The Battle Cry of Freedom

Mom has had it up to here with the health aides at her Rehab Center and wants to come home.  Yesterday morning, after a sleepless night, a very bossy aide would not let her stay in bed, helped her to dress and took her to the dining room.  On a rehab floor, the patients do not get breakfast in bed unless they are sick.  It went from bad to worse in the dining room.  After breakfast, Mom ( a Steve McQueen in a wheelchair) wanted to go to her room.  Another aide scolded her, saying 'you are not allowed to go to your room; get back to the table".  Mom moved the wheelchair, and the same aide said ' now you are blocking the way". 

When I arrived, I was greeted with an aria worthy of Floria Tosca--I have a Masters Degree; How dare these ignorant people talk to me this way; you give an ignorant person a bit of authority and they run wild, etc. 

Not to get too objective, but I can see both sides of the story.  The Dining Room is not a tranquil place during meals.  Dementia Patients tend to complain at the top of their lungs:  the food is terrible; the person next to them is terrible; the aides are terrible.  It is worse than a lunchroom filled with Kindergarten students, because a dementia patient cannot be threatened or cajoled into better behavior.  My theory is the aides transfer their frustration to the patients who will respond to their scolding, so Mom was, in a sense, paying the price for other peoples' misconduct.

On the other hand, I have seen Mom get very confused when she is overtired.  She does not follow directions very well, and often does the opposite of what she is told.  I can imagine her deciding to take another route to exit the room, instead of going back to the table, or moving her wheelchair in a very weird direction.  She's 83:  I do wish that aide had cut her some slack, but it is hard to be patient with a room full of elderly juvenile delinquents. 

My visit is going to be short, because I have to see my Endocrinologist this afternoon.  It is all a part of my strategy of being a non co-dependent caregiver.

His Eye is on The Sparrow

I am not sure where the text will be, but I am making a point.  God does provide for Mom, and for our family but I am not always able to see or understand His ways.  OK, Mom is doing very well with her physical therapy, and is able to raise herself out of bed without much support:  it's a world away from her condition when she entered rehab.  If it weren't for her lingering physical ailments, she could come home within a week.  The cellulitis isn't healing that quickly, and the pneumonia seems to be making a comeback.  At least Mom seems to be cheerful:  a bit loopy, but not at all depressed. 

I do like this format better than the original one.  Sarah called her Mom's cellphone while we were visiting, and she got to speak to her Grandma.  It was a bit of a suprise, since Grandma was in rare form:  first thing she said to Sarah was " Don't listen to your Mother when she tells you I'm crazy".  Before the phone call, Mom had been telling Cathy ( Sarah's Mom; my 'baby sister") that the two women across the hall were in love with Cathy, but refused to say a word to Mom.  Mom didn't take into account that the two ladies are Russian immigrants and do not speak English very well.  She then said to Cathy " I don't know why they are friends of yours since they are so short and dumpy".  I said " Perhaps it's like the Princesses who surrounded themselves with ugly maids of honor so they would look more beautiful". 

The Nurse at the station desk was laughing when Cathy and I arrived, telling us all the things Mom was saying, such as ' you can take me down the hall to my room" ( she was in her bed at the time)  and 'my two daughters are standing in the hall, but they won't come in and speak to me" ( since it was 5AM, we were both asleep--it was two of the aides talking)  Oy

Happy Days Are Here Again

Yes, Happy Days are here again.  Mom came out of her funk this morning.  I was almost at my wits' end about her:  she said that she wanted to die; was being stubborn with the physical therapist ( who asked me to come in and coax Mom into standing up) That was yesterday, and I said to Cheryl the physiotherapist, that 'if she's anything like yesterday, don't hold your breath".  Sure enough, Mom said it was stupid to stand up: they treated her like a child; she wanted to go home, etc.  I told her as gently as possible when we went upstairs that she was deep in self pity,and if she did not snap out of it, it could have a bad effect on her health

Anyhow, God worked a miracle, and Mom was a thousand percent better.  Maybe Aliens came in the night and replaced Crabby Betty with Positive Betty.  Seriously, it was her religious faith, and I am glad that God gave her the grace to see things clearly.

It's Deja Vu All Over Again

Yeah, Mom was not at her best today.  She seemed very tired, unable to focus, and at first, I thought it had a medical cause.  But her vital signs were good, and the nurse thought Mom was just over tired and in a bad mood.  That's like saying the Titantic hit a small chunk of ice and sank. 

I hate it when she's angry at me.  Yes, I know this isn't her at her best.  Mom is 83, confused from a month of going from the hospital to the rehab center and back to the hospital.  All the same, it hurts very much when she snaps 'leave me alone' or 'why don't you leave me in peace' when all I am trying to do is explain that she cannot sit around with only a bra on/ she has to let me put on a shirt. 

Mom has always been a bit of a control freak, and does not like being subjected to the rules and regulations of a rehab center/nursing home.  She's tired of people who tell her what she can't do:  can't go to her room; can't get into bed.  I've noticed the tone of the facility tends to be 'don't'  as is 'you can't do that' can't go there; you're not allowed to bring glass to the patients.  ( I dropped Mom's makeup mirror the floor, and from the reaction of the nurse/maintenance worker you would have thought I just flew an airplane into the Empire State Building)

Oh well, tomorrow is bound to be better.  I need to read a good book, drink plenty of fluids and get to bed early.  What pleased me is finding out how well she is doing in her physical therapy.  In a little over a week, Mom has gone from taking two or three steps with a walker to 50 or 60 steps.

I Saw the Tomb of King Tut

Pretty good day, today.  After lunch, I was able to take Mom out to the garden, and I fed the pigeons, while we both sat in the shade and  talked.  Unfortunately, Mom got annoyed by a Mother and Daughter talking at the next table.  They were discussing the mother's stent, and in the middle of it, Mom whispered to me " I hate people who endlessly discuss their physical ailments".  That's much more like the Betty I know and love.

It must have been exhausting because Mom got pretty confused when we went inside.  She started in about sleeping in Helen Gorra's basement/ that the old biddies in the room with her wouldn't tell her where she was/ that she owed millions of dollars to the government, etc.  At one point, I asked her where she was and she replied 'Afghanistan".

Do other daughters/children of elderly patients ever feel that your mind is beginning to slip, and you will be joining your Aged Parent in LaLa Land?  There are moments when I am tired and feel just as confused as Mom.  Once in a while, I wonder 'what if hers is the correct view of reality and I am the demented one?

Almost Like Being in Love

Yes, and what a rare mood I am in.  It was hell on toast at the nursing home.  First of all, none of the medical staff show any interest in reading Mom's chart.  She is supposed to be on oxygen: the doctor wrote an order for it, but this gets construed as 'oh, we only give her oxygen when she asks for it".  What they do not understand is Mom lacks the ability to judge her own needs.  Her hospital psychosis is still rolling along, and she believes if you ask the staff for help, they peg you as a troublemaker and send you to the ER as punishment.

Point number two:  this institution seems to be run more for the interest of the staff than the welfare of the patients or their families.  Today, the staff took over the patient Activity room to throw a baby shower for a staff member.  As a result, the patients were all crowded into one dining room, and it was a scramble for visitors to get chairs.  Furthermore, I could not take Mom online because the Internet was in Party Central. 

To add insult to injury, the staff lost the clothing we left behind when Mom was sent to the ER Saturday morning.  We'd made the switch once before, and her clothes were stored safely.  Not this time:  Mom has lost two velour track suits.  I am going to ask the basement staff to take another look tomorrow.

But my day ended on a beautiful note.  I took a black car home to Bay Ridge, and the driver was fantastic.  I knew he'd be great because he was wearing a Mets' hat and 1969 World Champion jacket.  When I got into the car, he was playing Elvis Presley, the Elvis Sirius station.  First, it played Elvis's recording of 'Bridge Over Troubled Water" which was pretty good, although E's voice had coarsened with age.  The next song was even better" Viva Las Vegas".  Driver and I rode along Ridge Boulevard, singing along with Elvis.  Life doesn't get a whole lot better than that.  I only wish Mom was there.  She would have loved it.

Hospital Psychosis

I am starting to understand that it effects hospital staff and the patient's family, too.  For example, I had this encounter with the security guard at the ER entrance:

PM:  I'm here to see Elizabeth Michaels
Guard:  ( after looking at computer screen) She isn't here; probably checked in under an assumed name.
PM:  what name did she use?"
Guard :  Elizabeth Mickalez )

Yesterday, I spoke to Mom's nurse ( who is Arab) at the nursing station.  The nurse looked at Mom's chart and gave me a reply in Arabic.  She must have caught the puzzled look on my face, because she laughed and said "Oh, I'm sorry.  It's just that I was just speaking to a patient and I forgot".   I replied "Good, because I thought my blood glucose had dropped 40 or 50 points".  ( severe hypoglycemia really scrambles my brain.

The other day, I was so tired, I applied brown eyeshadow to one eyelid, and gray to the other.

If Mom's bloodwork, etc are stable, the doctors may order her moved back to the Rehab unit.  Should be another long, and fun filled day.  Mom did look and sound much better yesterday, and I am all for the move if her condition is stable.  My hunch is the doctors are trying to discharge her too quickly to avoid pressure from the insurance companies, and because it is more cost effective to free up a hospital bed.

Groucho Was Right

I'm referring to the production number in "Horsefeathers".  Yes, whatever it is, I'm against it.  Saturday morning, Mom's breathing worsened, and she has been readmitted to the hospital.  The doctor has put her on IV steroids in addition to antibiotics, and I dread what this could do to her hospital psychosis.  Can anything be worse than her calling the Nurse and Transport aide 'a pair of g d idiots"?  Or her 'house of ill repute fixation, or the telling me she'd been forcibly raped because the ER nurse ( Tuesday's visit) put in a Foley Catheter. 

It's got to be a living nightmare for Mom and it isn't a great deal better for her daughters.  I fret that she's going to lose the will to live.  Then , I think it's selfish:  Mom is 83, had a very good life, and if she wants to leave this world, I can't really blame her.  It would be selfish to stop her, but grief is a very selfish emotion.  I guess my anxiety boils down to what am I going to do with the rest of my life?  Who will look after me when I get sick?  This isn't hypocondria, because I am an insulin dependent diabetic with chronic Hepatitis C. 

I just want Mom to be able to get out of a chair, get into her wheelchair, and use the walker to get around the house.  Will ask the doctor today if she can order bedside physical therapy.  In the past, when the Dr. has given Mom steroids for a severe respiratory infecton, the steroids lessen the effects of her arthritis.  She might do better at PT if it were given bedside.

The Importance of Being Ernest

After a tough day with Mom, I went home, and watched this movie on TMC Free On Demand.  What a perfect play Wilde wrote.  Each word was expertly chosen, and the acting from Michael Redgrave, Edith Evans, Dorothy Tutin,  Joan Greenwood and company--perfection.


I can empathize with some of Mom's anger.  It's rough being hospitalized, unable to bathe yourself, being confused' not knowing where you are.  I went through a similar ordeal 4 years ago, and if it was hard at 47, it must be unbearable at 83.  She's depressed .

All that being said, I can't say I cared for being the target of her anger.  It was easy for the nurse and aide to ignore her:  she isn't their Mother, and I am sure patients say the most outrageous things to them.  Mom called them a 'pair of goddamn idiots' and when I laughed, she snarled 'you're no better than they are.  Why do  you enjoy hurting me?".  Yeah, Queen Lear was in the house.

It's hospital psychosis, and I hope it ebbs as she adjusts to her new surroundings in the short term rehab facility.  The food is better, and the aides will be getting her dressed and taking her to physical and occupational therapy every day.  I hope the endorphins might cure her bad mood.

Baubles, Bangles and Beads

Mom did well today, and at least the doctor explained what has been causing some of her unusual behavior.  She pulled out her Foley catheter during her last hospitalization--the week of Aug. 13th, and developed a septic bladder infection.  In Seniors, sepsis can really cause strange conduct:  Mom is fixated on houses of ill repute; the fact that I am working with another woman at the local high school, but have not told my Mother what the project involved ( I told her that it was a matter of National Security, and I could not discuss it until she obtained a security clearance). 

Anyhow, today, Mom was her old self for a while:  alert, and able to discuss things rationally, but it faded as she became tired ( after 4 hours sitting up in a chair).  Then the games began.  First, her roomate asked me to help her and Mom, because they were being held hostage.  I said I would make a few phone calls:  I learned the hard way that hospitalized seniors do not want to be brought back to your reality:  they prefer their own.

Then, Mom whispered complaints about her roomate, saying she was quite senile.  My dear Mom then spoiled her image of being the mentally sound occupant  by singing a Gershwin tune in the style of 'Jingle Dogs".   Loudly.   I asked her to quiet down, because her roomie had fallen asleep.  Mom quieted, waited a few moments, then decided to meow like a cat.  I asked "why are you meowing?" and she cheerfully replied "why not?"    I didn't have a good answer, so I let her win that round.

Tomorrow, if her test results are good:  the urine culture, and the leg wound continues to heal, Mom can return to the Rehab Center.  If all goes well, she might be home in 10 days.

A House is not a Home

Mom has always been such a proper, even prudish, lady.  Years ago, she adopted a stray kitten; an orange and white tabby, named Madison, although we already had a male tuxedo cat, Todd.  Nature took its' course and Madison went into heat, doing her dance of forbidden love in Todd's face.  Todd, being a male cat ( neutered, thank God) mated with Madison many, many times--usually on top of the nearest table.  This gave Mom fits, and when Madison yakked up a hairball one day, Mom announced "it's morning sickness--she's pregnant'.  I explained that Todd no longer had the equipment to impregnate a female cat, to which Mom replied ' what if they grew back?" in a tone that wasn't interrogative, more of a 'I've run rings around you logically".

Imagine my suprise when this very prudish soul began talking about whorehouses.  Tuesday night, in the ER, she told my sister, Ginny, that there was a whorehouse on 82nd Street.  Ginny asked her where it was, but Elizabeth refused to tell her.  Yesterday, Mom told me the whorehouse was in Southampton, and Cathy's neighbor ( who is on her co-op board as well as the board of the hospital) was a frequent customer.  I do not know if Mom thinks she is the Madame or just one of the working girls.

After two weeks of dealing with Mom's hospital psychosis, I have learned that evasion is the best approach.  Do not try to bring her back to reality: she doesn't want to be there, and given her surroundings, I can't say that I blame her.  It seems better to let her discuss things ( even houses of ill repute) .  Who ever thought that my Mom would be giving her own production of ' The Whorehouse Monologues"

A Day That Will Live in Infamy

Mom has been readmitted to the hospital, with pneumonia.  I don't think it is a life threatening case, because she was quite belligerent in the emergency room--alert does not seem the right word to describe it, since Mom was a little bit out of the loop.  For starters, she told me that the ER nurse and aides had forcibly raped her.  Not true:  they had changed her soiled adult diaper and cleaned her, which was probably akin to rape in her mind.  She was, and is, a proud and prudish lady.  Having been bathed and changed by aides, I know it can be distressing.

Ginny seems to handle her better than I do.  Her advice is don't argue, or try to bring her back to reality.  Just listen, and ask questions, such as ' where is the whorehouse on 82nd Street?" or 'what color is the mouse on the mauve carpet".  I'm afraid I've been startled, and laughed at some of her more flamboyant remarks.  Never again.

Off to the bank in about an hour, then down to the hospital.  I will not permit these young residents to talk down to me or brush off my concerns.  I'm really annoyed at the attending physician at the rehab center, who brushed away my questions about Mom's labored, loud breathing with 'she has COPD; of course her breathing is rapid".  Damn it Lady, I am just as educated as you are, and I live with your patient.  Being a patient myself, I give a good medical history, and you are going to listen to me whether you like it or not.

As for the table of residents yesterday at lunch, I wanted to throw shoes at them.  They were talking shop about how much money they made, and yet, they hated their jobs.  Why didn't a rich, elderly patient ever leave them money in their will?  Probably because you treated them like a piece of meat, and their family as though they were mentally diseased or defective.  Don't sit there and whine about how much you hate patients when a patient's relative could be at the next table.  Just grow up. 

Whatever It Is, I'm Against It.

Mom's having a few mood swings today.  This morning, when I arrived, she told me that she hated her physical therapists.  After Physical Therapy, which went very well, she was in a very good mood:  alert, happy and said she liked physical therapy.  I guess Mom got tired, because the good mood had vanished by 2pm.  She told me her shoes were too tight:  I ordered another pair.  Then she got restless, and asked 'what color are my pants?"  I said why and she replied "I guess I do not have to change until I get home".  I made the mistake of asking 'do you need to be changed?" Mom gave me a look that can only be described as two parts Jack Benny with  a dash ofKing Lear, intoning " you break my heart when you ask  me that question"

This morning, I explained why she needed physical therapy and Mom told me " I never thought I would be out Hail Mary-ed by a daughter of mine".  More later, I think HRH is going to her room

Queen Elizabeth

Like all human beings, Mom is a combination of strengths and weeknesses.  She's bright, very funny, and when she is home, and healthy, very sharp.  As I wrote earlier, she's a combination of Princess Grace and Gracie Allen.  Born in 1926, to upper middle class parents, Sarah and John Regan, Elizabeth Virginia Evelyn Regan ( she chose 'Evelyn" as her Confirmation name so her initials would spell 'Ever", Mom was a bright student who graduated high school a year early, spent a semester at Marywood Seminary, then attended the College of New Rochelle( 1947) and Teacher's College, Columbia University (1951).

So, Mom is a blend of great Lady and Brooklyn Irish.  She tells the story of going to Manhattan  by subway with her high school girl friends to see a big band. As Mom told the story:  " We were going over the Manhattan Bridge when I felt a man's hand where it shouldn't be.  I grabbed the hand and said to the man "Does this belong to you?!" and he stammered 'yes' so I said ' then keep it to hell where it does belong".

At other times, she has thrown a screaming fit when our Cat, Todd, caught a cicada, and dropped it at her feet, uttering the cry "Jesus Mary and Joseph"  a pious invocation used when strange creatures invade her personal space.  She called on the Holy Family when a Gekko Lizard crawled on her arm during our vacation in St. Maarten. 

The year before his death,  Mom would not let Dad ( Bob Michaels--they married in 1953, and had 4 Daughters--Mary Pat, Ginny, Peggy and Cathy) grow any more tomatoes because there was a disgusting bug on the plant.  Mom described it as having markings on its' back like eyes.  The strange thing was, a month after his death in July 1979, one lone tomato plant grew in the garden.  I wondered if it wasn't a cosmic " Nyah nyah" from Bob to Betty.

More later--the Patient, who is being bathed, and sent to physical therapy is probably finished with her bath.

Ora Pro Nobis

Today, Mom had her first physical therapy session, and did not like it at all.  She complained that she wanted to stop, but the therapist told her 'yes, after you finish your exercises and occupational therapy'.  Part of the problem is physical:  Mom let herself get very out of shape, and lost all mobility during the two hospitalizations.  Learning to use her leg muscles, and arms riddled with bruises from IV lines must be very painful.

But, there is another component:  'The word 'must' is not to be used to Princes".  Mom  is not used to having people tell her what to do.  Ginny and I nagged her to do her exercises, and she ignored us.  Now, at the Rehab Center, Mom has no choice:  she must do her exercises.  She is a very strong willed Lady and does not enjoy taking orders.  She called the two women PT's " obnoxious cheerleaders".

I do wish Mom was not so depressed and confused.  Part of it has to be the medication, and I want to make contact with her Dr. tomorrow, asking if she's being overmedicated.  I think the Keppra, for her 'episode' Thursday is adding to her depression, and I do not know if she really needs it.  This is the same hospital that sent her home with a prescription for Plavix when both her cardiologist and internist had both said it was not necessary.

And don't get me going on the "HIPPA" regulations, which I think should be called 'HIPPO' because they make consultation with other doctors a slow, lumbering process.  Last week, I told all the Doctors on Mom's case that her Neurologist was in the hospital and we wanted him to examine her.  It never happened because I did not ask the doctor who was covering for Dr. X, her admitting physician.    Surely, it can't be the intent of the HIPPA legislators that communcation between doctors should be more difficult than getting an interview with JD Salinger.

Bad Day

Mom had her first physical therapy session, and didn't like it.  I left shortly after the first session, and my sisters, who visited afterward, reported that she was depressed:  said she had no home and wanted to die.  Part of the problem is her anxiety, which brought back all the mayhem of her homecoming.

She's a nervous person--always has been.  What I found frustrating is Mom gets started rising from the bed/chair, gets to the point where I think 'she's going to make it' then sits back down with a thump.  It is maddening to watch her quit, and at least the therapists know she needs extra coaching.  After they left, Mom said they ( the two therapists) were like two annoying cheerleaders.

I will write more later, but I only got three hours of sleep, so I am taking a nap before my visit.  If I'm lucky, I can finish this post on the rec. room computer.

Homeward Bound

Mom has been transferred to the rehab facility across the street from the hospital, and she isn't too happy about it.  She keeps on asking why I can't take her home.  I explained that she had been bedridden for two weeks, and needed rehab to regain her mobility.  She said 'why didn't anybody make it clearer?" and I said 'they probably thought you were too sleepy to take it all in last night.  You did start new medication, and got a little confused ( she asked me when our plane would be boarding passengers, and not to leave for Ireland without her).

However, she does have a point about Doctors, especially the team of doctors who approved her assignment to rehab.  Yesterday, when they gave the clearance, and spoke to Mom and me, I asked about her seizure medication, and shouldn't it be monitored more closely, since she'd only been on it 24 hours.  I was informed she didn't have a seizure, during her Morning EEG, so it wasn't a seizure or stroke.  Then I asked, don't you want to find out what it is?  and was dismissed with the assurance that her regular Dr. 9 who is on vacation) could ask the Neurologist to examine her at the Rehab Center.  ( Thanks to HIPPA, the protocol of getting a doctor assigned to a hospitalized patient is more elaborate than the protocol at Versailles during the reign of Louis XVI

More later.

Good Vibrations

Spoke with the Doctor this morning ( young enough to be my daughter, but very bright and capable)  She told me that she is treating Mom for seizure disorder with a mild anti seizure medication; that Mom will be going for a MRI this morning, and they are going to monitor her condition over the weekend.  If all goes well, she can start her short term rehab next week.  Her episode was neither a stroke nor Alzheimers.

So, I am about to blow dry my hair, take Penny for a good walk, then head down to the hospital.  I will add more later.

Stranger in Paradise

Today was really memorable.  The hospital thought Mom could be sent to a skilled nursing facility for short term rehab.  I came with a duffel bag and packed all her belongings.  The nursing facility is an adjunct of the hospital, so Mom would have all her doctors.

And I got three hours sleep, because I was so worried about Mom.  I knew she wasn't happy at going to the nursing home, and was depressed about losing her mobility.  I excused her rude conduct yesterday as an expression of her unhappiness.

Wrongo Bucko.  Just as the nurse was prepping her for the transfer, Mom became non responsive.  The staff coded her for a stroke, and I had to borrow the desk phone at the nursing station because my cell phone went dead.  Anyhow, after bloodwork, a CATscan and a EEG, it was determined that Mom had a small seizure, and is on a mild anti seizure medication.  She had been falling asleep in the middle of a sentence, and the Neurologist thinks that's part of the seizure activity. 

Looks like the rehab will be put on hold for a couple days.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Today was not a good day for either the Aged Parent or the Middle Aged Child. Mom was in a good deal of pain from her arthritis, and did not eat much. When she doesn't eat, it seems to increase her 'hospital psychosis'. I had posted three photos of Penny on the wall across from her bed. Mom asked, at one point, why I had posted a photo of Joan Rivers in between two photos of the dog. At another point, she was moaning and seemed to be in a good deal of pain. I asked her to tell me what was wrong, to which Aged P. replied "no, I do not want to'. So, I began to laugh, and was rebuked.

At that point, I was happy to leave for the official eviction of Mom's second floor tenant. The Building Manager couldn't make it, so I filled in, meeting the locksmith and City Marshal, signing the official papers, and asking the locksmith for advice. It just seemed absurd, being dragged away from Mom's bedside to deal with this nonsense. Between the home health care aides, who were directing me on how to help my Bedridden Mother, and filling in for the Building Manager, it struck me that I am doing other peoples' jobs and not earning a penny. It's time to go back to work.

Oh, Look at me Now

Mom is still making cryptic remarks when she is tired. Last night, she told my Sister, Ginny: 'that's a piece of snow off your roof". That describes how I feel this morning. I have to go walk Penny, then visit Mom for breakfast and lunch, because she isn't eating. Then I get to attend an eviction as Mom's representative. ( She owns a commerical property in Brooklyn)

If the tenant wasn't such a sleazebag, I'd feel apprehensive about evicting a woman with small children. This Mother, however, was no Donna Reed. Former Tenant's idea of good parenting was to smoke her pot in the hallway, so the kids wouldn't be harmed by second hand smoke. Mom had to begin eviction proceedings, and Tenant was excused the last three months' rent if she left by September 1. She did so, but as a final gesture of good will, refused to return the keys.

Like I really want to do this when Mom is hospitalized and a careless staff is going to send her home without any physical therapy if I do not make a fuss. I am getting fed up with doing the work that can and should be done by other people. Today, I'm the buliding manager, who can't take time off to attend the eviction. Last week, I was a full time home health care aide, as well as an administrator--letting staff know that Mom had been hospitalized. That is the agency's job, not mine. If I am doing their work, I want their salary, too.

OK--gotta slap on makeup and walk the Beagle. I will post about Mom's condition when I get back from the hospital

The Aged Parent.

I once described my Mom, Elizabeth Regan Michaels, as a cross between Princess Grace and Gracie Allen. Like Her Serene Highness, Mom is a lady: polite, articulate and very intelligent. She does have a very silly side, and can be quite irrational, just like Gracie Allen.

Once she's in the hospital, Mom becomes all Gracie. Part of it is called 'hospital psychosis' and commonly affects senior citizens--Mom's 83. She's been seeing things invisible to me, and her other three daughters. There was a mouse on a mauve carpet. She and the mouse were going to take a carpet ride to Mom's house in Amagansett. Out of the blue, she asked me for a piece of cheese. I replied 'you are in a cardiac unit, so cheese is not on the menu'. Mom said ' I just want a good piece of French cheese to cover my feet'. At this point, I was so tired, that I replied "Brie or Camembert?"

Then I wondered. What if Mom is correct? There are mice who fly around on mauve carpets, and she and the mouse have flown to Amagansett. Suppose hers' is the real world.\