45
Griff
I pass Scotty a photo of Beau and me in our nursing-home room, side by side.
He studies the picture, then looks over to the spare bed, realization dawning. “So Beau had dementia . . . he lived here,
in this room too. The faking . . . it was to be with him?”
I nod and for a moment, Scotty is speechless.
“Geez, you must have loved him a lot.”
“He was losing his life as he knew it, I couldn’t let him lose me too.”
“Was caring for him at home not an option?”
“It was, at first. I left Lorraine about a year after he got sick, when things got bad and I couldn’t focus. I was constantly
racked with guilt for leaving him with carers who he’d try to escape from. It wasn’t safe.” I gulp down the rest of my whisky.
“That must’ve been rough. So it was Beau’s diagnosis and not your own that made you step down?”
“Yes. All my staff were so sympathetic. They adored Beau and were heartbroken when I broke the news. They walked on eggshells around me after that.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“He would wake multiple times a night by that stage. I’ll never forget my last shift.
I was so sleep deprived and stressed, forgetting the most ridiculous things—splitting sauces, undercooking meat, even dusting scallops with cinnamon!
Just running on fumes. I wasn’t any use to anyone, except Beau.
” I stand and rest my hand on the viola.
“The aged-care team said they didn’t know how I managed to keep him at home so long.
But they didn’t know what it would mean for me to be parted from him.
It felt like choosing between a permanently broken leg or an amputation. ”
Scotty leans in, his eyes full of sympathy.
“We looked at retirement villages where I could live with him, but none could give him the care he needed. The odds were stacked
against us. There are hardly any decent options for people with early-onset Alzheimer’s—and none that lets a spouse under
sixty-five live alongside them, when just one needs care.” I retrieve the whisky from under the bed and pour us another round.
“It had to be a nursing home where I couldn’t go. He was decades younger than everyone else there.”
“Surely you could have found somewhere better than this? I know I work here, but still . . .”
“The truth is, the only other places with vacancies . . . they didn’t feel safe for us. Not for two men who loved each other.
The staff never said anything outright, but you could tell. A pause when I introduced myself as his partner or husband. A
muttered slur from a resident during the tour. They’re the sort of thing you never forget—and in a place where you’re meant
to be cared for, it’s dehumanizing. I couldn’t risk him feeling unwelcome or ashamed: not at the end, not ever. This place
has many problems, but at least the carers and nurses are inclusive.”
Silence hums for a beat, heavy with what can’t be fixed.
“Gosh, I had no idea things were still like that,” he says quietly.
“It’s more common than you might think. Many older queer people fear going into care because of it.”
“That’s awful. Makes my blood boil, that a place that’s meant to be helping could be shaming instead.”
“If only there were more staff like you, Scotty.” I look around the room at the walls, the paint peeling like it gave up years ago.
“We didn’t realize how dodgy it was here, not until it was too late.
They were good at putting on a show—fresh flowers, warm muffins, the promise of activities.
Once we saw the reality, I looked into different options.
But the decent places were still full, and he was slipping.
Moving him would’ve just been more disorientating.
And by the time I got myself in here, under the radar, it sealed the deal. ”
Scotty nods, then looks back at me, hesitant.
“I don’t get it, though . . . why you had to move in. Couldn’t you just visit him every day?”
“Visiting was never the problem. Leaving was.”