Caution: Nursing Home Ahead

By Stacia G. Girard

Is your loved one really getting the best care possible in the nursing home? Are you sure? Do you want to be?

Author Stacia Girard didnt take anything for granted when it was time to move her mother into a care facility. Through her unceasing demands for better care and respect, she made sure that her mother got the care she deserved. Here, she shares her storyand her secretsfor getting your loved ones the best care possible.

When it comes to nursing care, expensive does not always equal good. No nursing home is perfect, but you can help by simply being present in your family members life and active in their care. By gettingand stayinginvolved, you are the key to great care on any budget.

You can increase the quality of care for your loved one through diligence and diplomacyor if that fails, Stacia shares her advice on how you can take more forceful action. Stacia spent twenty years on the inside at her mothers care facility, as an employee and family member.

Stacia tells the story of her mother, who suffered dementiawhat she went through and what it took to get her the care she needed. Her mother got the best care available at an average nursing home, because her daughter cared enough to demand it. If you are in charge of your loved ones care, this is a responsibility you shareconscientious care starts with you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475938234

Stacia G. Girard

Stacia G. Girard holds AA degrees in social work and medical secretary. She and her husband are both retired; they have four children, four grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren, and they currently live in Arizona. She has dedicated herself to improving conditions for the elderly through advocacy and education.

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Copyright © 2012 by Stacia G. Girard.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-3810-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3824-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3823-4 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912311

iUniverse rev. date: 08/17/2012

Contents

Preface

Introduction

My Mother’s Last Days With Me

Mom And Pop

A Little About Dementia

Specialized Care Center And Care-A-Lot Nursing Home

Loving Care Home

Alzheimer’s Shows No Mercy

The Priest

Frequent Visits Matter

The Psychiatrist

Bedsores

Linda, Lpn, A Change To Behold

Care-Plan Conference

The Doctor

The Last Seven Years

A Few Words From My Heart

PREFACE

In one week I read about serious negligence in two separate nursing homes in our city. The type of negligence cited in one home could have been easily avoided had the caregiver/guardian made frequent visits. Don’t take it for granted that once you place your person in the nursing home he or she will be well taken care of. After reading this article to my husband, he suggested I write a book and tell my story. He thought it might help somebody.

However, I was hesitant due to the fact that it is somewhat of my Mother’s biography. The book centers on her and her care. I was tempted to write about others as well, but decided to concentrate solely on my Mother; this way I know it is factual.

I, also, hesitated because dementia exposed some personal details of her behavior, but decided to include all of it for educational purposes for those who may have members in the family suffering with dementia so they can see what the disease can do to a person. I hope my Mother forgives me for this. I think she knows I am doing it for the right purpose. That is why all names of people and places have been changed in this book to protect their privacy.

Alzheimer’s does not discriminate, everybody is equal. My husband is a retired Civil Engineer who used all types of math in his work, who worked his brain continuously, has Alzheimer’s. My Mother, on the other hand, learned how to read and write at home. Dementia is not fussy where it decides to house itself.

The first time I walked into a nursing home I was 19 years old. I did not like the feeling I got when I saw the old people lined up in bed, and wheelchairs, against the walls in two huge rooms. I was told this was a good nursing home with good care. My husband’s great-uncle was there, and later his aunt, who had dementia. I was not impressed.

Good care? How would I know? I didn’t see any aides around in the one big room where we were visiting. The room war arranged military style, with beds close together, with just enough room for a bedside table. I don’t remember curtains in between. I was there only one time. All the beds were white and neatly made. I must take their word about the good care.

At 23 I worked in a nursing home for three months, in the laundry room, in a small private nursing home owned and operated by an RN. The old folks were housed in an old mansion on two floors. What stands out about this place is the crowdedness. Except for several bedfast residents most were ambulatory. I wondered why they were there.

I don’t like nursing homes. Too many people are in one too early, or should not be in one at all. Nursing homes are needed, but they are needed for nursing and care, when that care no longer is possible to be given at home by family, friends, and caregivers, and not before. Nursing homes should not be used as human warehouses, as they often appear to be. When circumstances are such that your family member, or person you care about, must go into the nursing home, then you have the responsibility to make sure that person gets the best possible care there is.

I always felt there should be more professionals specializing in the field of gerontology. I got great fulfillment working with the elderly. They crave for one on one attention. We never outgrow the need for love. Many of these people miss their family and friends, and they are lonely. Some have outlived their friends and family. Loneliness is the number one factor with the elderly. This is another reason for frequent visits, for emotional support, it lifts up their spirit. At the same time you are able to keep an eye on the care your loved one is getting. When you do it from the heart, and when you do it with love, it is not work but very rewarding for your soul.

My greatest support for this book was my husband. He always encouraged me not to give up and try again. He was always there for me. From the bottom of my heart, I thank him. Without my Mother this book would not have been possible. Thank you Mom, I love you.

INTRODUCTION

The nursing home was never planned for my Mother. In fact, just the opposite was planned. We bought a large house with special set-up for them for privacy so my parents could live with us until they died; this was the plan.

We all ate our meals together in the dining room as one big family. I did the cooking, laundry and cleaning for all of us and drove my parents to the doctor, church, and wherever they wanted to go. The bus stopped in front of our house. They often took the bus to visit one of my siblings, go to the bank, or to the store until such time when my Father became ill and could no longer manage it.

When my parents moved in with us my Father was 76 and my Mother was 79. My Father was mentally sharp during his entire life until he died, but his body was falling apart. My Mother’s body was strong, but her mind was falling apart. Over the last several years she became addicted to alcohol, but just how much I had no clue until after she moved in with us. It was a long time after my parents moved in before it became clear the amount of alcohol my Mother consumed. She was good at hiding the bottle, and my Father did not expose her drinking. As my Father grew weaker from his cancer and spent more and more time in bed, my Mother’s alcoholism became more apparent. My Father could not hide her drinking as I was needed to supply Mother with vodka.

As I look back during the years they were with us before my Father died, my Mother was terribly unhappy. She always complained about everything she could think of. If she couldn’t think of something, she made up something. I do remember her being fairly happy when we lived on the farm. She loved her baby animals and her gardens.

Mother was always depressed and I have learned since, that hypothyroidism and depression, often times go together. In our family, we woman have hypothyroidism and depression. Mom had it but was never treated for it, and another member of the family is killing herself with exercise fighting weight gain.

Mom complained constantly the kids went in her room and stole her things, moved her things, touched her things, broke her things and hid her things. At first I believed her, but as time went by it became clear to me that it was not so. I must say the kids did not like their grandmother at this point, and tried not to be around her but only when they had to be. I knew she was forgetful, and paranoid, before she moved in, but I didn’t think she was as bad as she was.

I didn’t plan, nor did I anticipate having an alcoholic Mother at age 80. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would have a Mother who was paranoid, and who later was to suffer dementia as well. What a combination; but from reading I learned this is not unusual. Worse yet, I had no idea what was in store for me as far as care went. I was going to take care of a senile, paranoid, alcoholic, depressed, senior citizen who refused to cooperate with me in any shape or form, and in addition she didn’t like me! What an experience this turned out to be. I committed myself to taking care of my parents until they died, and I knew I could count on my husband for help when I needed it. However, I didn’t think I would be totally alone where other family members were concerned. I didn’t expect them to volunteer time or money, but I expected them to inquire and visit my parents. One of them did spend an entire month with Father before he died. Another family member spent one afternoon with Pop (I called him Pop) when I thought Pop was dying. For ten years this person never visited nor inquired about Mother in the nursing home. I never figured out if it was because this person didn’t care or didn’t want to face that fact. This member of the family died on the tenth anniversary of Mother being in the nursing home.

I was learning very fast that life was full of surprises. Each day can be totally new, unexpected day of events. I learned all this being a mother of four teenagers, a caregiver, and a professional working in nursing homes. Life is very precious. We shouldn’t be surprised that people get sick, get killed or die, but rather we should expect it as part of life, no matter how sad and unfortunate it is. I learned long ago that money is not what makes people happy; it just gives them more options. Wealth does not take away loneliness, isolation and emptiness within oneself as evidenced by the numerous wealthy elderly in the nursing homes across our nation. Not all wealthy people are at home with a caregiver; it depends on who is in charge of the finances. When it comes to money, not all children are honest, even if the money is their parents’.

I have experienced this situation while working in the nursing home. The elderly father was dying in the room, and the brother and sister were arguing about the will just outside his room, loud enough to be heard down the long hall in my office. I walked down the hall and asked them to please keep it down to a whisper as their father can hear them, that the hearing is last to go before death. These are two adult people. What does the son do? He walks into the room, by his father’s bedside and says, Papa, papa, why did you leave her in charge of everything? I took care of you, and did everything for you, and you did this? Yes, he was saying this while his father was dying, and his sister was standing in the doorway yelling at him to stop; a woman was sitting by the bedside crying. It was a real brouhaha. Don’t say your children wouldn’t do this or that. Where money is concerned, where wills are concerned, where estates are concerned, they can do just about anything.

Our nursing homes are full of elderly as compared to other countries who honor their elderly. They have few nursing homes, and those who are in them are the ones who truly need physical constant care. Most elderly in Europe, Japan, and China live with their families who honor and respect their elders, as well they should, and as we should as well.

I think my Father was somewhat ashamed his wife was a drunk. How long had he known this? When did all this start?

I believe it started long ago, about 1961 after he had his vascular surgery. His doctor told him to have a shot of brandy before meals to stimulate his circulation and appetite; I believe this is when it started. I was very anxious for Dad to get better; I made sure he always had a good bottle of brandy, the best I could get him. No cheap brandy for my Dad! I was very happy to see that bottle was going down steady, and I was only too happy to get him another one. Once Dad admitted he had help from Mom. I didn’t know just how much help he was getting. I do believe this is when it all started. There was always a bottle in the house since then, and I always thought my Father was taking his shots for his appetite and circulation. I knew he was not doing it three times a day, but I thought maybe doing it once per day, or maybe twice sometimes, if he felt weaker. It never entered my mind to question who was consuming the alcohol. Why would I? I never saw either one of them drunk, and I had no reason to question anything. My Father did not like alcohol, and I never saw him drinking outside medicinal purposes. He liked to gamble with cards. I took after my Father. I do not like alcohol, and hardly ever drink, but I do like to gamble with cards.

I did know that Mother would take a drink now and then when they lived in the duplex because her heart hurt, and a shot of whiskey made her feel much better. Since it made her feel better I didn’t think anything of it. As far as I was concerned it was better than having her on prescription drugs. Actually, I didn’t know how much alcohol Mama consumed until Pop died.

I did begin to notice very unusual behavior with Mother, setting off a bell of warning that something was not normal with her. Mama began to use a cane to walk; not because she needed the cane, but because my Father used a cane. She wanted to be sicker than my Father was. This is not normal.

Mama began to use very dirty and derogatory language when she was angry with my Father, almost daily, and she would wish him dead. She said very hurtful and painful things to him; even I was embarrassed and hurting for my Father. She would say them in a very nasty, and horrible, voice as if she hated him totally, and couldn’t wait for him to die. This is not normal behavior.

Mama appeared as if she was always under the influence of alcohol. The times when she was not under the influence were the times she would argue with my Father to get her some whiskey. The quiet times would be when she was sleeping. The last two or three weeks of my Father’s life were the quietest because she was sleeping the most; she was drunk and passed out.

Getting her to bathe was next to impossible. I practically had to drag her into my bathroom to the bathtub. She said she didn’t like showers. I had to lock the door behind me and trick her into taking her clothes off to get her into the tub. This didn’t always work either and I sometimes had to have my husband’s help and eventually that didn’t work either. I ended up calling the County Nurse for assistance to bathe Mom twice per week because of hygiene problems. I figured if I could get her to bathe twice per week I would be happy, and I would be able to stand her for the rest of the week.

When the aide finally came down from the county, Mother walked down to the bathroom with her like a little lamb, got her clothes off, got in the tub and washed herself. All the aide did was stand there and talk to her. The aide came down a total of four times and assistance was discontinued even though I paid for it. When I asked why it was discontinued, I was told my Mother was capable of taking baths on her own, and there were grown children in the house to assist me. I had back surgery, lifting Mama out of the tub or heavy lifting was out of the question. Because I had an aide come down and bathe my Father two times per week, and my husband bathed him once per week, I thought I would get an aide for her as well since she loved being sick and loved getting attention like Father.

Mama loved the attention; she did like the aide coming and being with her, and giving her a bath exclusively; she enjoyed it too much, and wasn’t helpless enough and, she killed a good thing for herself.

What upset me about the aide from the county was her suggesting that I had enough adult children to assist me with my Mother. I had one child in high school and three in college, and they were not home all the time, especially the college kids. Why would she think it was okay for our youngest one, in high school, to assist his grandmother in bathing? Why would she think our daughter who worked after school, and came home late at night, would or could bathe her grandmother at eleven at night? But what really angered me is the fact that Mother refused to cooperate with me at all. She didn’t want to cooperate because she didn’t like me and she resented me for some reason. She was most cooperative with the county aide, and the aide saw no reason to come down to assist her in getting into and out of the tub. Nobody believed me when I told them Mother refused to take a bath. I became the liar, and the person who was lazy, and didn’t want to give baths to her Mother. It was obvious the county aide didn’t believe me. What was I going to do, tell her Mother was making it all up?

After the aide left for the last time I told Father and Mother that Mama was taking a bath two times a week even if I had to drag her to the tub by her feet or hair, it will be her choice if she doesn’t walk to the bathroom on her own. I told Mama it was not healthy for her to stink, and nobody wants to be near her when she stinks. She was taking a bath whether she wants to or not; she better be prepared for it. Father’s reply to this was, Oh boy, oh boy. He was upset because he knew he would have hell to listen to her for the remainder of the day or until she fell asleep. He was right. She was on him all day that day without let-up. Nag, and nag about me, and what a hellhole he got her into living here, the monster, the devil’s daughter. Poor Pop. He pretended to be sleeping, but she continued to unload her anger, and hatefulness towards me on him. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I went in their room and yelled at her to stop; to let Father rest. I told her it was enough, and to leave a dying person alone. She stopped, but resumed crying; her mean daughter yelled and disrespected her. She was sobbing like a baby, but eventually cried herself to sleep. Pop eventually fell asleep after being visibly agitated by Mother’s outburst. I remained in turmoil for the remainder of the day, and when my Father asked me to get her a bottle of booze the next day, I certainly did, and fast.

It is very out of character for me to yell at my parents, either parent, sober or drunk, (My siblings and I were not allowed to talk back to Mother no matter how wrong she was.) but asking her to stop was not working. I had to yell loud enough to out-yell her to get her attention to demand she shut up. When she realized I had disrespected her, she was extremely hurt, offended, forgetting what all had happened.

Mama was not eating. This meant she was getting plenty of calories from the alcohol. The problem with that is all those sugar calories from alcohol in her body may bring on diabetes; she can also become malnourished at the same time creating more problems. She didn’t want to eat in the kitchen, so I brought her food to her bedroom, and placed it next to her bed hoping she would snack while she drank.

Drunken people don’t want sunlight and Mama was like all the rest. She wanted to be in the dark, in a cave, like a mole. Every bit of sunlight was blocked out with heavy drapes. No lights were ever on in the bedroom, except for a little lamp that made it barely visible for me to see Father when I checked at night. I could not get her out the door for fresh air. She expected everybody to cater to her, sit by her side, and hold her hand because she didn’t want to go out. Fresh air was poison for Mother; light hurt her eyes.

Father shared the bedroom with Mother though they were in separate beds. The last three months of Father’s life we got a hospital bed for him. I wanted to set up the bed in the living room so he could see the activity of the family, and be part of life as he was dying. My Mother would not allow it. She insisted he needed to stay in the bedroom with her. She didn’t want him near her, around her, or even want him sitting in her recliner chair saying he stunk up her chair; now she wants him in the same bedroom with her. When I insisted Pop stay in the living room, she went into a rage. She had such a fit I thought she would split in half. Okay, I thought, we will compromise. I suggested we set up his bed by the windows in their living room, their extra bedroom, so Pop could look out the window during the day and see outside activity, etc. That suggestion was almost as bad as the living room. Finally, Pop suggested to set up the bed in the bedroom where the old bed was for the sake of peace.

That is what we did. We placed the bed next to the double patio doors that looked across the patio into the dining room. What good did that do since the patio doors had aluminum foil on them with heavy drapes over the foil. You needed a machine gun to blast through to get some daylight in there! When did she do all this? At first I cut out a big hole at eye level for Pop to look out in order to appease Mama. Then I thought, what is this all about? This man is dying and I am accommodating a drunk? Where are my priorities? Am I nuts? So I pulled back the drapes and tore down the entire foil from both sides of the patio doors so my Father could get light, see part of the house, see across the patio into the other side of the house, into the dining room, and the family activity. I was bringing him some life into this bedroom coffin created by Mother. She didn’t want him there because she loved him; she wanted him there because she didn’t want to sleep alone in that room. She was afraid of the pool. Mother looked at that pool as a pond where she could fall in and drown.

When I pulled off the foil, and pulled back the drapes, I knew there would be hell to pay again; we paid for it, my poor Father getting most of it. This poor man, it is no wonder he wanted to die in order to find peace. He was in bed for three months and Mama never left the room. Pop had to endure his wife’s sick wrath until she drank herself to sleep. He was doing his purification here on earth. He was in purgatory! I didn’t know what to do with Mom. I was so wrapped up with my dying Father and his needs. I would sit in his room all the time not knowing when he would die. I took time out to take care of the baby, make dinner, and do what had to done.

When I refused to buy alcohol for Mother, Father begged me to get it for her; it was the only way he could rest. She drinks and then she sleeps, and he can then rest. I could understand this, and I would get her the alcohol.

Other unusual behaviors she showed earlier were when we went to a picnic one time, when my Father was still strong enough to get out. In the park we found a table with benches, and Pop, Roy and I sat down to play. Mama went walking around looking for something. At first I thought nothing of it, but on second thought I became suspicious just by the way she was looking down searching. I asked her what she was looking for. She replied she was looking for a bathroom because she had to go. Now, you know that a normal adult person does not look at the ground for a bathroom; she was looking at the ground for a bush to hide behind to eliminate. We were in a park, there are no bushes here, and there is no forest here. Where did she expect to go? The interesting thing was the toilets were right in front of her not 25 feet from where we were. She never looked to see what was in there nor did she ask us where the toilets were. I told her where the toilet was, and I pointed at the toilet to make sure she knew where it was. She said okay, and started going towards the restroom. I picked up my cards to play, looked up to see if she was heading in the right direction when I noticed she was pulling down her pants, in broad daylight, about four in the afternoon, with people coming down the hill, and she was about ready to do her thing when I yelled at her to stop! Roy and Pop got startled, and looked up to see why I was yelling at Mama; they were as surprised as I was. I ran to her and pulled her pants up. I walked her to the restroom, in front of her nose, and sat her on the toilet. I asked her, Couldn’t you see this little house where I told you to go? Couldn’t you come this far? Why did you pull your pants down outside in the middle of the day with people in the park? Don’t you know you have to go inside and sit on the toilet? For the first time I think Mother looked embarrassed; she actually said nothing. I do believe she didn’t know why she did this. I think she was as surprised as we all were that she did this.

These are a few examples of the unusual behavior I noted in Mother. Some behavior was influenced by alcohol, but not all of it. The dirty language, the swearing, the nasty talk, the abnormal behavior in public are symptoms of something that is not normal and healthy.

When my Mother was drunk, I would find her on the floor in the morning. I would find her in the kitchen by the patio door, in the living room, or she would be in dead sleep until noon. She would be irritable when she got up, which meant she was probably not getting enough alcohol. She would get upset about the slightest thing. Nothing pleased her and everything irritated her, and she needed more, and more, alcohol to satisfy her. She ate less, and less, and demanded that I constantly be with her by her side. I could not leave her even to go to the bathroom. I could not trust her at all. She would go out the front door go to our neighbor to tell her I was beating her up, or go out the door for a walk and get lost in the neighborhood. If she were drunk enough she wouldn’t even be afraid of the swimming pool in the backyard. I was afraid she would fall in the pool and drown. I could not go to the restroom in privacy. I had to leave the door wide open during the day so I could see her coming and going inside the house, and jump off the toilet in emergency if I had to rescue her. Now, this is life folks, when you can’t even finish business but have to do it express so your Mother doesn’t get herself into some kind of trouble. Between my drunken Mother of 83, and our two-year old granddaughter, bouncing around all over the place, my day was full. My legs and arms were very active during the day, and very tired by nighttime. I welcomed sleep, when I could get it, that is.

Nighttime was no better. I had my husband install special locks on all doors so she could not undo them to get out. Mama walks around all night. I could hear her shuffling around during the night, and some nights I would have this weird feeling that someone was standing by my bed, and I would hear this humming beside my bed, Hmm, ah, hmm, ah, hmm. I would open my eyes from sound sleep only to find Mama standing over me. She would scare the living daylights out of me!

One time I dreamt she was doing this in my dream all night long. In my dream I hear this shuffling of feet coming towards my bedroom, closer, and closer. Then I hear the humming get closer, and closer; then shuffling of the feet stop, but the humming continues. I want to wake up from this dream because now it is more like a nightmare. I can’t escape from it. In my dream I am thinking this was too much, why must I have this dream when I have this all day long as well. In my dream I have a strong feeling I need to get out of it. I was struggling to get out of the dream, and after some struggling I finally got out. I was half awake only to hear this darn humming beside my bed. As I turned on my side to get up, there she was, my Mother, standing and humming. I thought I would have a stroke! To this day I don’t know if it was a dream or if it was her all this time. I was very confused after I got up. This is what happens when a person gets totally stressed out. Your dreams and reality become indistinguishable.

Poor Mom, she didn’t know what she was doing half the time. She expressed her feelings as they came up. Alcohol will do this, and dementia will do this as well. In the time of stress we have to remember who is causing it and where it is coming from. We cannot get angry with that person, but maybe with the behavior at times, for we are human. That is when we need to take breaks; they call these respite breaks. If you are a caregiver at home for dementia or Alzheimer’s person, you need breaks frequently, and you need support groups as well. I cannot emphasize this enough. If it wasn’t for my husband, I wouldn’t have had breaks. My extended family did not offer us any breaks. The older kids would watch my parents at night when they were sleeping while Roy and I ran out to Dunking Donuts for an hour. We could not stay out long since my Father at times would wake up and ask for me. It was during this time I learned the importance of respite breaks.

MY MOTHER’S

LAST DAYS WITH ME

After the funeral, coming home was like coming home empty handed to an empty house. I had this feeling of emptiness, I felt exhausted, and I definitely felt a loss. I don’t remember doing much, but I do remember sleeping a lot. I went to bed early, slept late in the morning, and napped in the afternoon. I did this for about three days. I didn’t think I was this tired, but I guess I needed it. I think it was more of an emotional tiredness than a physical tiredness; though I must admit I didn’t get much rest when I was with my Mother, or afterwards.

I didn’t feel depressed once I got rested, but I did feel a loss. I was not overwhelmed with sadness. I knew my Mother would die one day, and I knew it was coming. The emotional ties were cut long ago. I felt pain, but there was no flood of tears or constant crying like there was with my Father. I had very few tears of sadness, but I did my grieving, and share of tears, throughout the years, in levels, in drops, each time I realized I was distancing from my Mother. My grieving was slowly processed over the years while my Mother was slowly dying. It sounds terrible to say, but I felt a relief after she died. I, also, had a feeling of fulfillment that I had accomplished something good. It was a wonderful feeling. I had taken care of my Mother to the end. I didn’t realize how much stress and responsibility I had taken upon myself. It was not a joyful relief, but a kind of heaviness was lifted off me I didn’t even know I was carrying, like access baggage. This may explain the tired feeling and days of sleeping. Yes, it was a relief, and I am not being disrespectful when I say this, but I am being honest. I still love my Mother as much as ever, as I loved her at her worst.

I have no regrets of any kind. I have done my best for my Mother and Father, and I did it from my heart. When you do things from the heart, it isn’t work.

Nobody ever said the role of a caregiver is easy whether it is by a female or a male caregiver. It is not easy being a Mother or a Father. Being good parents is a very responsible and difficult role. Being a caregiver, no matter in what capacity, whether it is a Mother, Father, or any other person, the responsibility is the same if you are a conscientious and responsible person. There is no easy way out, a life is a life whether it is a newborn baby or a very old person; we cannot put a price on a human being. If we compare a baby and an old person in a nursing home, they both need a lot of care because they are both dependent on a responsible caregiver.

I flew to be with Mama after Mrs. Companion, the companion I hired for my Mother, called and told me Mother looked bad and I should come. She was right. Mama did not look good.

As the week went by Mama stayed in bed and grew weaker. It was now the fourth day of my vigil with her. That morning I met with the doctor, a tall, thin man, in his late thirties, soft spoken, very warm and receptive, but direct and compassionate, with dark brown eyes and hair, he told me Mama had pneumonia. He wanted to know how she looked to me. I told him it didn’t sound like regular pneumonia to me. The doctor replied she inhaled food into her lungs. It didn’t take much thinking on my part to see how my Mother was. I don’t think Mama will recover from this one, doctor.

The doctor was silent for a moment, and