Sunday, April 30, 2006
Rehab Roulette
Spin #1:
Mom's to be discharged from the hospital to Healthsouth, a bright, shiny facility with tall, green trees and plenty of free parking.
Spin #2:
It starts with a phone call, an hour before her discharge:
"Honey, it's your mother. Healthsouth won't take me. They said I'm 'too independent.'"
(Yes, I know they what they meant, but a little part of me says, "YEAH! THAT's my mom!")
She's being discharged to Manor Care, which -- oddly -- is wedged between Malibu Grand Prix and Mission Park Funeral Home.
Hmph...No middle ground there.
We wheel Mom through the door and ... uh-oh...
It's a nursing home.
It's a bad nursing home. No images of carefree seniors playing bingo or wearing paper crowns as King and Queen of the May. It's hot as a sauna and emitting a smell that will never leave my pores no matter how hard I scrub. The staff are indifferent and tend to communicate in grunts. (OK, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt -- no one wants to work on a Friday night -- especially the first night of Fiesta, but still, make an effort, folks.) The evergreen trees in the courtyard are brown. Not a good sign.
Worse yet, Mom has a roommate: a wild-eyed woman curled up in a chair and staring at us. And the roommate has the TV blaring on the Food Network. My sister swears the woman will suck Mom's breath out as she sleeps. I agree. One "BAM!" from Emeril is all it will take.
"Mom, is there anything we can get you before we go?"
"Yes. Out of here."
Spin #3.
The next morning. Again, it begins with a phone call, this time from my sister.
"Peg, we're bustin' Mom out."
"Good. I'll get the ropes and the hook. You saddle up the horses."
"We're going to do it with charm and tact."
"So I keep my mouth shut, right?"
"Right."
Our cousin has an "in" with the director of physical therapy at a Regent Care facility. My sister and I get the names and numbers and take the tour. It's wonderful. The staff smile, the hallways are wide, the rooms are clean and comfortable and the grounds are well cared for.
The folks at Manor Care were a little snippy about the transfer paperwork. (I think I heard my sister call one of them a "jackass" under her breath. So much for charm and tact.) We then go into Mom's room. The breathsucking roommate is still asleep.
"Let's start packin', Mom. You're being sprung."
"WHAT?"
"We found a better place. We're getting you out of here."
"Oh, THANK YOU! I could just cry."
We stopped off at Mom's house, so she could cuddle her cats and watch the Spurs game.
Spurs won.
Mom's happy.
Mom's to be discharged from the hospital to Healthsouth, a bright, shiny facility with tall, green trees and plenty of free parking.
Spin #2:
It starts with a phone call, an hour before her discharge:
"Honey, it's your mother. Healthsouth won't take me. They said I'm 'too independent.'"
(Yes, I know they what they meant, but a little part of me says, "YEAH! THAT's my mom!")
She's being discharged to Manor Care, which -- oddly -- is wedged between Malibu Grand Prix and Mission Park Funeral Home.
Hmph...No middle ground there.
We wheel Mom through the door and ... uh-oh...
It's a nursing home.
It's a bad nursing home. No images of carefree seniors playing bingo or wearing paper crowns as King and Queen of the May. It's hot as a sauna and emitting a smell that will never leave my pores no matter how hard I scrub. The staff are indifferent and tend to communicate in grunts. (OK, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt -- no one wants to work on a Friday night -- especially the first night of Fiesta, but still, make an effort, folks.) The evergreen trees in the courtyard are brown. Not a good sign.
Worse yet, Mom has a roommate: a wild-eyed woman curled up in a chair and staring at us. And the roommate has the TV blaring on the Food Network. My sister swears the woman will suck Mom's breath out as she sleeps. I agree. One "BAM!" from Emeril is all it will take.
"Mom, is there anything we can get you before we go?"
"Yes. Out of here."
Spin #3.
The next morning. Again, it begins with a phone call, this time from my sister.
"Peg, we're bustin' Mom out."
"Good. I'll get the ropes and the hook. You saddle up the horses."
"We're going to do it with charm and tact."
"So I keep my mouth shut, right?"
"Right."
Our cousin has an "in" with the director of physical therapy at a Regent Care facility. My sister and I get the names and numbers and take the tour. It's wonderful. The staff smile, the hallways are wide, the rooms are clean and comfortable and the grounds are well cared for.
The folks at Manor Care were a little snippy about the transfer paperwork. (I think I heard my sister call one of them a "jackass" under her breath. So much for charm and tact.) We then go into Mom's room. The breathsucking roommate is still asleep.
"Let's start packin', Mom. You're being sprung."
"WHAT?"
"We found a better place. We're getting you out of here."
"Oh, THANK YOU! I could just cry."
We stopped off at Mom's house, so she could cuddle her cats and watch the Spurs game.
Spurs won.
Mom's happy.
# posted by Peggy @ 9:04 AM 
