(A little delayed on this one, have had some double vision issues, all will be fine!)

TO BE VERY PRECISE, it was the same day as the one that. . .well, you know.
  At the same time that the news broke about the riots at the Capitol in Washington DC, a lady died in a rest home seven hundred miles away in Orland Park, Illinois.
  She passed away quietly in a hospice bed, five months shy of her ninety-first birthday. She slipped away with her thin fingers held tenderly by the hands of her youngest daughter who prayed quietly that, somewhere new, her mother’s hands were now being held in the joyous, welcoming grasps of many.
  Perhaps the hands of her own parents, who had been gone for almost a half-century?
  Perhaps the hands of her husband, who had made the journey four years earlier from the same rest home?
  Friends, relatives?
  One hopes so.
  The crowd in Washington was now whipped into a frenzy. The animals scaled walls and broke windows and waved American flags in a perverted attempt to recreate some kind of Iwo Jima.
  Unaware of this, the young daughter wept quietly, still holding her mother’s hand in the bleak room at Smith Crossing.
  Her mother had not been deserving of the last few sad years of her life.
  She had been born in the Netherlands, lived through the War, suffered through the “Hunger Winter” of 1944-45 when food supplies in Holland were dwindling and thousands perished from starvation and the cold. Liberation came from the First Canadian Army in April of 1945. Eventually her family moved to America, settling in the Chicago area. In college, she met a young teaching student in Cicero, whose studies were put on hold by a stint in the Army during the Korean War. The young couple married, both entering the teaching profession and began raising a family; first in Oak Lawn and then Palos Heights. Their children, five of them, grew up in the Christian faith that remains very much a part of their lives.
  The fifth child, Mary, held her mother’s hand and brushed away some wisps of fine white hair that had been frustratingly neglected in her last months at the home.
  It hadn’t been the first such instance of neglect.
  In 1994, Father and Mother had moved into a nice ranch town home in Tinley Park. Everything on one floor; bedrooms, living area, big kitchen, attached garage, a laundry room. There was an ample basement with a portion of it rebuilt to accommodate a parade of family and many grandchildren. The town home was a place of many happy times.
  In the early part of the 2010s, they had made the decision to sell the townhouse and, thinking ahead to the uncertainty of their health in the years to come, move into Smith Crossing, located off I-80 in Orland Park, Illinois.
  The idea seemed perfect at the time, as ideas do without the benefit of 20/20 hindsight. The “selling tours” of the facility showcased a sprawling, nice hotel-like establishment, almost like Disneyland for seniors. It looked impressive, with several dining areas, a library, a movie theater, social areas, special events, a small bistro, countless amenities, even a social director like this particular clientele used to see on The Love Boat. Remember Julie?
  On top of that, the apartments themselves came in different varieties to suit one’s needs; independent living, assisted living, nursing, and. . if and when warranted . . .proper healthcare.
  So, Mother and Father got a good deal on the townhouse sale and moved into this would-be Shangri-La, a Shangri-La that required a hefty six-digit figure upfront investment, on top of monthly service fees.
  What happened then is a story that I have heard time and time again.
  Do the residents get settled into places like this and slowly face the reality that this is the last home they will ever have? Does the excitement of the circus-like atmosphere fade into a slow, silent depression? And that this, combined with the aging years, eventually leads to a downward spiral in health?
  This is exactly what happened to Father and Mother.
  Almost off the bat, Father became ill with several different ailments; an old ankle injury that reappeared and didn’t want to heal, along with problems with his stomach and heart. At the same time, Mother slipped into a very gradual dementia. And quite suddenly, the kids were jumping into action as healthcare advocates.
  In short, the exact thing happened that Father had specifically not wanted; the move to the facility was based on his desire to have the necessary care during the coming declines in health, so as not to burden his children.
  Caring for a parent should never be considered a burden. Of course, doing so is not without its difficulties and…let’s be honest…frustrations. . .but making sure the parent has proper care, be it by the children themselves, or by a nursing facility, is the topmost priority. It is the right thing to do.
  The lack of proper healthcare in this facility was utterly astounding and incompetent.
  Though Father had passed away in 2017 of “natural causes”, the family was beginning to wonder if the decision to move into the rest home was premature. Would they have been better off keeping the town home and hiring day help?
  It got worse as Mother deteriorated.
  In the last three years of her life, she had moved from Independent Living to Assisted Living, and finally to Nursing Care.
  Nursing Care was anything but.
  Let’s be fair; this all came to a head when Covid hit in March of 2020. Lockdowns were in place and help was scarce. This is not to crucify the nurses. In fact, the opposite is true; these people were on the front lines, exposing themselves to a myriad of dangers. The things they saw, and the fatigue that weighed down their bodies and souls, will never, ever be fully appreciated; not by the people who were lucky enough to stay more or less protected in their homes, and certainly not by the Covid deniers. Medical staffs and the first responders proved to be greater heroes than any Marvel character.
  Lockdowns were in place and care facilities all over were short-staffed.
  We get it.
  But when you are sinking your investments into living out the rest of your life in a care facility, the Taj-Mahal, of which the average working guy can only dream.. . you expect a little more care. Hence their decision to move into Smith Crossing in the first place.
  Little things weren’t happening. If a patient is laying in bed, can’t get herself water and can’t communicate very well, they get dehydrated. Instead of having the care staff come in and check on little things like that, it was left to the family to walk in and discover such neglect on rare visitation days.
  Adult diapers that were not changed.
  Food spills and stains on the bedsheets.
  No interaction or engagement. Social times consisted of carting fifteen wheelchair-bound patients into a TV room and leaving them to fall asleep in the chairs while the attendant sat at a desk, pecking away at their phone or tablet.
  And more.
  A wedding ring and a locket that were stolen. Not lost or misplaced. Items that were with her when she went into that room that were never found long after she had passed and her belongings were moved out and the room cleaned.
  Medicines that were not administered at the proper times.
  Even though all members of the family pitched in where they could, they found it necessary to hire overnight help. The blessing here is that this woman…we will call her Ellen for now…was a Godsend. Mother always perked up when Ellen came into the room, greeting the younger woman with the same twinkle in her eyes the same way she greeted one of her children when they visited with a fresh mocha in hand, her favorite treat.
  Mother and Ellen developed a loving relationship; a middle-age African American woman coming in to sit with an aging Dutch Christian Reformed lady and becoming fast friends. Ellen served as the family’s eyes and reported dutifully, recounting how many times that she would walk into Mother’s room and find lazy, unprofessional neglect. Stale food not taken away; wet sheets and blankets; unattended sores.
  “You know,” she once said. “You’ve got enough to sue here, and I’ve got the photos and documentation.”
  After Mother passed, that notion was considered by the family, but dismissed, as they wanted to move on and put those horrid months behind them. Such a legal maneuver would have been fruitless. Such corporations will pay people well to keep such inconveniences at bay.
  And ultimately, “it’s not what Mom and Dad would have wanted.”
  The last time that the family, as a group, could see her was through a zoom call that the facility set up on Christmas morning, 2020. An ipad was set up on a cart about ten feet away from her hospice bed; she could barely see the children/grandchildren who popped on the screen, and if she did, it was clear that she was not aware what day it was, or why her family could not be with her in the room.
  Her passing on January 6 was not unexpected, but did not blunt the grief.
  The wake and funeral were very sad, reaching an emotional crescendo when Ellen, that night-care friend for many months, cried audibly as she bid her sweet Kay goodbye.
  But that was all in the future.
  On that morning of January 6, Mary sat alone in that room, holding her mother’s hand on behalf of the entire family . Covid protocols allowed only one visitor at a time, thus keeping siblings out of the facility, who would have assuredly been there.
  Then, at 10:45am, she texted me at work: “Heaven just gained another angel this morning.”
  I sat in my cubicle at the Village Hall, read the text and held my breath, trying unsuccessfully to stem the wave of emotion that poured up from my heart. I did not always see eye-to-eye with my inlaws, but I respected them and I did appreciate how they had both mellowed in the years since they had retired. I will never forget the hours they spent at my mother’s wake just twenty-two years before. She, in particular, had become a loving grandmother for my kids, who had never been able to meet my mother.
  Nobody is perfect in this world and you take your family and you love them, no matter their flaws, knowing full well that you have quite a few of your own.
  She did not deserve to live the way she did in that final year. Covid, the separation from family, and a mind that…when not stimulated…sank further and further into oblivion.
  Nobody there to even run a brush through her wispy hair, nobody to wipe food off her chin or run a minty sponge over her teeth.
  I quickly requested off for the rest of that day, came home and told Mary to take her time doing the things she needed to do there, and then come home to family.
  After texting me and her siblings, Mary stayed in the room, savoring those last peaceful moments.
  Here was a woman who had her share of the American dream. She came to America, respected its laws and its people and did her best to instill that dedication to her children, teaching them to cherish their lives and the home that they had.
  Mary made her phone calls and quietly left the facility. She stepped into her car, took a deep breath and drew comfort from the values that her parents had taught all of them.
  And then she turned on the news.

Email: glennpniewski@yahoo.com

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