ORegon-3-9833 ca. 1949

Last night I had a sick feeling in my gut. You might call it panic, anxiety. I had called the rehab center and was told by Cynthia, the aide, that my mother was disinterested in trying soup she would gladly make for her. I tried to speak to my mother but it felt like we were blocked by some unseen wall. It is a transparent black shadow that has been hovering over her. There’s a pulling of the cord: I feel the tension and I am cowering with the knowledge it will likely soon be cut.

I called my mother earlier, the story is the same: she is neglected. The nurses don’t respond fast enough, the aides drop the food in front of her and walk away. She wasn’t washed until 11:00 am. They wanted to take her to physical therapy before she ate or went to the bathroom, isn’t that ridiculous?

I called the nurse earlier, the story is the same: we do all we can for her, when she puts the signal light on we come, we are doing our best. We can’t force her to go to physical therapy or to get dressed. Believe me we are aware.

So what is the truth? It is the war of perception. It is compounded by Mercury in Retrograde, that quirky period of time that hits us three times a year when miscommunication is king and electronics and comprehension go wonky. A bad time to be in the rehab center.

I just called the advocate and asked the purpose of my mother’s stay in rehab when she isn’t being rehabbed, just aggravated, disgusted and exhausted. Maybe hospice care is the way to go. This isn’t living: a sip of Ensure here and there, being repulsed by food, having distorted taste, no sense of smell, suffering from exhaustion.

Sometime in the 1960’s when food was enjoyable, taken in Stuyvesant Town

I made my decision: I want my mother discharged to her home with twenty-four hour care.

[This series is linked: see “continued here.” Also, below the line there will be links for the previous post and the next.]

continued here

The series starts here