Tenacious G: Swinging With the Methodists

Tenacious G(randma) shares her wisdom.

Often, the older a person gets, the louder and less inhibited their comments tend to become in public places. They have grown old and wise, and now they want to share that with everyone within earshot.

Such is the case with my mother, aka, Tenacious G. She is 86 years old and ready to let anyone she encounters indirectly know how she feels about their tattoos, ("Why do people do that to themselves?"), mode of dress ("You can see up her shorts when she bends over, and it's not a pretty sight.") or whatever else ruffles her sensibilities.

Every Sunday during the summer, I take Tenacious G to free concerts sponsored by our town and area donors. If it's a sunny day, we take our portable chairs and sit in the park with our water bottles. Thankfully, in this wide-open setting, her sage comments fade on the wind. If it rains, however, the area United Methodist Church graciously hosts the concert in its building, which unfortunately has outstanding accoustics.

The sax player dons a stylish black hat.

This week, I took Mom to see a swing band. While the musicians were tuning up, she loudly announced that the drummer in the band looked like a woman. I quietly informed her that, no, he was a man. When she insisted that the drummer was a woman, I decided it was safer to agree. We were sitting in the pews of a church and her voice carried quite well.

Just as I was beginning to relax, she informed me and the surrounding community that the saxophone player should take his hat off since he was in a church. Then she modified her stance. He was dressed in black and wearing a black hat, so, she said, "He must be Jewish. If he's Jewish, he can wear his hat."

"No, the hat he is wearing is part of the swing dress style," I said. Big mistake. When will I learn?

"No, he's Jewish," she insisted a notch up in volume. Mind you, she is not antisemitic. Despite being an evangelical Christian, her late husband was Jewish. She just wants the world to share in her astute observations, as her mother did before her.

Finally, the band started up and played some wonderful swing classics. They were scheduled to perform from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. Around 4 p.m., Tenacious G pointed to her watch. She had to get back to her assisted living facility for one of the highlights of the day—dinner.

The raucous crowd breaks out into spontaneous dancing.

We were sitting up front. I suggested that we wait until the band finished their current number before we noticeably got up and walked down the aisle of the church to the parking lot. She agreed.

On the way home, she smiled sweetly and said that she had really enjoyed listening to the band and was looking forward to the Oldies band playing next week. I was, too.

Hopefully, next Sunday, it would be a nice, sunny day in the park.

Tenacious G Plays the Good Samaritan

One reality of having an elderly parent is that you end up sitting in the emergency room from time to time. For instance, a few years ago, my mother decided to leap onto her single bed and landed on the opposite-side floor. This resulted in a broken toe—and a six-hour wait in the emergency room with my mother profusely complaining about the bad service. In a preventive measure, I purchased a double bed for her so that the next time she leapt, she would not overshoot and break something else.

Last night, my mother’s assisted living facility called to say that she had hit her head while trying to help another resident with a motorized wheelchair off an elevator. Apparently, her friend hit the accelerator at the wrong time and sent her flying against the wall. File that one under Geriatric Hijinks.

Tenacious G's assisted living crib: Victoria Mews.

“The first question which the priest and the Levite asked was: ‘If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?’ But... the good Samaritan reversed the question: ‘If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?’”—Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., not anticipating Tenacious G.

The phone rang around 5:30 p.m. on Saturday night. The Victoria Mews nurse asked that I ferry Mom to the local hospital to ensure the lump on her head was not serious. Bear in mind, that Saturday night is typically the time of week when you are competing with the aftermath of drunk driving, bar fights and whatever else sends people to the hospital during their leisure pursuits.

Little did the nurse appreciate just how hard my mother’s skull truly is. I drove out there and found my mother sitting in the nurse’s office with an icepack on her head, looking like a wayward student in the principal’s office.

“This is nonsense,” she protested. Just the same, the emergency room visit was necessary, so we hopped into my car and drove to the hospital. The nurse there had a great sense of humor. I handed her the stack of papers the facility had given me and she had all the documentation she needed. She ushered us into a curtained stall to await the doctor. Mom occupied a gurney that allowed her to sit up. I had packed a bunch of holiday catalogs for her to read so she wouldn’t complain loudly about the service.

“Love makes the world go round and so does a bump in the head.”—Bill Ekstrand

Not a patient: Tenacious G's friend is a Halloween mummy.

A nice doctor came in to ask her what happened. He laughed and encouraged her to continue helping her fellow residents, despite the scolding she had received from her assisted living nurses. He felt a CAT scan was in order, so she was wheeled out for that. An hour later, she received a clean bill of health and the admiration of the staff on her 85-year-old, tough-as-nails constitution. I told the nurse that I expected that some day she would be taking care of me.

We got back into my car and she immediately assumed the captaincy of the vehicle, directing my driving, from how to back out of the parking space to the proper position my hands should assume on the steering wheel. There was a lot of “Watch out!” and “Look both ways!” that was reminiscent of my younger days.

When we got back to her facility, I walked her up to the nurse’s office to share the discharge papers. “I figured there was nothing wrong with her,” the nurse admitted, “But we had to check it out and make sure.” I agreed.

Mom sped off in her unsteady gate toward her room, grumbling about what nonsense it had all been and such a waste of time. “See you tomorrow!” I said to her back as she trundled off. It was time to return home for a very late dinner.

Aging With My Pedal to the Metal

I've spent most of my life not giving much thought to old age. When I was young it seemed irrelevant, and when I was middle-aged I was too busy. Now that the kids are grown and I have time to reflect, I see old age as a car speeding toward a precipice. Someday, I will go over the edge and plunge to my doom, but until then I'm hoping I can continue to keep my foot pressed down to the floor on the accelerator.

“True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.” — Kurt Vonnegut

My earliest memories of old people involve living a block away from the Firemen's Home in Boonton, New Jersey. Firemen who had no place to live when they got old stayed there. The elderly firemen used to stroll up and down our street for exercise and fresh air. They walked very slowly and smiled at us kids as we ran up and down the street playing noisily. We said hi to them; they said hi back. It never occurred to me to try to talk to them. They were odd-looking creatures—and after all, they were strangers.

Great Aunt Allie in the nursing home circa the 1960s.

I also spent a good part of my childhood visiting nursing homes to call on my grandmother's sister, Aunt Allie. These homes were smelly and filled with people who looked sad or scared. I have images from my childhood of the elderly staring into space as if they had been deserted on a street corner. I suppose, in a sense, they had.

What I didn't appreciate when I was a child was that while the elderly look old, inside they feel the same as anyone else. My 85-year-old mother tells me that sometimes when she looks in the mirror, she's surprised to see someone old staring back. "I feel the same way I did when I was 18," she says.

“It takes a long time to become young.”—Pablo Picasso

We seem to be living in a culture that de-valuates old age. People are always trying to look younger and erase wrinkles. Ironically, some cultures celebrate those wrinkles. According to Chinese face reading, every wrinkle on your face represents a lesson learned. To erase wrinkles is to erase the wisdom that's been gained. Nice thought. I'm tired of seeing commercials on how to erase my aging, as if it were a disease. I'm getting old. Deal with it. If my appearance is too hideous, then avert your eyes.

Cultures around the world have diverse ways of viewing old age, according to e-HeathyAging.com, Pulitzer prize-winning author Professor Jared Diamond and a few other sources:

Tenacious G (Grandma) feeling as young as ever.

• American Indians: They regard their elderly as knowledgeable and their older women as powerful. The grandmother is the heart of the family, and as she ages, the family cares for her in return for her years of devotion.
• Japan: Age is synonymous with wisdom and authority. Older people are the family advisers. The basic unit of Japanese society is the family, and the welfare of the family as a whole is placed above individual members. Elders are the nucleus around which families are built. They are seen as wise, respected, and most importantly, contributing members of society. Children take care of their parents long into their advanced years and consider it an honor.
• East Asia: Cultures steeped in a Confucian tradition place a high value on filial piety, obedience and respect. It is considered utterly despicable not to take care of your elderly parents.
• India: The elderly hold authority, with the right to control the wealth of the family. Matriarchs often run the household. As a sign of respect, Indians have a custom of touching the feet of an older person when they meet. They bow down their heads in front of the elderly as a sign of offering themselves as a vessel of service for the older individual.
• Latin America: The elderly are highly regarded because of their wisdom and inner strength. They are shown a high degree of respect and are cared for by the younger generation when they are no longer able to take care of themselves. This is usually done in the home as opposed to in a facility. Taking care of their elderly is a matter of honor and pride.
• Germany: They see dependence as a very negative quality and invest a lot of time and energy to keep themselves young and healthy. Some studies suggest that Americans consider themselves old at a much younger age than Germans and most of their European counterparts.
• Traditional nomadic tribes: They often abandon their elderly during their travel out of necessity. The healthy and young cannot carry the old and infirm on their backs—along with children, weapons and necessities—through perilous territory. 
• Paraguay’s Aché Indians: They assign certain young men the task of killing old people with an ax or spear, or burying them alive. They often experience famine so food can be scarce. 

Old age ain't no box of chocolates!

“Old age is an excellent time for outrage. My goal is to say or do at least one outrageous thing every week.” —Louis Kronenberger

So there are cultures that revere the elderly and consider caring for them an honor; cultures like the United States that consider the elderly unproductive and senile, and shove them away in nursing homes; and cultures that are too poor in food and resources to keep their elderly alive. I guess that puts the future American elderly like me in the mediocre middle. We aren't revered or respected, but we're not being whacked by a family member either.

My ambition at this point is to be one of those crazy old ladies who wears a red hat, protests for social justice as a member of the Raging Grannies, and keeps a small posse of cats for company. Like most people, I hope to live life to the fullest until I go over the cliff. In the meantime, I intend to keep my foot firmly pressed on the accelerator—and enjoy the ride.

Queen for a Day

A woman savors the glory of being crowned Queen for a Day.

When I was a young child, there was a television show called Queen for a Day. Clutching my sippie cup, I would watch as housewives in horn-rimmed glasses and aprons competed like nobody's business to be crowned Queen for a Day so they could win new kitchen appliances. They competed by telling the most heart-rending tale of woe about their lives that they could muster. The most pathetic storyteller would win. It always ended with a crying matron being crowned, robed and handed a bouquet of roses—the women off to the side trying not to look too bitter. I guess you could call this the precursor to reality television. Needless to say, this show would probably be a tad politically incorrect these days. But my mother's generation enjoyed watching it. We, after all, are a nation of competitors, whether housewives, business people or athletes.

Then, there's another form of competition....

Nothing says Halloween like a freak blizzard.

My mother lives in an assisted living facility. Every year they have a Halloween party where the residents—ages 80 to 100-plus—compete with the ferocity of the Olympics to win prizes for the best costumes. This year, my mother chose to be Cleopatra. We bought a size large sequenced gown along with a very impressive black wig, cut with the distinctive Cleopatra bangs. Even at 85, Mom is still a party girl at heart and knows how to have a good time.

I took the day off from work so I could help her dress for the event, and due to an unseasonal blizzard a few days before, which knocked out electricity where my husband works, he came along as well. I had been too busy that day to dress in costume, but Steve donned his batman outfit, figuring he could blend in with the residents. They were quite pleased to see a "young man" come dressed in costume. He posed for several pictures with his bat wings outstretched, enjoying the attention.

Tenacious G rules the Nile at Victoria Mews assisted living.

Mom had actually gotten most of her costume on by the time we had arrived. She just needed help with the velcro in the back. Also, I tucked back some wisps of telltale gray hair that were trying to assert themselves out from under her black wig.

The festivities began with the residents walking or riding their motorized wheelchairs along the hallways to show off their Halloween personas. They ranged from a pirate brandishing his sword as he trundled along in his wheelchair to a hippie grandma on a walker donning long blond hair and psychedelic clothing. Then everyone sat in an upstairs meeting room for hot cider, crudites and candy.

An elderly gentlemen dressed in bright red long underwear offered live music with songs he belted out on his saxophone.  He played "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" to a green witch and a number of classic tunes from the 1940s.

Free, live sax from an old Italian man.

The recreational director was snapping photos of everyone. When she was done, she projected them on a large screen so everyone could see themselves and their fellow residents on the Big Screen. I also took a few choice photos, which I share with you here.

Pat, owner of VM, told dirty jokes, poodle in hand.

The judges walked around the room thoughtfully reviewing this year's entries. Finally, it was time to announce the winners. A green witch in a motorized wheelchair won for the scariest costume. Her daughter had come earlier in the day to dress her and paint her face green with dark circles under the eyes. A woman wearing a mask of an old man with a cigar in his mouth won for the funniest costume. And finally—and I saw my mother, lips pursed, waiting expectantly with hopes of glory—the most original costume was awarded to the resident who had dressed like Cleopatra. Mom jumped up and grasped a $5 gift certificate to the facility's on-site general store.

Then the owner of Victoria Mews—a senior citizen himself—began telling dirty jokes that surprised even Steve and me. None of the grandmothers or grandfathers celebrating the day seemed to mind. Some of them looked like they might be dozing off anyway.

Mom clutched her certificate, satisfied, that this year she had captured the prize for her costume. Cleopatra had achieved the status of Queen for a Day.

Following the Sherman Tank Generation

“The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.”
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Lately, I’ve noticed that I’m getting older. Not mentally, mind you. I'm still the same immature, Jersey girl I’ve always been. No. Mother Nature is tapping my shoulder on the physical plane.

I trimmed the hedges last week and my thumb is still swollen. I tripped on a phone cord, landed on my knee and it still hurts several weeks later. My ankles are permanently swollen; I have no idea why. When I was younger, any damage I did to myself cleared up in a day or two. Now it lingers and sometimes takes up permanent residence.

How did this happen? 

My mother is 29 years older than me and is built like a Sherman Tank. Nothing can stop her and she feels just fine. My generation seems a bit wimpier than hers. I had lunch with some old high school chums recently and the focus of much of our conversation revolved around our physical maladies and how we were coping with them. We sounded like my late grandmother did when she was in her eighties.

“There's one advantage to being 102. There's no peer pressure.” —Dennis Wolfberg

This is not just my imagination. According to a study by the University of California (UC), which oddly enough was carried in the UK Daily Mail, today's Baby Boomers are the first modern generation to be less healthy than their immediate predecessors. Despite improvements in medicine and standards of living, we are more likely to be blighted by health problems, from aching knees and hips to diabetes, asthma and strokes.

Technology: friend or foe?

This may be due to fast food, lack of exercise and a growing reliance on computers and other technology. It does not bode well that the U.S has the fattest population in the developed world. Apparently, two-thirds of Americans are overweight, and those extra pounds make joints wear out more quickly, boost cholesterol and blood pressure, and raise the risk of a host of other debilitating health problems. Even if they aren't overweight, Baby Boomers tend to be less physically active than their parents and grandparents. Their daily routines are often dominated by desk jobs and commuting, both of which involve a lot of sitting.

The UC study, published in the American Journal of Public Health, compared the health of thousands of men and women in their 60s, 70s and 80s with data on different people of the same age collected ten years earlier, and here’s what it found:

• One in five people in their 60s need help with basic day-to-day activities—up more than 50 percent from a decade earlier
• People over 60 years of age are 70 percent more likely to have difficulty walking from room to room, getting in and out of bed, and eating or dressing than the same age group 10 years ago 
• Finally, the over-60 group was 50 percent more likely to have trouble walking a quarter of a mile or climbing ten steps without a rest. Stooping, crouching, kneeling and getting up from a chair proved 40 percent more troublesome (that's right, folks, no more Russian kick dancing for us!)

“The older I grow, the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.”—H.L. Mencken

The UC study draws some dark conclusions:

• The growing number of individuals aged 60 and older will place ever-growing demands on the health care system
• Increased levels of disability, particularly among the youngest of older adults, may also negatively affect economic productivity (ready those mobile scooters; MY generation can't afford to retire)
• Younger people could also lose out if they have to compete with older people for scarce resources in an overburdened health care system (move over, kids, those are OUR respirators)

My mother: 85 years young and going strong.

Cary Cooper, professor of health psychology at Lancaster University in the UK, believes that our ever-growing reliance on technology is harming our health. (Spoil-sport!) He warns that the impact will be even greater in years to come, with the retirees of the future having spent many more years sitting in front of a computer than those of today. His advice is simple: Be active.

Ironically, some "advances" in health care could be contributing to this backward trend.

“We have been lulled into a false sense of security that pharmaceuticals are the answer to our health problems,” says Dr. Ian Campbell, a general practitioner and medical director of the charity, Weight Concern. “So we get statistics saying that the number of deaths from heart disease is falling but that is because we are keeping people alive with drugs. That is admirable but it would be far better if we could cut the amount of heart disease in the first place.” Keep people healthy rather than drugging them up over a prolonged period of time to cope with chronic symptoms? Lousy business model.

So let's get this straight. We are living longer, but we are doing so based, not on good health, but on life-extending pharmaceuticals. Rather than maintaining good health through lifestyle, we eat bad food and spurn exercise with the assumption that all problems can be solved by popping a pill. We may not feel all that great, but we are being kept alive, which improves the mortality statistics and gives us a false sense of progress.

While science may have provided us with longevity, past generations had a better quality of life. Why? Simple. They ate unprocessed foods (sans genetically modified organisms) and got up off their duffs and did something.

Tenacious G and the Cord of Eternity

“Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.”—Edwin Hubbel Chapin

This past Sunday, as with every Sunday, I dropped my mother off at the front door of her assisted living facility following a low-key afternoon together. We have a ritual for parting. First, she complains about how uncomfortable my car is and how difficult it is to get out of it. Then, outside the car, she smiles at me as she pushes the car door shut, dramatizing how heavy it is. She walks slowly to the entrance of the facility, then just before crossing its threshold she turns back, and seeing I’m still there, waves before she goes in. I wave back.

While this is happening, a ghostly memory from days past overlays itself on us both. I return to kindergarten. My mother’s car is big and uncomfortable. It takes some effort to lower myself out. I turn and smile at my mother as I struggle to close the heavy car door. Then, walking slowly to the entrance of the school, I turn to see her still watching me. I wave, she waves back and I go in.

Life has a peculiar way of reversing itself. Perhaps it’s generational karma.

This past December, my mother’s assisted living facility had a holiday program where its elderly residents sang Christmas carols for us. The singers donned Santa caps and rang hand bells at the pre-arranged moments in each song. They all searched the audience for family members as they sang. When they spotted their kin, they beamed with pride. At the end of the program, Santa came around and gave them gifts.

Tenacious G dressed for the Christmas program.

Again, echoes from my childhood stole into the festivities. How many Christmas pageants had I performed in at school? How many times had my eyes combed the audience for my mother, and finally connected with her, filling me with the joy that comes from knowing you're loved? How many times had a cheesy Santa walked around handing out presents to my classmates and me?

The first time I realized that my mother had become the child and I the parent, I felt profoundly sad. How could something so unnatural occur?

My mother was, and continues to be, an extremely intelligent woman. A brain hemorrhage several years ago impaired her ability to speak. Unfortunately, because of her speech challenges, she really needs to be in a protective environment.

Somewhere along the years, her world of politics and art and family gradually shrank until it became no larger than the confines of her assisted living apartment. Her sense of accomplishment now rests within those sheltered walls.

Mom has been at her facility for three years. It has been an adjustment for us both, but I no longer feel sad about it. Her life is relatively independent. Her caretakers are kind. And she has certainly not faded away. A direct descendant of William the Conqueror and the Viking Kings before him, she still asserts her feisty will with definitive judgments on food, people and the world. She lives defiantly within her limits—in the moment—daring to savor her vintage years with dignity and optimism.

Postscript: Today is her birthday. Happy 85th to you, Mom!

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 Rehab

Or... Grandma Rages Against the Machine

It’s not exactly what you may think. My 84-year-old mother is not at the Betty Ford Clinic drying out from a binge of alcohol or recreational drugs. After she was released from the hospital, she was required to go to an acute care rehab facility before her assisted living facility would take her back. Mom was not pleased. Her walking was a bit wobbly, so I could see the logic.

I drove her over to the facility, helped her settle in and finally left. The next morning at 7 a.m., I got a call from the facility that she was trying to “run away.” Actually, she got dressed, decided she did not want to be there and took action. The staff had their viewpoint, she had hers. Fortunately, a social worker my family had hired as an advocate intervened and convinced the staff that my mother was just disoriented because she was not at her home. They finally decided to let her stay rather than discharging her.

I was traveling for a few days and when I got back, Mom was walking like a pro. No more wobble. I asked to meet with the director of nursing and the physical therapy director and suggested to them that she was ready to leave. They thought she should stay for three more weeks—exactly the amount of time that is paid by Medicare. I disagreed strongly and they finally relented to let her leave the following Monday.

Unfortunately, Mom came down with something from the facility, which I then caught, so I was not able to visit her for a few days. When I finally returned, she was so tired she could hardly sit up and behaved like a zombie. I was puzzled. I’ve never seen Mom like this. Then the social worker there told me that because Mom had been agitated when she first arrived, the psychologist there put her on a medication to “calm her down.” Apparently, even though I am legally responsible for her medical decisions, they were not required to notify me about this.

She was given an anti-seizure medicine and an Alzheimer’s medicine—even though there was no diagnosis of Alzheimers. These drugs build up in the system over a period of days and apparently worked so well that she was practically in a catatonic state.

I called her doctor and asked that she be taken off the medications. My mother is feisty. If that is too inconvenient for a facility then they SHOULD discharge the patient rather than do a reenactment of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. She is, after all, a human being, not a commodity. Is society so regimented that children and the elderly are being drugged up if they show an iota of spirit?

While I sympathize with what health care workers have to endure, they signed up for care giving when they took the job. My mother did not have much choice in being placed in their environment. She will be discharged tomorrow—and that can’t come too soon. Maybe on our way out, I’ll toss something heavy out the window in a commemorative gesture to Randle McMurphy and everyone else who has ever endured an involuntary lobotomy. Mom would like that—if she doesn’t grab it out of my hands, first, and do it herself.

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.