Although it is a difficult subject, we have been talking about where we want to live when we are old-old, or in Peter’s case, very-old-old. We love our home and if everything stayed the same, we’d never leave. But everything won’t stay the same.
So we are considering our options. Last month we visited a nearby continuing care place. It has an excellent reputation—from quality of the facility to the food to the administrators who have been there since it began, almost thirty years ago. We had lunch with friends who live there. They have a lovely apartment and are very happy there.
But everyone there is old—like us. A diverse community in age and other dimensions has always been important to me, and a continuing care community is not diverse. I felt very down when we left.
That particular place has a two-year wait list. So putting in an application would allow us to stay right where we are for another couple of years. And who knows what our situation will be then. (We hardly know what it will be tomorrow morning.) We will also have time to consider other options.
When I closed the mailbox door after depositing the envelope with the application and deposit that will put us on their wait list, it made a loud clanging sound. It felt ominous.