How did I get Mrs. B to go to the hospital? I drew a chart of where she was when I first met her, where she was the previous Friday, where she wanted to be and where she was…. knocking at death’s door. It went from the peak of a mountain to the valley. I called 911 with her blessing.
One of my recommendations in my initial report was that she organize her paper work. It was scattered about her desk and should an emergency arise, it would be difficult to present the appropriate paper work without a frenzy which is exactly what I was thrust into when the paramedic asked me for her Medicare card.
Mrs. B had pneumonia. She was placed on antibiotics. She spent three weeks in the hospital. Both of her daughters came in from various parts of the world. So many friends came that I had to put visitation restrictions on her door. She is a fighter.
One day I came in and she was standing and sitting and standing and sitting. She was trying to work her muscles because she felt as if she would never walk again. Her whole body shook and no anti-depressant could stop it. She was scared. She became nauseous. She vomited blood. Instead of being transferred to the transitional care unit for rehabilitation, she was rushed to the intensive care unit. The diagnosis after two endoscopies? A massive pulsating ulcer—that could burst at anytime and end her life.
In the meantime, her husband was at home with in home care assistance and friends to ensure his safety. She did not communicate to with him. He was scared and sad. I had to find a way to both enable her to release the guilt she was carrying around about his imminent placement in an assisted living facility without directly confronting her and find a way to for her communicate to him before he was taken from his home and moved to another…without his wife of 40 years.
I interviewed Mrs. B’s daughter and a close family friend, a Guatemalan man that they raised and who will be the conservator when things go very south. They told me of the nicknames that Mrs. B and her husband had for one another and memories that would evoke feelings of joy and nostalgia. I set out and wrote a love letter to him on her behalf. Bidding him fair well with love, signed “all my love twinkle.” Mrs. B approved of the content and Mr. B held onto it as if it were laced with sticky honey. Not all lies are bad.
