The Future We Hope For
There are certain conversations we’ll probably have someday.
We just hope that someday stays far enough away that we don’t have to think about it today.
Over the weekend, I listened to two woman talk about their mothers.
One is paying $16,000 a month for dementia care.
Another was paying $13,000 a month for a nursing home.
The numbers were staggering.
What stayed with me was the realization that both families were trying to do the same thing. They were trying to make sure someone they loved was cared for, & that realization led to a question I haven’t been able to shake.
When did growing old become something we prepare to afford instead of something we prepare to experience?
Because those aren’t the same thing.
One asks whether we’ve saved enough money.
The other asks what kind of world we’ve built for the version of ourselves we all hope to become.
If I’m fortunate enough to live long enough, there may come a day when I need help.
Maybe because my body can’t do what it once could.
Maybe because my memory begins to fade.
Maybe because time eventually reminds us that independence doesn’t last forever.
If that day comes...
What would I hope for?
Would I hope I could afford it?
Or would I hope the place caring for me felt like a community instead of an institution?
Would I hope the people caring for me had enough support to care instead of simply making it through another shift?
Enough dignity built into the system to remind me that growing old didn’t make me any less human?
Maybe there are realities about elder care that I don’t understand yet, but I want to.
Because the more I think about it, the less this feels like a conversation about nursing homes.
It feels like a conversation about the future every one of us hopes to have.
We all hope we’ll live long enough to grow old.
We just don’t spend much time asking what growing old should actually look like. Or what kind of care another human being deserves when they get there.
Nursing homes shouldn’t be places we spend our lives hoping to avoid.
They should be places we’d feel grateful existed if we ever needed them.
Because if we’re fortunate enough to grow old...
The people we’re talking about today won’t be someone else’s parents anymore.
They’ll be us.
Some numbers I couldn’t stop thinking about:
About 70% of Americans who reach age 65 will need some form of long-term care during their lifetime.
The national median cost of a private nursing home room is approximately $129,575 per year (about $10,800 per month). A semi-private room averages about $114,975 per year (about $9,600 per month).
In New York, the median annual cost of a private nursing home room is approximately $200,750 per year (about $16,730 per month). A semi-private room averages about $186,333 per year (about $15,530 per month).
These numbers don’t answer my questions.
They give me more of them.
Where does the money go?
What do caregivers need to provide the kind of care they’d want for the people they love...
Or themselves?
What would residents say they’re missing?
What would families change if they could?
If growing old is a future most of us hope to reach... why aren’t we talking more about the kind of care waiting for us when we get there?
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I really appreciated the way this shifted the conversation from how much care costs to what kind of care we'd hope for ourselves. I think that's a much bigger question, and one we probably don't ask nearly enough.
I’m so glad you wrote about this. I just had a conversation with my mom about this last week When my dad had a stroke and became a quadriplegic needing long-term care, we weren’t prepared.
I told my mom I wanted her to feel comfortable talking to me about these things, even though I’m nowhere near ready to think about her needing long-term care. It was devastating and also much needed. And keeping love front and center throughout the conversation really helped.