Aged Care. The very words are enough to chill the room.

It’s the place no one wants to “end up”.

The thought that, at the end of a productive and independent life, you’ll be confined, trapped in an endless loop of bingo, singalongs and bad food. Who wants that for themselves?

Or even more alarming, you might suffer degrading abuse or neglect, as reported in some of the more frightening vision brought to light by the 2023 aged care royal commission.

There’s not much to like about any of this, is there? The end of the road, indeed.

But I’m happy to say that this is not the full story. When aged care works, it can work surprisingly well.

A good aged-care facility can, in fact, provide a safe haven with love, care, support, companionship and stimulation for those in their final years.

That was my mum’s experience and I’m sharing it to provide some balance in the sea of misperceptions and negativity that can come up when aged care is discussed.

Mum died in January. She was 98 and as sharp as a tack until the very end. Late in December, she decided that she’d had enough. She was tired and just wanted to go to sleep. So she did.

Her last 12 years were spent in an aged-care residence in Melbourne’s outer-east, a kilometre or two from where she was born. Full circle, you might call it.

Mum chose her new home after dad died in 2013. She was frail, susceptible to falls and living alone in a house that was now unmanageable.

She had researched the local options and chose a sunny, well-designed residence that was independently owned and managed.

Not for her a multistorey, “state of the art”, “premium living” complex. No bells and whistles needed. She liked the building, had boasted maximum natural light and break-out spaces where residents could meet, host family, read or do crosswords with a garden full of native plants in full view.

The day she entered her new home was long and arduous.

I drove her from the family home my dad had built, where they had lived for 50 years. She then faced a formidable set of health checks and endless paperwork.

Mum had previously worked as a bursar at the local primary school.

Who knew a former student would be working as a trainee at this aged-care home? Or that this young angel would recognise mum and sit on the floor, holding her hand while all the formalities were completed? And no member of staff would move her on to do other duties?

That tiny but potent act of kindness set the scene for the next decade-plus of care for mum.

We called her “Queen Betty” because, as her carers said in her remembrance, she knew what she wanted and was unafraid to ask for it.

Pity the poor chef who apparently didn’t cook the broccoli long enough.

We called her ‘Queen Betty’. Photo: Kaye Fallick

Some residential care staff might have ignored such a complaint, but no, this poor fellow was taken to meet Betty and her friends (let’s call it a posse, shall we?) and made to promise to modify his menu and his methods.

It’s hilarious, but also a measure of how responsive management was; our mother’s agency was fostered, not shut down.

My dad’s short stint in another care facility was the opposite. He was admitted after experiencing a sudden descent into dementia.

He was angry and frustrated and massively confused. The response of the staff was to physically restrain him – he was tied in a chair – and then he was chemically restrained to the point that he thought I was mum and my brother a stranger.

He was unsupervised at times and had further dangerous falls. He lasted less than six months. Sadly we were all hoping he would go sooner, released from a living hell no one could stand to witness.

How mum must has feared her own future as she, too, went into care. But she chose well. She picked a place that was well run, with staff who were encouraged to see the sparkling human being inside her frail exterior, and to give over and above the basic care needs.

All successful relationships require some give and take. There were times over the years when mum called on my brother or I to advocate on her behalf.

On most of these occasions the issues were minor, she just needed to know she was being heard. Happily, these irregular interactions with staff were both productive and polite.

Across her recent 12 years, mum made many new friends, both with other residents and the carers. She shared her wisdom, her stories, her insights and her recipe for cheese scones.

She wasn’t just a resident, you see. She was a valued member of a special local community.

And she wasn’t just clear about the way her vegies were cooked. She stated in a “do not revive” clause that she did not wish to go to hospital at the very end.

Her home was in that special residence and that was where she wished to be when she left us, surrounded by caring staff who were now long-term friends.

She got her wish on January 14. She died, peacefully, in her much-loved home.

Kaye Fallick is a respected retirement commentator and author

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