Les: A New Chapter, On His Own Terms

Les is 63. He has multiple sclerosis and has been legally blind for years. He also lifts 280 pounds on the leg press, 100 reps at a time, and does yoga most mornings before anyone else in the building.

For families weighing whether a move to Northwood makes sense, Les's advice comes down to one line. “To thine own self be true. You have to be honest with yourself.”

He was diagnosed with MS at 42. He had worked full time without a break since university. A few years ago, living alone outside the city stopped making sense.

“It just didn't make sense to be living there anymore,” he said.

He stopped driving. He stopped working. His brother, who had already gone through the process once with their mother, suggested Northwood.

“He knew very well what Northwood could offer, and the various levels that it offered,” Les said. His mother later moved to a different level of care in the same building. His brother never had to find a new place to visit her. “Are we going to be the same at 60 as we are at 80? Not likely. So being part of the community is a good thing.”

At Northwood, family stays close by design. Partway through the interview, Les's brother, Charles, stopped by with groceries in hand, the kind of casual visit that comes easily when family lives nearby and knows the building well.

Les said the biggest barrier for most people isn't logistics. It's guilt. He acknowledges that family members rarely say someone is a burden, but there comes a point when loved ones are spending increasing amounts of time providing support that could be provided more effectively elsewhere.

“It's a choice you make for yourself, but also for the people around you,” he said. “It doesn't mean life is lessened. It just means it's changed.”

Being blind has closed off parts of daily life he used to manage on his own. His blindness makes laundry difficult, so it is one more thing off of his plate that he can trust to Northwood. Cooking is another.

“It does not make sense for me to be cooking,” he said chuckling, “hot elements and sharp knives when you do not see, it's not a good combination.”

He learned to cook as a child and ran a kitchen for years before his sight went, so giving it up wasn't simple. Having supper made for him every night, as part of his supportive living package, took that daily risk off the table. The dining room has also become where he built one of his closer friendships in the building, with Karen, a fellow tenant he met there and got to know over a standing weekly routine of wine and conversation.

What keeps him going, he said, is built right into the building. The fitness centre is included in his rent. He's there three times a day, every day it's open, no exceptions. He works through the machines first, the leg press, the arm press, the rowing machine, then rolls out his own yoga mat on the floor.

“It's so accessible,” he said. “Even if it's not a top day, I'd still go down.” His neurologist recently told him to keep doing exactly what he's doing. “When your neurologist says, ‘I like what I'm seeing,’ I will continue.”

His message for anyone still deciding is simple: the move itself is not the hardest part. Being honest about needing it is.

“My diagnosis doesn't define me,” he said. Les notes that he is not a fan of clichés, but this is one belief he stands by. “I'm not usually a fan of clichés, but it changes you. That doesn't mean it defines you.”

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