Tenacious G & the Silence of the Grams

Tenacious G (a.k.a. Grandma) slows down to have her picture taken.

 A few months ago, a nurse at the assisted living facility where my mother resides suggested that Mom might benefit from Alzheimer’s medication. When I pointed out to her that my mother did not exhibit any symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease or even generalized dementia, she responded that my mother had problems speaking. I reminded her that my mother had aphasia—a fancy word for problems speaking—as a result of a brain hemorrhage she had back in 2004. For the most part, she speaks quite well, but occasionally she just can’t find the right word, particularly when she is tired.

More recently, Mom was in the hospital and in rehab. During her stay in the hospital, because my mother was tired and confused, the staff referred to her as “pumpkin.” They told me she had memory problems but was “a sweet little pumpkin.” This tells me that these condescending caretakers never took any time to get to know her. First, Mom is a defiant and intelligent senior citizen. Second, it is a bit traumatic for an 84-year-old to be yanked out of her safe and comfortable home and placed into an impersonal hospital setting. Add to that scenario 24-hour beeping monitors that make it impossible to get a good night’s sleep and anyone would be dazed. So cut her a break.

If they had any genuine concern about my mom, they might have found it interesting to know that she was the first woman ever to be elected to the town council in the Town of Boonton, had her own radio show, wrote a newspaper column, taught creative writing and even had some children’s fiction published. She was also the president of just about every club she ever joined. And it royally ticks her off when people talk down to her or assume she is demented because she has speech problems.

Tenacious G posing with the carp at the local plant nursery.

In rehab, because my mother had had it with being away from home and tried to walk out with suitcase packed, she was drugged with Alzheimer’s and anti-seizure medicines to keep her quiet. When she reacted to the drugs, they pointed to her behavior and gave that as evidence that she was surely in dementia. They were ignorant, callous and just plain wrong. She was supposed to be there for physical therapy, but she was so drugged up that she could hardly sit up in bed. With the patient quietly immobilized, they proceeded to collect Medicare physical therapy payments.

There is a prejudice against the elderly. If they express any sense of rebellion about their circumstances, get confused or say inappropriate words because they are tired, or in my mother's case, have aphasia, they are labeled demented and drugged up.

Let me tell you something about my mother. She reminds me of birthdays and anniversaries that I have forgotten because she insists on sending cards and presents. When we’re driving and I forget how to get somewhere, she remembers the directions and acts as a very competent navigator. Does she sometimes have problems finding the right word? Yes. The part of her brain that governs speech is damaged due to a doctor not properly monitoring her blood-thinning medication several years ago, which resulted in a brain hemorrhage. She is lucid and knows what she wants to say. I understand her because I know her well. Impatient medical professionals look at her gray hair and wrinkles and rush to judgment. She’s old, so naturally, she must be demented. Even one close relative, who lives out of state and visits once or twice a year came to that ignorant conclusion.

I really don’t know what can be done to educate doctors, nurses and allied healthcare professionals about the inhumanity of their expediency. They should think carefully about their actions, because the practices they establish today will come back to haunt them. If they do not take a stand against the disrespect and abuse of the elderly, someday it will be they, gray-haired and helpless, who are drugged up and forced to view the world from a perpetual narcotic gaze.

Tenacious G at the Hospital

 Tenacious G makes friends. This is not another patient, just a Halloween decoration.

Hospitals are not fun. One could even say that they are no place for sick people. This past week my mother was a bit dizzy and walked like she had had one too many at the neighborhood bar. The nurse at the assisted living facility was concerned and suggested Mom be taken to the ER for an evaluation.

So off we drove to the local hospital. It took the staff there about three hours to determine that she should be admitted for more tests. It took another two hours for them to find a room—not just for Mom but for several other people in the ER. In the meantime, gurneys of other patients were piling up in the hallways. Apparently, there was a shift change and no one could be admitted until the new shift had made the rounds of existing patients. During our entire five-hour odyssey in Room A of the ER, Mom complained quite loudly that this was no way to run a hospital. Oddly enough, she was right.

When I visited her the next day, she had a nonfunctional phone. Granted, this is not as serious as a nonfunctional heart monitor, but being able to talk to loved ones is a morale booster. The nurse immediately replaced the defective phone with one that worked. Quickly, I texted everyone in the family with her new phone number, encouraging them all to call. I stepped out of the room for a moment and when I returned, the same nurse was grabbing the phone back. When she turned and realized I was still there, she started mumbling about how the phone had frayed wires and had to be replaced. This resulted in an unintended practical joke. Family members dutifully called Mom/Grandma, but no one could get through because there was no longer a phone.

During my visit on Day Three, Mom told me that “they” would not allow her to get out of bed by herself to go to the bathroom—reasonable considering her wobbly gait. Apparently, she had been asking for a while if she could go and was very uncomfortable. I went out to the nurse’s station to ask if someone could help her. “Of course!” said the nice lady there. Fifteen minutes later, I returned to the nice lady to ask why no one had yet come to assist Mom—and would it be all right if I did since Mom was on the verge of uremic poisoning? They preferred we wait, and five minutes later, a nurse came in and asked my mother if she wanted “to go potty.” I suggested to the nurse that since my mother was an adult, she need not speak to her that way. The nurse proceeded to lecture me on how she talked that way to everyone. One can only assume that she showed no particular bias when condescending to her public.

Another nurse came by to ask Mom questions that would assess her mental functioning. Mom was not pleased to be in the hospital and her way of expressing that was to answer the questions sarcastically, which was interpreted by the nurse as senility.

Next, a physical therapist came by with a walker to suggest to Mom that she might need a little help. Mom smiled, but was quietly seething. “I DON’T need a walker,” she insisted. Walkers, after all, were for old people. (Mom is only 84.) To prove how unnecessary the walker was, Mom raised it a few inches above the floor and shuffled quickly along without it. Unfortunately, her balance was a bit off and so she looked like a race car in a hospital gown careening out of control.

Finally on Day Four, Nurse Roberta called me in the afternoon to inform me that several days of tests had not found any evidence of a stroke, but it was determined that Mom would be discharged to a rehab facility in a nearby town. This, hopefully, would rid her of her drunken walk.

While Nurse Roberta was talking to me, the doctor was telling my mother that she was being discharged. Before we hung up the phone, my mother was already dressed, packed and ready to go. The nurse discovered this when she rushed to my mother’s room because Mom had disengaged all the heart monitor equipment, sending a flat-line reading to her desk
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I arrived shortly after all the excitement. When Mom saw me, she hopped off the bed, ready to make a mad dash for the door. She had to be held back until the obligatory wheelchair was fetched for her departure.

As the sun set on St Clare’s Hospital, a weary staff watched us depart. “I’m glad to be out of THAT place,” Mom said. I’m sure the feeling was mutual.