Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Delaney
Isit on one of the vinyl-upholstered chairs, fighting to prevent myself from gagging. The odor coming from the hall that leads to the skilled nursing wing at Mom’s facility permeates the air. I’m pretty sure it’s coming from poop somewhere other than in a toilet, and I’m uber grossed out.
I’m waiting for the facility administrator, who was supposed to meet me twenty-three minutes ago. To say I’m frustrated she’s late is putting it lightly.
With Mom staying in a memory care unit now, I’ve gone from working eight to twelve-hour nights. The extra money from the four additional hours should help with any unforeseen costs for the nursing home care. God knows there’s always a hidden cost.
It’s nine-thirty a.m., and I’m exhausted since I was up all night, and I still haven’t been to bed.
I hate my job, but it served its purpose when Mom was home.
She slept, and I could work remotely until four a.m., then sleep for about four hours before waking up to care for her again.
It was the perfect setup. Well, except for those times when my plan collapsed in on itself.
Mom got out of the house three times, despite my being home with her.
Why? Because I fell asleep. I failed at my only job those times.
All I had to do was take care of my mom, and instead, I allowed myself to doze off.
If something had happened to her because of it, I never would have forgiven myself.
The clicking of heels on the tile floor draws me out of my thought spiral. I look up, and the administrator, Jill, is standing in front of me.
“Hello, Ms. Larson. I’m surprised to see you again so soon.”
She’s imposing, standing over me, so I grab my bag and rise.
“Well, I’m surprised and disappointed that I have to be back here so soon.”
Jill frowns at me and gestures toward her office, so we can continue the conversation. Once there, she sits behind her desk and folds her hands on top of it. I sit across from her and feel like I’m at a bank applying for a mortgage or in the principal’s office getting in trouble in high school.
I glance around the office and wonder why medical facilities don’t make the area where difficult conversations happen more comfortable.
Maybe that would make the whole situation feel less adversarial.
But who am I to have an opinion? I still haven’t even finished my degree.
Maybe this is something they teach in business school—always hold a position of authority over the person you’re speaking with, keep the setting cold and neutral. Who knows?
“From your phone message, I understand you have some issues with your mom from earlier this week. You also had concerns about our nursing staffing ratios, I hear.”
“My issue is not only with your nursing staffing ratios. It’s with the overall care and the condition in which I found my mother.
When I arrived here on the day in question, it was well after dinnertime, and my mother and two other residents were still sitting in the dining area, unattended, with their trays in front of them.
The other two at least looked like they had eaten some, but Mom’s tray was untouched.
We had previously discussed that even on her best days she needs—at a minimum—a lot of help with eating.
But most days lately she needs feeding because she doesn’t seem to understand how to manipulate the utensils anymore.
I sat down to feed her and could get her to eat a little and then some ice cream. ”
“You brought ice cream in from the outside for your mom even though she’s diabetic?”
I don’t care for her condescending tone, and my hackles rise.
“Yes, I brought ice cream in for my mom, who is borderline diabetic, but we’ll come back to that in a minute.
She’s also only sixty-six years old, but she lives in a nursing home because her mind has failed.
Her ‘neighborhood’ that she lives in smells like feces and urine nearly every time that I’m here.
I believe I understand the reason for the odor if the other residents are in the same condition my mother was in that day. ”
Jill’s eyes widen, and she purses her lips. But I’m not finished.
“Regarding my mom’s diet. If my mom wants ice cream, she can damn well have ice cream.
I’m her health care power of attorney, and that’s a decision that I made based on the wishes my mother and I spoke about when she still could make her own choices.
If her medical providers and I think ice cream is fine, it’s fine. ”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Yes, you did. It was clear what you intended. Regardless, I got my mom some food, then took her to her room and gave her a shower because her hair was greasy. She was disheveled, and her pants had dried urine stains on them. How long does someone have to sit in urine for it to dry on their pants?”
She opens her mouth to speak, and I put my hand up.
“That was a rhetorical question.” I’m so angry I can’t stop.
“When I got Mom out of the shower and prepared to put her in bed, I had to change the linens because I also saw dried urine stains on them. In addition, because of sitting in the urine, she has a severe rash on her groin area. It’s extremely red and looks painful.
There was no nurse on the memory unit for me to speak to, and the aides told me there was only one nurse in the building.
This is really not an acceptable level of care. ”
Jill sits back in her chair and sighs—it’s deep and irritated-sounding.
“You and I have discussed this before. Your mother’s monthly bill.
..” She pauses, pulls a file folder from the top drawer of her desk, opens it, and makes an obvious show of looking at the file.
“Your mother’s monthly bill of six thousand dollars—which is quite low for residential nursing facilities—only covers basic care. ”
My insides light up with fire. Who thinks six thousand dollars is “low?”
“The fee you pay covers basic room and board plus two showers a week. If you want your mom fed regularly, you’ll have to pay extra.”
I roll my eyes at her.
“I’d like to see documentation that she’s getting two showers a week because I’m pretty damn sure that’s not happening. What do I have to pay to get her changed when she’s peed on herself?”
“I don’t like your tone. It’s not my fault that your mother is in the medical condition she is.”
I scoot forward in my chair and lean toward her desk. I rest my folded hands on top of the desk.
“I’m not saying her medical condition is your fault.
But what is your fault, as the administrator of this facility, is that the care is less than basic.
These individuals deserve to be clean and cared for in a dignified manner.
What about the people who have no one coming here advocating for them?
Do they just get left until last, and then if there’s no time to take care of them, they don’t get changed? ”
“Delaney, yes, your mother should be cleaned up and not left sitting in urine. I will give you that. But your expectations are high…”
I haven’t finished yet.
“And what about activities? Just because the residents in that part of the building have various forms of dementia does not mean that they don’t need something to stimulate their brains or to make them feel like a human being.
They’re all sitting in a common area with True Housewives of whatever county on the television.
How many of those residents do you think really care to watch True Housewives?
How about putting on a movie from their generation, that might spark their memory or bring them some comfort?
Or play some music that is generation appropriate? ”
“Those things cost money. And with our fees being as low as they are...”
“They’re. Not. Low. Do you really believe that six thousand dollars a month is a small amount? I’m not saying it doesn’t cost money to care for people, but they’re paying for care, and they’re not getting it much of the time.”
Her face is as red as a beet now, and she’s openly glaring at me.
“Perhaps if you're not happy here, you should check out other facilities. However, I assure you that you will not find a place that gives significantly better care than we do and certainly not for the price you’re paying.”
I pause and take a deep breath because I’m about to put on my bitch pants with this woman.
Okay, maybe I already have them on, but I am about to roll up the cuffs and get in the mud with her.
This is my mother she’s talking about. The woman who gave up everything to take care of me as I was growing up.
“What are you going to do today to make sure that this doesn't continue to happen?”
She doesn’t have an answer. She stares at me with wide eyes, as if she’s shocked that I’m even asking the question.
“If this continues to occur, I will complain to the ombudsman or the Department of Health because this facility is lacking in the provision of basic care to the residents.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m not threatening you. I’m asking you to take care of my mother because I can’t do it anymore. I’m asking you to do what I pay you to do. And I’m telling you I’m feeling so desperate that if something doesn’t get fixed, I will have to report it to whoever can make you fix it.”
I stand and grab my bag, then make eye contact with her one more time.
“I am planning to make impromptu visits at random hours, and I don’t expect to find my mother in the same state I did the other day.
Honestly, even if I see other residents walking around with dried urine stains on their pants, that’s enough cause for me to make a call.
It’s not just my mother who deserves the care she is paying for. It’s everyone.”
I walk out of her office. My insides are shaking, and my eyes burn. I struggle to maintain my composure until I get to the car. Once I get inside my vehicle, I break down. I can’t stop the tears or the sobbing. My chest is so tight, and I’m broken and devastated that I can’t do better for my mom.
After several minutes, I grab some tissue from the center console and wipe my eyes, then blow my nose. I take a few deep breaths, put my car into drive, and head home.
I’m so tired. So much so that as I'm pulling onto our street, my eyes are half-closed and I misjudge the turn and end up hitting and going up over the curb. I’m able to correct and steer back into the street, but I’m really distraught that this happened.
I’ve never been a nighttime person. I’ve worked it out of necessity, but I can’t continue to go without sleep because it is becoming unsafe.
As I drive to the end of the street where our house is, there’s a thumping sound as if a helicopter is above me.
I look up and see nothing, so I drive the last couple of hundred yards and pull into the driveway.
When I get out of the car, I see that the helicopter is actually a flat tire, and my shoulders sag even lower.
What else can go wrong?