Too Old to be Cared For: Characters I Have Known

Viv always wore purple. She was 99 years old. We sat next to each other in the dining room. Her two sons were very attentive, but like most adults who place their parents into a retirement/assisted living home, both had full-time jobs and were very busy.

When I met the one son my gadar was on high. He was very loving and visited often.

Viv didn't hear well, but well enough. What I remember best about her was that unlike the rest of us at our table, she ate EVERY BITE on her plate, EVERY DAY. The portions were often large and the meats were sometimes so tough I could barely chew them, but not Viv.

Every night after dinner, Viv went to the movie room and 'watched' a movie, actually (and she was the first to admit this) she went there to sleep in the over-sized, comfy, chairs.

One day I saw her sitting in the library. That was unusual. I asked her how she was and she said she had fallen. Then a caregiver appeared and told me Viv refused to let her call the medics and her sons couldn't be reached.

I rolled up close to Viv, "Viv, do you hurt?"
"Yes."
"Where?" She pointed to her hip.
"Viv, can you stand?"
"No. It hurts."
"Viv, you should let some medics check you out."
She frowned, "NO. I don't want my sons bothered."
"They won't be bothered."
"I'm afraid."
"What are you afraid of?" She looked away.
"My clothes are in the laundry machine."
"I'll take care of your clothes."
"What will they do to me?"
"They will poke you and listen to your heart, maybe take you to the hospital for an X-ray."
"An X-ray?"
"You might have broken or fractured a bone. Maybe you just pulled a muscle, but they need to be sure."
"I put my clothes to dry on a string across my balcony."
"I'll make sure that happens. If you can't stand then you can't go to the toilet. Will you let us call the medics. We will make sure your sons meet you there, ok?"
"Okay." The resident staff caregiver was standing there, I nodded to her and off she went, only to return moments later and she motioned me aside. Viv's son had been contacted and he said that his mother was overly sensitive to pain, so the medics would not be called. The hair on my neck went up. I phoned the front desk and the staffer there reiterated what the caregiver had said.

I said, "Okay, but this woman can't even stand. I will call YOU when she needs to go to the toilet and YOU will be held personally responsible for making the decision not to call a medic."

Over the years I have found that making someone aware that they will be responsible, that there is someone who bears witness and will speak up, usually gets them to make more sensible decisions. (CTA, cover thy ass)

The medics arrived, the staff CNA had left for the day (Viv was living as an independent at my facility), and Viv was all alone in the library when the medics arrived. My mother's voice was again in my brain saying with disgust, "This is none of your business." I moved away, but close enough to hear.

They tried to get her to stand but she cried out in pain. They poked her in her groin area, again she grimaced. Then I heard the one say to the other in a low voice, "She is almost 100." followed by, in that condescending 'I'm speaking to a 3 year-old tone,' "You sit here awhile and you'll feel better." They began packing their bags. THEY BEGAN PACKING THEIR BAGS!!

"What are you DOING?" I said as I moved in. "This woman can't stand! She was walking an hour ago, she fell, she is obvious pain!"

"Who are YOU?" the one tall, strong medic said.

Opening my cell phone, I said, "I'm someone who cares! Would you like to speak directly to her son?" (Yes, a bit of a bluff, though I didn't have his number, the front desk DID and I would get on the manager if I had to, but that wasn't necessary.)

The medic bent over to her, "Viv, we are going to get you to a hospital, for some tests, okay?"
"Yes," she said softly.

I never saw Viv again. She was moved to a nursing home. I did make sure her laundry was taken care of.

"She is almost 100..." Sigh.