Part 6: The Disconnect
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.]
Maybe your own mom’s discomfort was also a cry for that?…
There is no place like home. Reading on.
Sorry, sorry it has got to this point. To me, it seems that an invisible entity is distorting your Mother’s perceptions. I went through it with my aunt, 91. She was living in a nursing home and all she did was tell us horror stories about the way she was treated. We checked and couldn’t find anything wrong with the place or the people who ran it. She had dementia, but was there any truth in her tales? We never found out, because she was taken to hospital soon with bowel ischemia, underwent surgery but unluckily died from it. I hope your dear Mother recovers. Hugs, my dear.
In this case, Dani, I have an aide staying with my mother and everything was confirmed. There is no dementia involved. Just a horror show of neglect.