strong-armed by Hamilton Health Sciences (HHS) into a long-term care home Lynda vigorously opposes. She inspected the facility and left in tears at the thought of her father staying there. But HHS is threatening to charge her $300 a day if she refuses while holding out for a home of her choice. Unable to afford the extra charge, she's powerless to stop the move.

"It's just a blip," she says, and puts her hand on his shoulders. "It won't be a problem."

He looks up at her, eyes filling with tears. "That's my stuff."

"Don't be sad," Lynda says, explaining again that he's moving.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

She tucks him into bed and kisses his forehead.

"I love you Daddy."

"I love you too," he says. But he looks baffled as he watches Lynda take his bags away.

SANDWICHED: A year ago, Lynda would have found her own story atrocious -- unbelievable even. But now she knows all too well how typical it is. A 53-year-old single mom trying desperately to balance a full-time job, a teenage son, dad in long-term care and mom getting home care. If there is such a thing as a perfect example of the struggles of caring for the aging population, Lynda is it.

"I put out fires," she says. "I can't do it all, and I don't beat myself up because I can't do it all."

But it's hard to imagine there's anything else that needs doing.

Lynda coaches her son's two baseball teams. She cooks, cleans and does laundry for two houses. She visits each of her parents at least two to three times a week and drives her mother anywhere she needs to go. She works full time for the province helping the unemployed get retrained, and still manages to garden and go to dance class.

"I wish she could take a break," says her 17-year-old son Chris. "I see how stressed she gets and it's crazy. She just keeps going."

On a sunny May afternoon, she's off to check on her mom who lives alone in an east Mountain bungalow.

"Did you have lunch?" she asks, handing her mom an iced tea.

"Oh yes, Lynda, I always make sure I eat. Don't worry."

"Yeah, soup," Lynda replies, opening kitchen cupboards to see if there's anything else to be added to the grocery list her mom has left for her on the fridge.

Dorothy Eddy lost nearly 10 pounds in the first month-and-a-half her husband was in hospital. She was eating only soup and toast, leaving untouched the meals Lynda brought her.

It was the first sign the 85-year-old wasn't as independent as Lynda thought.

"It became painfully obvious once Dad wasn't there that my mom needed more assistance than I was aware," she says. "They filled in the blanks for each other."

Lynda now calls her mother before every meal, and tells her what to take out of the fridge to heat up.

She cares for her mostly on her own because her mother only qualifies for one hour of home care three times a week. Lynda's only sibling, a brother, died 10 years ago of a heart attack.

She picks the mail up off the table and sorts through it. She does the finances since discovering from final notices that her mother stopped paying the bills. Confused, she'd been shredding all her mail.

It took 45 minutes at one bank to get control of the accounts after showing her power of attorney. It was four-and-a-half months at the other bank.

Nothing ever seems to go smoothly in eldercare.

Lynda has her eye on the clock. She has to coach baseball tonight.

"What are you watching?" she asks, filling up her mom's pill box.

"Oh you know me, I just put something on," says Dorothy. "If it's a quiz show, I try to figure out the answer."

The two fall into easy conversation. This is what Lynda misses the most. She is essentially losing the parents she had only eight short months ago.

Her mom only stopped driving in November. Until then she'd been ferrying around women younger than herself to a full schedule of church events. Her dad's mind was sharp before his stroke in September.

THE WAY THEY WERE: Blair still looks much younger than his years, as he has all his life. In fact, Lynda's mother demanded to see a birth certificate before going on a date with him when they met in 1949. They married in November 1950.

In hindsight, the beginning of the end was eight years ago when Lynda's dad had a heart attack. Before then the retired school janitor had the energy to cut down trees and grow vegetables.

While his health forced him to slow down, he still had the lawn cut and a cup of tea made by 8:30 a.m.

The biggest blow came six years ago when he had to stop driving because of glaucoma and cataracts.

"He used to say 'A man without a truck isn't a man,'" says Lynda. "He was pretty upset but he knew you couldn't drive if you couldn't see."

Lynda got someone to take over the yard work about three years ago and started doing the housework herself.

Her mother, who finds the good in everything, was ready and willing to give up the house.

"I suggested an apartment," says Lynda. "But my dad couldn't even imagine it. He said he'd go out of here 'feet first.' He was very stubborn."

The crisis hit September 24, 2006. Her dad's stroke irreversibly damaged his mind, leaving him in need of 24-hour care. There was no going home.

He stayed at Henderson General Hospital until being moved on Valentine's Day to a temporary bed at St. Joseph's Villa while waiting for a permanent place in long-term care.

Lynda started looking for a home where both her mom and dad can live.

THE IDEAL: She arrives full of hope for a tour of Arbour Creek in East Hamilton. It's new and only five minutes from her house.

She's taking another afternoon off work for her parents. She's lucky her boss understands, and that her job is flexible.

It's love at first sight as she walks into the bright lobby. There is a quaint library to one side and a formal dining room families can reserve on the other.

She's more hooked with each step. The semi-private rooms are 142 square feet, and two of them have been built specifically for couples.

There's a pretty little kitchen residents can use to have tea with visitors. Pet birds are on every floor and there's a piano for singalongs. The bathtub looks like it's from a spa.

"That's something my mom would enjoy," says Lynda. "She always was a bath girl."

There are Anglican services for her mom and a men's club for her dad. Lynda can see them getting back to their former social selves, especially her mom.

"She's just really lonely," she says.

The piece de resistance is a one-room apartment families can book for parties or overnight guests. It means her dad's brother in Nova Scotia could visit.

"I'm going to move in," says Lynda. "It's looking better every minute."

By the end of the tour she has a plan. Get her dad in first and then her mom. Life will go back to a new normal.

Only one last question: How long is the waiting list?

It's at least six months to a year for a private room, and a year to 18 months for a semi-private.

Lynda deflates.

"I may not be able to leave her in the house for six months," she says, picturing trying to endure that long.

Lynda and her son, Chris, are already painting rooms, pulling up carpets and sorting through dozens of boxes to get the bungalow ready to sell.

And what about her dad? How long can he stay at St. Joseph's Villa?

REALITY: Days later she gets her answer, blindsided by a phone call on the Friday before the Victoria Day weekend. There's a bed for him, but it's not at Arbour Creek or the other two long-term care centres she chose. She asks to at least go for a tour before he moves.

Her son knows something is dreadfully wrong the minute he sees her face when she gets home from the visit.

"She was crying," he says. "She was saying there's no way he's going there."

It reeked of urine, no one greets her and staff seem more concerned about smoke breaks than the residents.

Tuesday she tries to refuse the bed by calling HHS, which is still responsible for her dad while he's temporarily at St. Joseph's Villa.

"I thought I was in a position to say no," says Lynda. "I really thought I had an option."

The hospital makes it clear she has to move her dad in the morning or start paying $300 a day.

"I feel so powerless," she says. "I thought I was on top of things and this has blown me away. Why was I talking time off work, running around and looking at homes? I feel tricked."

She comes up with plans. She'll call the Community Care Access Centre or even the Ministry of Health each day until he's moved again. She's already looked up the process for making complaints.

"I feel like I need to retire to take on the health-care system," she says. "I will be compelled to go every day. That's how uneasy I feel."

REPRIEVE: The morning brings a dramatically new day. It starts with a shocking phone call.

There's a flu outbreak at the centre her dad is scheduled to move to, and it can't take him.

"Miracles happen," she exclaims. "I'm on Cloud 9. I feel like disaster was averted."

She rushes to St. Joseph's to bring her dad some clothes and tell him the good news even if he can't understand it.

"Is this the first time you've been here?" he asks her.

"No, Daddy."

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"They called. It's been delayed."

He looks confused.

"They were going to move you today."

"Really?"

The two sit down at a table in the dining room to enjoy the coffee Lynda has brought.

"You drive here?" he asks. "Can you give me a ride home?"

"No, Daddy," Lynda says. She's learned to tell him she takes the bus or he gets angry when she refuses to give him a lift.

He's been asking to go home since he was admitted to hospital.

Soon Lynda will find him a place that feels like home, hopefully with her mother by his side.

All that's left now is waiting. Can the flu last long enough for another bed to open up? Any bed, anywhere else.

A NEW PLAN: Lynda is getting good advice. Originally she'd requested a basic ward room because she mistakenly assumed it would be the easiest to get.

It's also the cheapest so her mother would be spending less while waiting for a bed.

Now, Lynda will take a private or semi-private room even if it means dipping into savings.

It works. She gets a call at the end of the week. The home she picked as her third choice has a private room open.

"Thank God," she says.

She still hopes to get her parents into Arbour Creek. The moves are tough on her dad, but it's worth it to have her parents together, and close by.

In the meantime, she's overjoyed with The Wellington.

HAPPILY EVER AFTER -- ALMOST: Blair is smiling.

He's sitting outside in the sun on his last day at St. Joseph's Villa enjoying Popsicles and ice cream with his family.

"You'll have breakfast here and lunch at the new place," Lynda tries to tell him again.

"See the birds," he says, his smile widening.

"Are you feeding them?"

One of Blair's favourite staff members calls out to him as she heads out the door for home. Many of them cry when he actually leaves the next morning.

"You promise you're not going to cheat on me?" the staffer says about his move to the new home.

He laughs and nods.

"Mr. Flirty," says Lynda with a sigh.

Her mother leans over and pinches Chris's cheek.

"You're going to get sunburned," Blair says to Chris. "It's the first nice day we've had."

"There's been a couple," Lynda tells him.

"I must have been at work," he replies. "Have to take the day off and go fishing."

"Are you moving to Dundas?" he asks Lynda.

"No, you're moving," she says.

"That's good," he answers contentedly.

One more fire extinguished.

But for Lynda, the blaze is still going strong.

jfrketich@thespec.com

905-526-3349

Full Circle:

A Family Guide to Eldercare

The Spectator presents a week-long series on how to get help for seniors in need of care.

Today: The search: One family's journey

Day 2: Staying home: How to get help

Day 3: Long-term care: Finding answers

Day 4: Know your rights: Legal and personal issues

Day 5: End of Life care: Compassion and planning

Day 6: The Sandwich Generation: Feeling the squeeze

* Log on to thespec.com/fullcircle for the full series, more links, videos and slide shows.

* Give your views on today's issues on the Full Circle forum at http://ideas.typepad.com/circle/.

* Send us tips on how to navigate eldercare. E-mail fullcircle@thespec.com

"Seniors aren't being treated properly. They're being treated like a piece of dirt." Barbara MacMillan speaks on thespec.com/fullcircle

Need to Know: What: Open Forum on eldercare * When: Tuesday, June 12, 7:30 to 9 p.m. * Where: The Spectator auditorium, 44 Frid St. * Speakers: Wendy Brawn, Seniors Select with Catholic Family Services * Jane Meadus, Advocacy Centre for the Elderly * Sherry Parsley, Community Care Access Centre * Paul O'Krafka, CEO, St. Joseph's Villa * Free of charge, but please register in advance at 905-526-3535.