WHO DO YOU TRUST?

I wrote the following story to illustrate some of the problems faced by seniors who age and lose their independence.  It's a difficult transition for everyone involved, and this story is only a small fraction of the many that could, or should, be told.  

TREACHERY?

             Connie lay on her back, counting the ceiling tiles in her room at the Shady Acres Hospice.  After a broken hip and a diagnosis of multiple cancers, she’d been moved there from the hospital.  Her daughter, Francine, though, was the only one using the word “terminal” about her condition, insisting that at eighty-four it was time her mother give her  Power of Attorney to handle her affairs.  Regretting that she’d signed the papers, Connie’s fingers plucked at the bedspread in agitation.

            “Mrs. Matheson, would you like to go down the hall with the walker again?  We can take you to the TV lounge and you can visit with Mabel for a bit.  Would you like that?” the nurse asked.

            “Yes.  Yes, I would,” she answered, always eager to move around and see other people.  She had been an active senior, busy with bowling and swimming and walking and visiting other shut-ins not so lucky.  Until that day she’d slipped on her own icy steps and broken her hip.

            “Here’s a robe I found that you can use,” the nurse said as she helped Connie cover up the ugly hospital gown.  Connie was mortified at wearing a hand-me-down robe, as if she was too poor to buy her own.  She had always been a natty dresser.

            “I’ve asked my daughter to bring me my clothes, but she says I don’t need them,” Connie suddenly blurted, in spite of never wanting to air dirty family laundry.  “I’m sure I could dress myself now.”

            “Yes, you most certainly could.  You’re healing nicely and moving better every day.”

            Connie walked slowly but surely down the hall with the walker, chatting with the nurse about the weather.  Once in the cheerful lounge decorated in bright spring colours, she sat at the games table where Mabel was sitting in her wheelchair, playing solitaire.

            “Morning, Connie.  I see they found a robe for you.  I’ve a good mind to tell your daughter what for!  She’s so unkind to you,” Mabel said, as she turned over a queen of spades.

            “Don’t do that, Mabel!  Don’t cause any trouble, please.  Francine’s under her husband’s thumb, and I know he’s after all my money.  If she defies him, he’ll make her life miserable, and I don’t want that.”

            “But Connie, she’s got access to all your money and the keys to your house and she’s refusing to bring you any clothes or personal belongings that you want.  You’re not dead yet, old girl, not doomed like me.  You know the doctor said you could live for many months or even a few years.  You could have a life again, Connie!  Don’t give up!” Mabel said just before she started coughing uncontrollably.

            Connie watched helplessly as the nurse hurried in and fitted Mabel with the mask from the portable oxygen tank on her wheelchair, and then pushed her out of the room.

            All her life, Connie had been quietly but determinedly independent.  She had nursed her husband for two years after his stroke, until he died of heart failure at fifty-nine.  She had worked as an office manager till she was seventy, and then worked for free as a volunteer in the community ever since.  She wasn’t one to ask for help.  It belittled her to ask her daughter repeatedly to bring her clothes and shoes and toiletries, items that somehow never arrived.  She feared she was imposing too much on Francine who was already handling her banking and paying her bills and taking care of her house for her.  So Connie had quit asking, and resigned herself to dying in this place, counting ceiling tiles.  But perhaps Mabel was right.  Maybe she did still have some life left, she thought as she gathered and shuffled the playing cards.

            When she returned to her room, she sat in the upright chair beside the night table and nervously reached for the phone.  Luckily it was Sunday afternoon and she remembered her son’s phone number.  Trembling, she made a collect call to him, seven hundred miles away.

            “Peter?  Oh, Peter.  Thank goodness I can talk to you,” Connie started, and then poured her heart out to her son.  She told him Francine had Power of Attorney and controlled her money, that she wouldn’t bring her any clothes, that she wasn’t about to die, that she hadn’t had a stroke like Francine had told him, that she didn’t have dementia, that Francine was selling all her belongings, and she was afraid she would sell the house and take all that money, too, if they didn’t do something.

            When Connie hung up, she was greatly relieved that Peter would catch the first plane home in the morning.  Determined to make the most of whatever time she had left, she started doing the exercises the physiotherapist had taught her to improve her mobility.  If she could start getting around without the presence of a nurse, then at least she could go visit the other patients who couldn’t leave their rooms.  She needed to have purpose again.

            Late the next afternoon, Connie was seated next to her son at a table in a private meeting room.  Francine and her husband sat across from them, and the doctor and a social worker sat at either end of the table.

            “Mrs. Matheson does not need to stay here in the hospice,” Doctor Rashid said.  “She’s not nearing imminent death.  Her heart is strong, she’s regaining mobility and her cancers are not causing her any great discomfort and may not do so for quite some time.  She may not be able to return to living on her own, but some form of long term care would be better suited to her remaining life than staying here with bated breath anticipating sudden demise.  Social services can help you find suitable placement Mrs. Matheson, where I’m sure you would be comfortable and even able to enjoy some social life again.

            “But what about the stroke she had, and her dementia?  The hospital said she was going to die, just like Dad did.  She’s not capable of making decisions on her own!”  Francine cried.

            “Well, your mother has never had a stroke, and shows no signs of dementia, so she is perfectly capable of deciding things for herself, and I will attest to that if required,” Dr. Rashid said.  “You can chat now with Ms. Yang here about possible living arrangements,” he said as he rose and left.

            Connie watched her daughter cross her arms in a huff, as she avoided looking at her mother or her brother.  Under the table, she felt Peter lay his hand over her own two hands clutched in her lap and he squeezed slightly.  He then raised the matter of why Francine had sold everything in the house and wanted to know where their Mother’s clothes were and why hadn’t she brought her any of the things she needed?

            “You have no right to come in here out of the blue and demand anything, Peter!  You haven’t been around to look after tick all for years, so don’t you come in pretending to be some bloody knight in shining armor when you haven’t lifted a finger to help all this time.  I’m the one who’s had to do everything.  So yes, I sold everything in the house and cleaned it up and painted the walls and got rid of all the old crap, and listed the house for sale.  I’ve done it all, no thanks to you!” Francine railed at her brother.

            “So what have you done with the money?  If you got rid of all Mom’s clothes and furniture and belongings, then there should be enough money to buy new clothes for her now.  And what about her future care?  As the oldest child, I want an itemized accounting of all income and expenses since Mom gave you Power of Attorney!” Peter yelled back.  “And if you don’t comply, you’ll hear from my lawyer!”

            Connie saw Francine turn pale and look nervously at her husband, Benjamin, who in turn was glaring at Peter.  She couldn’t take any more of this.  Her whole family was falling apart, as if all the love she’d given them didn’t count for a thing.  They were fighting over her money and she wasn’t even dead yet.  Rattled and distraught, Connie burst into tears.  “Don’t fight.  Please don’t fight any more.  I’ll stay here.  I don’t need anything.  Please don’t fight.”

            Ms. Yang cleared the others out of the room, saying she needed to speak with Mrs. Matheson alone and apprise her of her options.

            “You know, Mrs. Matheson, that you can revoke a Power of Attorney?  That it doesn’t have to be everlasting?”

            “I can?” Connie asked as she wiped her nose on a tissue Ms. Yang supplied.

            “Yes, you can.  And you can name a new one if you want, if you can’t get out and about to handle your business affairs.  Nothing is locked in stone.  Do you have any other children?”

            “No, just Peter and Francine.  But I have a lovely granddaughter.  Peter’s child.  She lives not far from here and comes to see me as often as she can.  She’s married and has a child of her own.  But she always says just to call her if I need anything, but I would never trouble a grandchild.  She’s such a dear, though.”

            “Mrs. Matheson, do you think she might be willing to help with your affairs?”

            “Well, I don’t know about that.  Wouldn’t that put her in the middle between her father and her aunt?”

            “You have a will, don’t you?”

            “Yes, it leaves everything to Peter and Francine.”

            “Well, all your granddaughter has to worry about then is handling your current money and affairs, and keeping an account of it, and then everything would go to your two children when you pass away.  Your pension would cover expenses in a subsidized care home.  But if you want to live in a facility that offers more, you could use the funds from the sale of your home to cover that additional expense.  Do you think you could trust your granddaughter to help you and to make sure you have whatever you need in the meantime?”

            “Oh, maybe.  She’s a sensible girl, honest and hardworking and very caring.  Yes, that might just work.  Can we call her and ask?  I think I need your help to explain this to her.  I’m not very good at asking youngsters to help an old burden like me.”

            “No problem.  In fact, I can call her for you, if you’d like,” Ms. Yang said, as she placed her cold hand over Connie’s.

            Two days later, Connie was slowly getting dressed in a new outfit Sarah had brought for her to wear.  She’d bought tops and slacks and underwear and shoes and socks out of her own money, she’d been so concerned when she’d learned of her Gran’s situation.  Connie was vastly relieved she could rely on at least one family member and that someone would be there for her during whatever time she had left.

            At Ms. Yang’s suggestion, she had asked that Peter and Francine also be present as she signed the papers to revoke Francine’s Power of Attorney and then give that power to Sarah.  She took a deep breath later, summoning her courage, as she faced her two children in the meeting room.

            “Francine, Peter, you know my will still stands.  That everything left when I die is split between the two of you.  In the meantime, I’ve asked Sarah to handle my business affairs and you are to leave her alone to do that.  She’s already brought me clothes and things, and I need someone I can count on.  No more fighting, you two.  I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden to you, Francine.  And Peter, I’m sorry to have brought you into this when you live so far away,” Connie told them.  “And Sarah, I’m so grateful to you for being willing to look after your old Gran.  Thank you for taking this on.”

            “Oh Gran, you know I’m only too happy to look after things for you.  We’ll keep these old reprobates in line now, won’t we?” Sarah joked with an impish grin, lightening everyone’s mood.

            After signing all the papers in front of the Notary Public Sarah had hired to attend their meeting, Connie made her family join her in the lounge for a cup of tea, almost like old times.  Francine left first, when her husband came to pick her up.  He’d called her on her cell phone to say he expected her home to cook dinner.  Then Peter made ready to leave.

            “Have to catch my plane home, Mom.  I’ll call you every Sunday from now on, to see how you’re doing.  Sarah will let me know when you move to a new facility and maybe I’ll come up for a visit then,” he said as he bent down to kiss her goodbye.

            Sarah walked back to Connie’s room with her, matching her young stride to her grandmother’s slow pace with the walker.

            “That wasn’t too bad, Gran, except for when you told Aunt Francine to give me the bank statements and the cheque book.  There were daggers shooting from her eyes.”

            “Don’t you worry about it, Sarah.  Just show the bank the Power of Attorney, and then write yourself a cheque to cover the cost of those clothes you bought me.  I don’t want you going without because you were kind enough to help me.”

            “I know, Gran, I know.  Here’s your room now.  I do have to go and pick up little Jason from daycare.  You take care, and I’ll be by on Friday,” she said, kissing Connie on the cheek and then turning and walking away down the hall.

            Instead of going into her room, Connie stood and watched her granddaughter.  As Sarah neared the nurse’s desk, Connie saw her stop and chat with Ms. Yang and give her an envelope.  Ms. Yang peeked inside it, gave Sarah a thumb’s up, and then quickly stashed the envelope in the deep pocket of her blazer.

            Now what was that all about, Connie wondered?

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By Lisa A. Hatton