A man and a woman are living somewhere nice. They are both elderly. He’s fine mentally, but weak physically. She needs a lot more care.

Their physician recommends that they move into a place where care is easier to access. Their daughter asks if they can move into a home in her town because she can’t do much right now because of the distance, she says.

The two listen and move.

Now they are stuck in an apartment (and place) that they don’t like at all and their daughter still doesn’t visit. They can’t get out any longer.

I could and I did, and I really needed to, to save myself. Easy? Hell no, but all sorts of things were really getting out of hand, as you may have noticed.

This story is part of the misery that I was seeing, or sensing.

The creation of ghettos for older adults often constitutes cruel and unusual punishment for being of a certain age. Look up the definition of the word “ghetto”.

I had to get out. I really had to.

I so wish that I had never moved in there and that I had insisted on waiting for a home in Amsterdam. (It would not have come with all the craziness that goes with living in such a place, apparently.) I’d felt I had no choice. I guess I was wrong again.

(When will I ever learn?)

I was increasingly shuddering with misery and revolt, but doing my best to keep it at bay. I had to get out. I really had to get out. Staying would have been a big mistake.

So there’s that.

I’m so pleased that I got out. Things are already looking up, and even though I am physically tired, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I was about to wither away and die there. I deserve better.

I’d already had fifteen years that were a lot like this behind me. Ugh. No more!