Visting My Father in Prison

Though it feels like months, it wasn't but a couple of weeks ago that Dad and I went out to lunch as we normally did once or twice a week. He hiked himself into my Jeep Wrangler, folded his legs next to his walking stick while outwardly wondering if he wore a heavy enough coat to protect from winters last gasps. On the way to one of his favorite restaurants we stopped by Walmart to pick up medications, and to Kwik Trip for a couple of staple groceries. Over lunch, looking over the frozen St. Croix river, we talked about recent events at his facility, grandkids, great grandkids, recent You-Tube videos, the delicious walleye filet, and many other casual interests and developments. Across the table, I could follow his facial expressions as he guffawed at a recent news story, or laughed at a recent faux paw made during social hour at The Lodge, or I could trace his emotions as he told a story of extreme personal challenge from the distant past.

A couple of hours later we returned as I joined him for the walk back to his apartment to drop off the staples and medications, and to pick up the mail. As usual, it takes ten or fifteen minutes to get there not because he's slow, but because we'd stop to talk with this lady, or that guy, or that staff member as they asked how he was doing and if he'd be back down later to join them in that day's B.S. session.

Now, under the constraints of social distancing, I wanted to drop of a carton of milk and pick up his mail. The process was quite different. Pulling up to the front doors, I waited outside as one of the staff members, clad in gloves and a face mask, came out with mail in her hands. Inside, through two double doors, I could see my father waving. I couldn't see his eyes, but could image him squinting to see my outline as I waved back. Weird. It was like I was visiting him in prison, but without the telephone hanging on the wall so we could talk. He's said recently that he feels like he's back in prison camp, which I would poo-poo as being overly dramatic. With this experience, however, I can relate to that feeling in a modern sense.

The caution of The Lodge is very understandable, as a reported 47 such facilities in the state already have residents with the Corona virus. Fortunately, there have been no reports of illness at this facility.

Having said that, Dad just called to say they implemented yet another level of security as advised by the state. Residents are no longer allowed to get a meal in the dining room. Now they have to choose from prepared box lunches (or dinner) to take to their room. Social conversation in the soft and comfortable chairs in the lobby is still permitted, with proper distancing, but with very little contact with staff and no longer in any group activities. We assume the purpose is to reduce the potential impact of staff entering the facility from the outside by reducing the number of staff required on the inside. Hopefully the final tactic - restricting residents to their apartments - does not become necessary.