Verbal Elder Abuse

Here’s a great piece I found in Tuesday’s New York Times about how damaging it can be to the elderly to be spoken down to by health care professionals. Now, I think health workers have a rough, tough job. But this is a pet peeve of mine from my own dad’s hospitalization.

My Parents on My Wedding Day

My Parents on My Wedding Day

It’s bad enough that the hospital workers, nurses, doctors, etc., yell at him when they speak. My dad has some problems, but his hearing is perfect, and I see my father recoiling. The demeaning language has consequences, and I’m glad to see it written about with some credibility.

I have my own anecdotes regarding poor behavior. A few years ago, my dad was in the hospital because he had gotten dizzy and a friend took him to the ER. Mistake number one. It is better to stay out of the hospital.

The staff at this particular hospital were not even on duty when I found my dad strapped to the hospital bed after a night or two of being there, his eyes wide-open and fearful. I said, “What the hell is going on?” The nurse said, “We had to strap your dad down. He is a bad boy.” I complained to the head nurse, who said, “Well, we had to – he was a bad boy.” The nurses used the term “bad boy” so many times I wanted to bitch-slap them.

Long story short, he wanted to leave, would get up, and they’d yell “bad boy” at him, which made him only more determined to leave. I complained to the doctor. I said they had given him medicine that was harming him, as was the treatment. The doctor didn’t think so. They gave medicine to him to “control” him. “He’s only calm if your family members are here.” So I said, “Then we aren’t leaving him.” My sister and I were present, took off the straps and called my mom and our other sister. I said that we had to stand watch and guard him while whatever they gave him passed.

And so we did (my dear mom taking the overnight shift). Within 24 hours, he was 100 percent back to his normal self. He didn’t need to be drugged or to be there at all – no one wants to be treated like a misbehaving child. This is especially true when that person is an older adult, frightened about where they are.

After that experience, we learned that if he goes into the hospital one of us has to go with him. Maybe we do not have to be there 24/7, but checking in as frequently as possible.

I’m going to be checking my own “sweetie” remarks today.

Career or Dad?

One of my best friends. Mary Ellen Geist, gave up her career as a high-flying radio reporter to help her mother care for Mary Ellen’s father, who has Alzheimer’s. It’s a self-sacrificing thing she has done. She left NYC (previously, she was in SF where we were big buddies) to move to Michigan and live with little money as a full-time caregiver. A noble act, right? I can go on record as saying I always discouraged her from doing this.

Measure of the Heart

Back in the ’90s in SF, when we were single gals having great dinners and drinking red wine, she was a reporter, and I was a TV host and radio producer. She knew her dad was starting to change and would periodically say, “At some point I have to go home and help Mom.” I always said, “Don’t do it.”

I am greatly influenced by my own mom, who said that one should care for the next generation and not dwell in the past. Also, I worry about my child-free friend: when she is older, who will take care of her? Shouldn’t she be preparing for her own rainy day? When my own father’s health declined, none of us took him into our homes, except for a couple of days a week. My sisters and I have small children, and just a couple of days were a strain. We put him in assisted living.

Mary Ellen’s dad’s Alzheimer’s is far more advanced than my own dad’s, and she has the patience I do not. Every morning, she tells him to put on his shoes, take his medicine, and so forth. It’s a special person that can do this day in and day out and not go stark-raving mad. The old line about mothers having the hardest job is just NOT true. Unless it’s a mother with a special-needs child, the hardest job is taking care of someone who is not only never going to get better, but will get worse.

Typical to the charismatic and spirited person that is Mary Ellen, even when she planned to hide away in Michigan, the spotlight finds her. Through a few turns, her story was featured in the NY Times, and now she has published a book about her experience (which is ongoing), Measure of the Heart. None other than Oliver Sacks provides the forward; he was intrigued by Mary Ellen’s dad because even as her dad forgets all else in his life, he can still sing and knows the words to the songs that he has always loved.

For any sandwich generation person like myself, it is an interesting read. Her story is intriguing, but it also makes you ask yourself questions about your own choices.  She was recently on the Today show and she made Kathie Lee Gifford cry.

Senior Moments

Well another episode for my “Sandwich Generation,” vlog. My dad went back into the hospital. I broke him out already as it turned out not being serious. I was noticing the change in my reaction and behavior to this “Health Emergency” as opposed to 18 months ago when his health first hit the skids. (this picture is from right before his decline) Back then, the moment something occurred involving my dad’s health the muscles on my back and neck would get as taut as the cables on a bridge. It was all I could do to focus on Vivien, who was farmed out quite a bit to other caregivers as I raced around town for my dad, or made calls on his behalf.

This time, I took a deep breath, more calmly assessed the situation, and was again reminded how grateful I am that I am not an only child.  My sisters, mom and brother-in-law Kevin, have all pitched in for my dad over the last couple of years.  Before if I was more involved with my dad one day I might get resentful, now I know we all take our turns. I have it down.

I know how to be sweet as honey to the nurses—“HOW THEY DO THEIR JOB I DON’T KNOW.”  I also know when to be direct and take notes when speaking with the doctors. Now when we speak to doctors we only have one family member talk to them and then have a telephone chain explaining the conversation with the rest of the family.

This go around, before I went to the hospital for the second day of this health emergency, I worked out and got my nails done. Giving over my life to health issues doesn’t seem to be a winning formula for me, or my life.

The part I can’t get use to is seeing my father so diminished. I can’t get use to the crazy guy in the hospital room next to him who WOULD NOT STOP SCREAMING. I had a flash of understanding elderly abuse. I can’t get use to being that close to my father’s personal self and then having to say to my dad lying in his hospital gown, “Hey dad, cover the franks and beans will you?” I’m not use to the smells, when I drop my dad back at his assisted living “home” almost gagging at the smell in his bathroom, “um, excuse me, can someone please come and clean this place?”

The thing about it is, I don’t want to get use to it.