Volunteering in long-term care is the hardest thing I’ve ever done

After three decades working as a homicide detective, I stepped in to volunteer at a long-term care facility during a Covid outbreak. It was the hardest work I’ve ever done

I spent 29 years serving on the Toronto police force and eight as a homicide detective. The work was fast-paced, exhausting, timeconsuming—and I loved it. By the time I turned 50, I felt I’d done everything I’d set out to do as a police officer, so I retired, and eventually started a job as a paralegal. Since mid-March, I’ve been working from my home in Markham, where I live with my wife, Julie, and our 21-year-old son, Jack.

In April, I saw a social media post from a friend whose brother lives in Participation House, a Markham long-term care facility for adults with severe physical or developmental disabilities, including cerebral palsy, epilepsy and spina bifida. Ten of the 42 residents and two staff had tested positive for Covid, and dozens of personal support workers walked off the job. Of the 50ish people usually on staff, only eight were left to care for the home’s residents. Those remaining employees were working double and triple shifts, living at the residence and grabbing three or four hours of sleep when they could.

Our family discussed the situation that night around the dinner table. “It looks like what they need most are warm bodies to help,” I said. My son immediately leapt at the opportunity. “Yeah, let’s do it,” he said. We figured we’d go in and help with maintenance, repairs, dishwashing— any chores that were falling by the wayside during the staffing shortage.

The next afternoon, we walked into Participation House alongside eight other new recruits, including a volunteer nurse and a handful of personal support workers from an agency. The staff gave us a crash course in the PPE we’d wear to protect ourselves and the residents. Participation House is divided into six living areas, and each one has a staging zone where we could don and doff our PPE, wash our hands, disinfect our phones and dispose of our gear safely. We weren’t scared. We were healthy and ready to work.

It quickly became clear that the staff didn’t need help with chores. They needed hands-on support for the residents. We were thrown into the fire fast; the staff were so busy that they had maintenance men teach us how to care for the residents. They’d worked at the facility for 30 years, so they understood the care the residents needed as well as anybody.

Jack and I covered the afternoon shift, from 3 p.m. to 11 p.m., nearly every day for three weeks. Most of the residents at Participation House use wheelchairs, so they rely on PSWs for essential care: feeding, bathing, clothing and mobility. We soon learned the nuances of each resident’s routine: little things, like how people prefer to be positioned in bed, can help manage their anxiety.

It was challenging for them to be so isolated. Each living area has a courtyard, a school and a cafeteria, where residents usually socialize with one another. But part of our job was to ensure that people were distancing, that they weren’t wandering around. They all require mechanical lifts to get out of their wheelchairs and into bed, and the technicalities were tricky at first. When we started, I told Jack, “Take your time, pay attention to the details.” But he adapted faster than I did. He could buzz around and look after everyone’s needs without blinking an eye. It was the most time we’ve spent together in as long as I can remember.

Another huge part of our job was entertaining the residents and keeping their spirits up. Monopoly was popular, and so was video chatting with their families. When we first arrived, in full PPE, it must have felt to the residents like aliens descending on the facility. After a couple of days, it became easier for them to recognize our voices. They knew we were there to help.

In those first three weeks, six of the home’s residents died of Covid-19. I’ve been in the death business all my life, but this floored me. We just had to keep moving forward. We couldn’t stop to grieve, at least not right away— there was too much more to do. For the residents, these people are their family. It’s devastating. We’re going to be collectively grieving these deaths in the weeks, months and years to come.

Most days, I worked from home on my paralegal job from 6 a.m. until 2 p.m., then I’d get ready to go to Participation House for 3. Each member of our family slept on a different floor of the house to maintain distance. My son was on the third floor, I was on the main floor, and my wife stayed in the basement. At Participation House, they checked our temperature when we came in for a shift and when we left.

By early May, the facility had turned a corner. Nurse practitioners and family doctors took on shifts, and nurses from Markham Stouffville Hospital were temporarily redeployed to help, too. The deaths have dropped dramatically, and the illness is being managed now. I hope it continues. There’s so much need in our communities, but it’s hidden until a crisis brings it to the surface. I wonder why it took a situation like this for me to get involved. I spent 30 years in public service, but this is unlike any work I’ve ever done.

“My son, Jack, looks after everyone’s needs without blinking an eye”