Forgotten Tomorrows Crazy Today (Ch 17 – 18)

Chapter 17

When I got home from the nursing home the day of my dad’s fall, Mike and I had a long talk about what to do. We agreed that my dad needed out of Garden Care after all the things we had seen in the years that he had been there. We decided that my dad seemed to be in a place mentally where bringing him home again would not cause any kid of threat to the kids, me, or the house. The only real issue we had was remembering how cramped it had been with five people living in our 1500 sq. ft. home. I figured it would take some time, the way most government processes do, to actually get him home, so we decided to start looking for a bigger house.

The next day I called the CBA office to begin the process of bringing my dad home. It actually took several days of calling the office and leaving messages before I spoke to someone. When I finally did get a call back, the woman on the phone explained what the CBA program was all about, what services they could provide and how to go about applying.

First, she told me to be able to qualify for the CBA program, my dad needed to reside in a nursing home. Apparently, the program used to be offered to people in need who were still residing in a private residence, but the waiting list had gotten so long that the application process was closed for those people. The program was now only offered to try and take people out of the nursing care system and back into private residences.

Secondly, she told me that CBA would provide home healthcare and/or home non-medical attendant care depending on what the program facilitator and the patient’s physician determined was best. They would also determine what medical and household equipment that the program, through Medicaid, would pay for. She then told me that usually twenty-four hour care was not allotted. The program facilitator would determine a specific amount of time for each of the patient’s needs (i.e. feeding, bathing, dressing, clean up, etc…). Once the amount of care was determined, I, as his guardian, could determine whether I needed or wanted to have an outside source to be that paid caretaker or I could apply as the primary care giver myself.

The last thing she told me was that it took about two to three weeks to get the application process started. And once the application was approved, I would have twenty-nine days to bring my dad home. If I did not bring him home in that time, I would have to start the process all over again. She then asked me if I wanted to start the process right then. I didn’t think we were ready to bring my dad home in a month, so I told her that when I was ready, I would call back.

Between the kids, Mike’s work, the panic attacks, life in general and trying to find the right house, it would be almost two years before I would be ready.

Around the time when things started to heat up with my uncle’s lawyer, I made a call to Rita Sanchez, my dad’s Medicaid case worker and told her that I was planning to bring my dad home and why. She said that she thought that it was a great idea. During the discussion, I told her about the inheritance that he was getting ready to receive and asked if it would be possible to use some of the money to help us buy or build a bigger house to bring him home. I figured that way the money would be used for his care and could be kept under two-thousand dollars, if it were more than that, and keep him in the Medicaid program. She said that she could see no reason why I couldn’t and asked me to keep her informed.

While all of this was going on, Mike and I continued the process to find a bigger home to bring my dad home. Around the middle of April 2003, we hooked up with a company called HMS (Home Marketing Services) who specialize in helping people with bad credit, no credit or no clue get into new homes. Through them, even without the help of my dad’s money, we were pre-qualified for a home loan and found the perfect house to bring my dad home. We put our house on the market and got ready for the move.

We would have to build from the ground up to get the price and the options that we would need to make living with someone with failing health easier, but we didn’t mind. We figured during the six months it would take to get the house built, the inheritance issue should get resolved and we would be more than ready to bring my dad home. Nothing is ever as easy as it seems.

Mike and I had picked a home to be built by a company called Buescher. The house was actually bigger than what we needed, but had all the amenities that would make my dad’s failing health easier to deal with. First, it had two master bedrooms. The one downstairs would be for my dad. My dad wouldn’t have to try and maneuver stairs, it had its own bathroom; it would be perfect. The other four bedrooms were located upstairs, which meant that the kids would have their own rooms, Mike would have his office and it would all be out of my dad’s reach. Plus, it had a huge game room upstairs for the kids and their friends. We picked a lot in a really cute neighborhood in the town of Mansfield, which was about ten miles south of our house in Arlington. We signed the contract to start construction of the house. Everything was going great. The night that we signed the contract, I happened to look at one of the pamphlets that our sales agent had given us. It was from the same home builder, but it was located in a different area, Keller, that we had not looked in. I went online and saw that the same house that we were planning to build in Mansfield was thirty thousand dollars cheaper base price to build. So, of course, the next day I went and looked at the other community. The area wasn’t as cute, but it’s hard to walk away from thirty thousand dollars right off the top. When Mike came home we both went back and looked at the area and then talked. We agreed that even though the community in Keller didn’t have the same amenities as the one in Mansfield, Keller would be a better fit. With the extra money off the top, we would be able to get a bigger lot, put more of the upgrades into the house that we wanted and Keller, being further north was actually closer to the homes of most of the people we knew. So we called our sale agent and told her of our decision and signed a new contract in the Keller community the next day.

After we signed the contract in Keller, I called the salesperson Mike, from the Mansfield community and thanked him for all of his help and expressed our regret at our change of heart. Apparently, this set Mike off. He called me later that night and tried to talk me out of changing my mind, but I explained why we had done it, I apologized again and hung up. The next day Mike began calling me every half hour leaving messages on my cell phone trying to get me to change my mind. Luckily, I had put his name and number into my cell phone, so I saw it was him each time he called and let it roll over to voice mail. Thank God for caller ID.

Several days later, on Mother’s Day, I was laying in bed with a migraine talking on my home phone to Sara. Ian came walking in with my cell phone, which he had answered and said I had a call, it was Mike from Buescher. I put the other phone to my head and said, “Hello” Mike immediately went into a rant trying to talk me out of the community change. Again, I explained to him why we had done it. In the middle of my explanation, he started yelling that I was “stupid for making the move,” and that I would “live to regret it” and he kept saying he didn’t understand, “what my problem was.” You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s freakin’ Mother’s day!

As I tried to defend myself against this verbal assault, Sara was yelling in my other ear verbal barbs for me to say back. It was all a bit nutty. After about five minutes, I finally hung up on him. I called HMS and the other Buescher community the next day and told them what had happened. Mike was fired soon afterward. I don’t know if it had anything to do with that call, but one can hope.

Once “Bad Mike”, which became his name because our new Buescher salesperson’s name was also Mike, was out of the picture, we settled down to build our new home. Everything was great. Mike was really helpful, and not crazy. It was nice. During the process, I voiced a concern over the game room’s powder room. The way the upstairs of the house was designed, the two bedrooms that would be the boys’, had a shared Jack and Jill bathroom that could only be gotten to through the bedrooms. The upstairs master had its own bathroom, which again could only be gotten to through the master bedroom. The only bathroom for the office/guest room was a small powder room located off the game room. This powder room had a sink and a toilet and that was it. It seemed strange to me and I asked if there was anyway to be able to put a shower inside so that guests would not have to share a bathroom with the boys or use the upstairs master bath. Mike agreed that the lay out was strange and figured out a way to lessen one of the bedroom closets to put in a shower. He said that it shouldn’t be a problem and sent the design change to corporate. The change came back approved and we were on our way.  We picked our lot, went to the design center and picked out all of our colors and they broke ground to begin building.

The week after they broke ground, we got a call from Mike. He told us that they had gotten a new head of sales for the company and she would not allow the floor plan change. We told Mike that we would pay an extra deposit if they were afraid of us bailing on the deal. He said that he would submit it to corporate and get back to us. The next day he came back with corporate’s answer. They said that they would put in the shower with an extra three thousand dollar deposit. What, are they high!?!? That’s more than the entire bathroom costs to build, let alone stick a stupid stand alone shower in a room that’s already there!

We told Mike no and how ridiculous we thought that was. He agreed, but his hands were tied. We eventually called Bob Lavelle, the owner of HMS, the company that had helped us to find the house. He agreed that this was ridiculous and agreed to talk to the builder on our behalf. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but Bob was scheduled for a meeting with the owner of Buescher, but the meeting got rescheduled twice and then when it finally happened; the owner didn’t show. When this happened, we asked for and received a refund of our deposit and went back to the drawing board.

Finally, after looking for months we found our dream home to be built by First Texas Homes in an area of Keller much like the first lot we had chosen in Mansfield, called Heritage. First Texas is a semi-custom homebuilder without the custom home price. All in all, everything really worked out for the best; at least in building the house.

In July, I registered the kids in Keller schools so that they would not have to start at new schools in the middle of a school year. So when school started in August, I drove them the twenty-five miles, each way, everyday to their new schools. It was a pain in the ass and tiring for all of us, but the kids loved their new schools and were looking forward to the new house.

After I fired Ms. Accipiter as my lawyer July 2004, I hired a man by the name of Donald Nix, another lawyer I got from the referral service. Before hiring him, I made sure to ask him directly if he could handle the case. He assured me that he could.

When Mr. Nix and I met, I explained what had been happening so far. I also explained to him the Medicaid two-thousand dollar problem. Ms. Van Leesten would not tell me exactly how much the inheritance was, why I’m not sure. She did tell me that it was somewhere a little over ten-thousand dollars. This posed the problem of being too much for my dad to stay on Medicaid, but not enough to do my father any good for very long. I also explained to him my plan to bring my dad back home and what Ms. Sanchez had said regarding the issue. I also relayed what I had been told I would need to be appointed guardian of my dad’s estate to be able to appropriate the funds on my dad’s behalf. Mr. Nix said that he would look over the case, call David Taylor, Ms. Van Leesten and the guardianship offices and figure out what our best recourse would be.

When Mr. Nix got back to me a few weeks later, he said that the judge had requested more information from my uncle’s lawyer. He said that he would be submitting the request and would get back to me.

The next time that I spoke to Mr. Nix, he told me that the guardianship judge said that the money had to be put in to a trust fund and held by the state. If I wanted to use any of it, I would have to submit an itemized list of what I wanted to purchase beforehand, complete with prices. Can this get to be anymore of a pain in the ass!?!?

The judge did say that I could be reimbursed for expenses that I had incurred during the time since my dad had arrived in Texas.

I called Rita Sanchez and told her what the judge said. She said that technically from the time the money was available to my dad it should have been given to him and counted against his Medicaid. She asked when the judge would release the money. I told her that I didn’t know. She then told me that she would not do anything regarding my dad’s Medicaid until she heard back from me. Thank you!

After I spoke to Rita, I called David Taylor to possibly elicit his help. I told him my plans to bring my dad home again and what the judge had ordered. He said that he thought it a good idea for me to bring my dad home as well and said that he would do what he could to help with the judge.

I put together all of the receipts that I could find since bringing my dad home that might relate, tallied them up and brought them to Mr. Nix’s office. I told him that on one of Mike’s off days he and I would go shopping and pick out furniture and things for my dad and then bring him that list to submit to the judge.

For some reason, it took Ms. Van Leesten until early September to actually cut the check and send it to the court. In the meantime, I had gathered my list of items to purchase for my dad at the new house and delivered it to Mr. Nix to submit to the judge.

On September 22, 2004, Mr. Nix submitted a request to the court for $2916.65 in reimbursement fees to me, $1710.00 legal fees to David Taylor, $2390.00 legal fees to himself, and $6346.00 in furnishings for the move.

The request came back several weeks later with the reimbursement and legal fees approved, but all monies for furnishing denied. When I asked why, Mr. Nix told me that the judge had said that, “Because my dad was old and would not be around for long. He said that the furnishings that I had planned to buy were too extravagant and when my dad died they would revert to me as his sole heir, so he would not allow it.” What the hell!?!?! He’s old and going to die soon so he can’t have nice stuff cause when he dies I’ll get it!?!? He’s only 65 years old! That’s not that old! And why can’t he have nice stuff because he may die soon!?!? So I’m supposed to buy him crap cause he’s old so that I only inherit crap and not nice stuff when he dies!?!? The man is a fucking moron!

I asked Mr. Nix if there was anyway that I might go to court and speak to the judge myself on my dad’s behalf. He said that he would check and get back to me. Of course, the answer came back several days later as a resounding “NO.”

Mr. Nix and I were both at a loss. Technically, the money was in my dad’s possession, even though it was being held by the courts and should count against his standing with Medicaid. Neither one of us knew what to do next. Mr. Nix said that he would call me if he thought of anything.

In the mean time, I called Rita Sanchez and told her what the judge had said. She was as incensed as I was. She asked me what judge it was and I told her I wasn’t sure. As we talked, I looked through my paper work and found the name of the Judge Pat Ferchill. When I told her, she gave a knowing grunt and said that the judge was in the wrong. She asked me what I was going to do next. I told her I wasn’t sure. We had just started building the new house and didn’t think it was a good idea to bring my dad home yet. If we did, that would mean we would have to move him twice, which we both agreed was probably not a good idea. She told me that again, she wouldn’t do anything to my dad’s Medicaid until I told her what I planned to do or the judge released the money.

During this time, I received a phone call from a woman by the name of Denise from the guardianship office. She said that she was calling because she had heard that I was planning on moving my dad back home. I told her yes and explained why. She told me that she was concerned and wasn’t sure that it was the best idea. What!?!? Did you not hear what I told you!

I explained again my reasoning for the plan to bring my dad home and the fact that I had spoken to his lawyer, the Medicaid people and had been given the advice from the social worker at the hospital. I told her all of the information that I had been given and that I planned to go through the CBA program, which was designed for just such cases. Again, she said that she was concerned. She then told me that I would need to call her before I actually brought my dad home. You have got to be kidding!?!?! I can’t bring my father home if I want to!?!? What gives you the right!?!?! This is ridiculous.

But I agreed and hung up.

I spent the next several weeks racking my brain over all that had happened and what to do next without much luck. The universe actually gave me a push.

Throughout this time, I had still been visiting my dad on a regular basis. Several of the residents that lived at the home when my dad first arrived had passed on and new patients had been brought in. Sometime in the beginning of 2004, there seemed to be a rash of not so old male patients brought in to the center. The locked unit had never been a calm or quiet place, but after these men moved in it was like “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Everytime I went back there, there was some male resident half naked running around. There had always been the occasional resident peeing on the floor, but now it was a guarantee. I also had a really creepy moment standing at the nurse’s station when I looked over at the lounge area and one of the new younger residents was sitting in a chair masturbating. If it had been one of the older patients, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but the thing about this guy was he was staring straight at me while he did it. And the look on his face sent shivers down my spine. It was a mixture of hunger, anger and glee. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I didn’t stand around long enough to find out.

By now, I had finally gotten to speak with my dad’s doctor after many phone calls and then writing him a formal letter in March 2004 threatening legal action. In mid October, Dr. Zadeh finally decided that he would have my dad tested to see exactly what was going on with him neurologically. I had stupidly always assumed that this had been done at some point during the time that my dad had been in the nursing home. Why, I’m not sure. Anyway, my dad was set up for several neurological tests to be done with a Dr. Husam Alkhersa at Harris H.E.B. Hospital. Usually, when patients have an outside doctors appointment someone from the nursing home staff takes them to the appointment. If a family member is needed, they meet them at the appointment. On this occasion for some reason, the nursing home told me that they didn’t have anyone to take my dad to the appointment, so I would have to take him myself. Taking my dad anywhere at this point was no easy tasks. He had become increasingly non-responsive and his stiffening had continued. Trying to get him in and out of a vehicle was backbreaking work. But I wanted to find out what was going on inside my dad’s head so I agreed to take him myself, with Mike’s help.

The day of the first appointment came and we went to pick my dad up at the nursing home. When we got there, I went into my dad’s room to get him. He had a huge bleeding open wound on his chin. I went back out to the nurse’s station and asked about it. The orderly had chuckled about him being squirmy and how someone had cut him shaving. I was pissed. I asked for a band-aid and went back to his room. When I reached out to put the band-aid on my dad’s face he flinched and shouted, “Go ahead and hit me!” Oh my god, has someone been hitting him?!?! I’ve got to get him out of here.

Mike and I were able to maneuver him together through that appointment, but it was difficult. The doctor said that he wanted him to come back for an MRI because the EKG and light test had been inconclusive. When I brought my dad back, I told them that the doctor wanted to see him again in a few days. I also told them that they would need to find a way to transport him because Mike was going out of town and there was no way I could handle him by myself.

The day of that appointment, I met my dad and one of the staff at the hospital. Everything went fine and I followed the pair back to the nursing home to visit with my dad as I always did after appointments. When I went to leave, there was a gaggle of residents milling about near the doorway, as usual. One of the patients was the new young guy. I smiled as I normally did as I got closer to him. When I got parallel to him, he reached out and grabbed my left breast with his right hand, hard.

By this time, I had been groped by many of the male patients and had learned to just step aside and be done with it. Even in the beginning, when it used to startle me, whenever I said anything to any of the staff, their response was always a chuckled, “OH, (insert name) he’s harmless.” This time was different. As this guy reached out and grabbed me, I let out a small shocked yelp. Immediately, two orderlies came out of the dining room and I could see a nurse come from around the desk of the nurses’ station. The orderlies snatched his hand back and pulled him away quickly with apologies. As they pulled him away to lead him in the other direction, he turned around and I saw that same look in his eyes from the day he was touching himself in the chair. I don’t like that guy or this place. I’m getting my dad out of here now!

Chapter 18

I decided that whether I was able to bring my dad home or not, I was going to get him out of Garden Care.

The next day I looked in the book that the social worker from JPS had given me and started calling nursing homes. I called several around the Keller area and explained my dad’s situation and my plan to try and bring him home soon. I then made appointments to view the homes. I personally viewed three nursing homes. Two appeared and smelled just as bad as the first time I walked into Garden Care. The staff seemed bored, the patients ignored and the overall feeling of the place was a holding cell for the nearly dead. Are all nursing homes around here like this? I can’t take my father from one hellhole just to put him into another.

The last nursing home I went to was actually close in décor and style to the house we were building. Keller Oaks was a brand new facility. It had only been open since June and it showed. As soon as I entered the place, it reminded me of Mariner. It was open, light and airy. As the woman from the registration office took me on a tour, I noticed and commented on the fact that the furnishings looked just like mine at home. The color scheme of olive green, paprika and muted beige was just like mine. The place had a small separate chapel, a small but well stocked library, several common areas, a nice outdoor garden area for the general residents and even had a separate outdoor area for the patients of the locked ward. The locked ward itself was smaller than the one at Garden Care. It consisted of one long hallway with rooms on either side, cut in half by a large common dining room area with a television, a few couches along with plush chairs around the tables. I was told that there was only one other male patient in the ward and from my description, they thought my dad would be a perfect fit. The admissions lady said that there was one problem. They would have a Medicaid bed open in the unit, but it would not be available for a month. Bingo!

I explained what had been going on with the money from my uncle and then told her that this might solve the problem. If I moved my dad immediately and had him kicked off of Medicaid, then the judge would be forced to release the money to the nursing home for care. I told her that I would need to make sure that Medicaid would kick back in as soon as the money ran out. She agreed to admit my dad and arranged to have him transported over the next day. She gave me the paper work to admit my dad and I left.

As soon as I got home, I called Rita and told her my plan. She said that she hated to see the money go like that but agreed it would probably be the only way to get the judge to release the money. I called Garden Care and told them that I would be transferring my dad the next day and that I would be there in the morning to fill out any paperwork and get my dad’s things. I then called Mr. Nix and told him the plan and asked him to inform the judge that the money would need to be released to the nursing home A.S.A.P. I also called and left a message for Denise at the guardianship office, informing her of what I was doing.

The next day, I went to Garden Care to pick up my dad’s things. Now, I had been telling anyone that would listen at Garden Care since my dad’s fall that I planned to bring him home as soon as I could. So I was more than a little stunned when I was confronted by the D.O.N. as I was packing my dad’s clothing. She came into my dad’s room and told me, “You cannot just take your dad out of the home. You need to put in a formal request….” She started to say more but I cut her off.

“Look, the people from the other nursing home are coming to pick him up this afternoon. I will fill out any paperwork that you would like but my dad is leaving here today. I’ve been nice for two years and kept my mouth shut, a lot of the time when I shouldn’t have. I’ve done everything when you’ve asked, the way that you’ve asked. I’m not doing that anymore. I expect you all to have him showered, dressed and ready to go when they get here. I am not asking you, I am telling you.” I went back to packing.

Once I got the last load of my dad’s things into my car, I stopped by the business office and asked if they had anything that I needed to sign. They gave me a release form to sign and that was it. I went back inside and kissed my dad and told him he was moving and I’d see him later. He said, “Okay,” pleasantly and I left.

On my way out to my car for the last time, I stopped just outside the door in the parking lot to light a cigarette. Two of the orderlies, a man and a woman, who had been at the center through most of my dad’s stay, were sitting outside the laundry room smoking cigarettes. As I walked by they flagged me over.

The woman spoke, “It’s a good thing you’re getting your dad out of here when you are.” The male orderly nodded in agreement. I feel the same way but why do YOU think so?

“Why?” I asked. “Because all those new guys in back there, those aren’t Alzheimer’s patients those are psychiatric prisoners. They put them in here instead of sending them to jail or the psych ward.” What the hell!?!?! Psychiatric prisoners!?!?! Can that be legal!?!? Shouldn’t they have to tell the residents’ families!?!? I’ve been left alone with those people more than once! Shit, I’ve been left alone with those people when I’ve brought the kids!

I asked all of this. The female orderly just shrugged and said she didn’t know how legal it was, but she did know it was “fucked up.” She then said that she wouldn’t even go back there anymore. She said the young black guy back there had cornered her in a room one day and threw her on a bed and beat the shit out of her. She said that it had taken several people to get him off of her. She then said, “You know that new little old white guy back there? The one with the stitches across his nose and face, with the busted lip? That convict did it to him. The poor old guy bumped into him one day and the guy just started beating on him, tore his nose and his face up.”

“The way your dad wanders around, I’ve been afraid that might happen to him.” The male orderly chimed in. My god, what has been going on in there!?!? Is that who’s been hitting my dad!?!?!  If you guys were so afraid, why didn’t you say something!?!?

I asked them why they didn’t tell the families. They both shrugged and said that they were afraid of losing their jobs. I nodded, said good-bye and left. I never went back to Garden Care again.

My dad settled into Keller Oaks as if nothing had changed. When I came in to visit him the next day, my dad was pacing the halls as usual. I guess one thing did change. As my dad wandered the halls, he was now talking out loud to himself and anyone who would listen.

Once I got my dad settled in, I decided that it might be a help to us getting into the new house if I went back to work. I decided I really liked the program at HMS so I called Bob, the owner and told him that I wanted a job. (Cause it’s just that easy.)

Bob said that they were actually looking for people and told me to come in for an interview. The interview portion of the meeting lasted all of about five minutes. I spent the rest of the fifteen minutes that I was there talking comedy and listening to Bob’s bad jokes. I got the job, which required me to get my Real Estate License, which I did. I found a babysitter to take the boys to and from school and went to work.

I loved the job. Helping to put people, who thought that they would never own a home into not only homes, but new homes, was an awesome feeling. The hours were horrendous though. It could take me as long as two hours to get to the HMS office during rush hour traffic. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, the office stayed open until 9 p.m. for people who were unable to get off work. Plus, on days where I showed houses, usually Saturdays and Sundays, I could end up going all over the Metroplex. There were days that I left my house at 7:30 in the morning and might not make it back home until Midnight. I loved the job, but it left little time for anything else, especially visiting my dad. We were supposed to have Fridays off, but newbies tended to work 7 days a week to get a jump-start on selling and I was no different.

As much as I loved doing the work, the job was by no means perfect. Besides the horrible hours, Bob turned out NOT to be the nice guy I thought he was. Megalomaniac is the word I would actually use.

Bob loved to show off to anyone who had eyes how much money he had. He drove a powder blue Rolls Royce convertible, loved to show off his gold jewelry and would regularly pull out the wad of hundreds he always carried in his pocket. Even with all of this, Bob could be incredibly generous. I had seen him hand over a wad of cash to several employees who were in financial need. And I have to say, our Christmas party rocked, even without all the cash Bob handed out. He even offered to pay for hotel rooms for everyone so that no one had to drive home drunk.

It was like working for the Three Faces of Bob. On the one hand, Bob was great and on the other, he could be horrible. He was a huge sexist and could be terribly sexually inappropriate. Thankfully, he never directed it at or in regards to me, that I know of, but I did witness it on more than a few occasions with others. The most memorable incident involved the head of our mortgage department, Rayann. Shortly after I started working there, I was told that Rayann had recently had a breast augmentation. One day close to Christmas, I stood in shocked horror as Bob introduced Rayann’s new breasts to a client, then informed them that he had paid for them.

Bob also thought himself the master manipulator and prided himself on proving it whenever he got the chance. He would regularly show all the employees word “tricks” he would use to get people to do whatever he wanted them to do. The thing about this was, every time he tried to use me as an example, it always backfired. (If 4 out of 5 doctors said blue, I would be the one doctor who said red. I can’t help it). And it was no different with Bob’s examples. I didn’t do it on purpose, I’m just not typical. It drove Bob nuts. It got to the point that he eventually started saying that he had “made” me choose the different answer just to cover himself and then he stopped using me in his demonstrations all together.

Bob took so much pride in manipulating the “sheep” of the world that he let us in on an inside joke, that he used to put his customers at ease, and show his sensitivity and compassion. Bob loved to talk to all the clients who came in personally, to show what a great down to earth guy he was even as the owner. Whenever clients came to the office and told Bob their personal tales of woe, Bob would sit back in his chair, smoking his cigarette and tell the people, “well bless your heart” as sincerely as he could. The secret Bob imparted to us in one of our meetings was that whenever he did something to hurt himself, like hit his thumb with a hammer for example, his wife would always say to him, “well bless your heart” which he had come to realize actually meant, “you dumb fuck.” So it became known in our office if anyone said, “bless your heart” it meant you were an idiot.

When I was still under the delusion that Bob was just a generous guy who had made a lot of money for himself and wanted to share the wealth, he set up the first sales meeting for the newbies. Part of the meeting involved watching the movie Glengary Glen Ross, a movie about a sleazy, hard run real estate sales office. When the movie was finished, we all laughed about how horrible the sales staff were treated (“Coffee is for closers.”) and how none of us would ever want to work at a place like that (In the movie’s sales contest, first prize was an Eldorado, second prize a set of steak knives and third prize was to get the sack.) I had no idea that was exactly where I was.

Once we actually started selling, the meetings became more like public, verbal beatings.  Even though I did well, the weekly meetings would have my stomach in knots. You generally never knew who Bob was going to go after and/or how hard. I say generally, because there were times when you definitely knew who Bob’s victim was going to be for the day…The person who hadn’t sold anything for the week.

One particularly bad meeting was actually named the Danny-Is-A-Loser meeting. Meetings like that were humiliating, not only for the person on the chopping block, but for everyone who was made to either watch and/or participate.  Even when you did well, Bob would use you to make others feel bad. It was nuts, but somehow I loved the job, despite it all.

During this time, I got repeated calls from Larry, the business manager from Keller Oaks. The judge was refusing to release the money and the nursing home was beginning to worry. I called Mr. Nix to ask what was going on. He got back to me several days later saying that the judge was requesting a letter, in writing, from the nursing home detailing why they wanted the money. Um because they haven’t been paid!?!? What the hell is wrong with this man!?!?

I called Larry and told him the judge’s request. Larry agreed to put the request in writing.  I went and picked it up on one of my days off and brought it to Mr. Nix’s office for him to deliver it to the judge. The judge finally released the money in January 2005; four months after my dad was actually admitted to Keller Oaks. Once that was over with and the monies were used up, my dad’s Medicaid was reinstated and things went back to normal.

One morning in early February when I got to work, I could tell Bob was in a mood. Oh god! Who did or didn’t do what now!?!

When we got into our weekly meeting, Bob began berating everyone for not following procedure on a particular portion of our credit repair sales. As we all sat wide-eyed looking from Bob to each other, I knew what I and the other three newbies were thinking. No one ever told us HOW to do the procedure.

I was sitting at my usual place during these meetings, at the head of the table right next to Bob. Yeah I’m a glutton for punishment. I gathered my courage, turned and faced everyone else in the room and said, “Okay guys, you owe me because I’m about to take the hit on this one.” I turned back to Bob and said, “Bob, I don’t know about everyone else, but I do know that I have never been shown how to do that procedure. What exactly are we supposed to do?” DUCK AND COVER!!!!

Bob began to grin an evil grin, not unlike the one my father would get when he was feeling triumphantly wicked.

To answer me, Bob began to speak as if he were mentally retarded, saying things like, “For the slow people like Leslie, we have to hold their hands.” But he did not answer my question. So I asked it again in a different way. This time he put his fingers up to his head in the “L” sign for loser and made a few more wisecracks but still did not answer my question. This went on and on for I couldn’t say how long. I would ask the question and Bob would make some reference to my intelligence or lack thereof, but would not answer the question. I would not give up. Even when Bob pretended to be digging a grave while laughing at me, I simply said, “That’s fine Bob. I might be digging my own grave, but you WILL answer my question.” Bob’s next move was to put his one hand over his throat and his other hand to his temple in the shape of a gun, like in the movie Blazing Saddles when the black sheriff does the same thing to save himself from being lynched by the white towns people. And then Bob used the exact same line from the movie on me, “Freeze or I’ll shoot the nigger!”

I’m sure your reaction was the exact same reaction as that of everyone else in the room who had been silently watching this exchange between the two of us. I could feel every person in the room eyes widen, as they gasped and then looked at me. I didn’t budge. I just sat there, stock still, staring into Bob’s eyes calmly. Bob tried to laugh, I think, but it got caught in his throat and ended up being a kind of a choked cough. I sat there staring at Bob neither speaking nor moving for what seemed like an eternity until he finally diverted his eyes from mine. When he did, I softly said, “Now are you going to answer my question?” He finally did.

That was it; the straw that broke the camel’s back. I knew I could no longer work there no matter how much I loved my co-workers and/or the work; even if I got screwed on my home loan, which HMS was still handling.

The next morning, my babysitter didn’t show up on me before work. When I finally got in touch with her, she said that she had overslept. No biggie, but it gave me my out. The universe sooooo rocks!

I called in and told them that my sitter had bailed on me and that I would be in as soon as I took my kids to school. When I got to work, I acted as if the day before had never happened. I was laughing and joking with everyone like I normally did. Sometime around lunchtime, I caught Bob in his office and told him that my sitter had quit and that I did not know of another one who would work the long hours. With no sitter, it meant that I could no longer work. Bob was upset but gracious. He even blessed my babysitters heart; “bless his heart”.

I thought about taking legal action regarding the issue, but then talked myself out of it. As angry as I was, I knew Bob would never learn anything and if his business suffered in any way, it would affect the livelihoods of all the people who worked there who I still very much cared for. So I just quietly left.

I did notice a few months after I left HMS, Bob’s new television and radio commercials started including the “bless your heart” comment with its explanation.

We ended up doing a dual closing on our old house in Arlington and the new house in Keller on February 11, 2005. A couple of days after we moved in, I went to Keller Oaks to visit my dad. When I entered the locked ward, my dad was pacing the hall as usual. I walked over and said my usual, “Hi Dad,” but got no response. I tried several more times, nothing. Finally, I said, “Wesley.”

My father immediately responded, “Yes.”

The long hours and lack of time to visit my dad, working at HMS, had taken their toll. My father didn’t seem to know me anymore.

I’m not exactly sure why, but I decided to look for another job, instead of trying to bring my father back home again. I had really enjoyed the actual work at HMS, so I decided to try to get a job as a sales agent with an actual homebuilder. I spent an entire weekend researching all the new homebuilders in the area. I then wrote letters to each and every one of them and faxed them all out the next day. I got several calls for interviews. I was eventually hired at Woodhaven Homes and was placed in a model home community around the corner from my house. It was perfect. I sold well, I was close to home, made decent money, and had plenty of time off to visit my father.

My father seemed to be doing well at Keller Oaks. He wasn’t being cared for necessarily the way I would have taken care of him at home, but the staff was nice and seemed happy, he was always clean, his stuff didn’t disappear all the time, and the place was clean and nice. I had serious thoughts about leaving things the way that they were.

Then just after Mother’s Day, which I’m beginning to hate as much as Tuesday’s, I got called into corporate at Woodhaven. Once I got there, I was told that they were doing a restructure and that they didn’t have a place for me.

Out of a job again, I decided that it was time to do what I had planned when we originally built the house and start the process to bring my father home. I called the CBA offices and left a message.

I ended up being put in touch with a Linda Maxville, who strangely turned out to be the long separated wife of my father’s current doctor. She would be my father’s CBA caseworker. We met at the nursing home so that she could access my father’s condition and needs. She agreed that my father would need the maximum allotted hours for care, even though he was still mobile. She and I discussed how this would be handled and I told her that I would like to be considered his primary care giver. She said that she didn’t see any reason that that couldn’t happen. I would need to be trained on my father’s G-tube feeding, but other than that, it shouldn’t be a problem.

Soon after my father switched nursing homes, the staff became concerned with my father’s ability, or lack there of, to swallow. After some tests, they switched him from a partial G-tube, partial pureed diet to a strictly G-tube diet.

Linda said once I was trained on the G-tube and administering his medications that I should be fine. I then told her about my conversation with Denise from the guardianship office. She said that she saw no reason why I couldn’t be my father’s paid primary care giver with training. Linda had me pick a care providing service, Integra Care and said that someone from there would be calling me in the next few days.

A few days later, I got a call from Jim Clayton, an RN for Integra Care. He made an appointment to meet with me and my father the next week to set up exactly what equipment my father would need. We met a few days later. Jim spoke to the nursing home staff and then me. When he was done, he decided that my father would be allotted: A hospital type bed with jell pad, a sit down shower seat, a wheel chair, his liquid nourishment and feeding syringes and adult diapers. Once that was done, he left while I stayed to visit with my father for a while.

On my way out, I stopped at the nurse’s station and set up a time to come and be trained with the nurse to give my father his G-tube feedings. As I left, the nursing home social worker stopped me to tell me that she had heard about my plan to take my father home. She said if there was anything that she could do to help, she would. I asked her if she would talk to Denise at the guardianship office and try to convince her that taking my father home would be a good thing. She said she would and I left.

Over the next couple of weeks, I went in and actually did my father’s G-tube feedings myself, usually during a lunch hour. It wasn’t that difficult. After a few times, the nurses showed me how they crushed his medication and gave them through the tube and then let me do that as well. That done, I sat back and waited for approval from CBA.

Denise from the guardianship office called during this time and again voiced her concern at my being appointed my father’s primary care giver. At one point, she asked me, “Why do you want to bring your father home?” Huh? What kind of a question is that?

“Because he’s my father,” I answered honestly.

“Yes, I know he’s your father, but why specifically do you want to bring him home?” Huh!?! I didn’t understand the question. After a moments pause I just laid it on the table, “Look, when my father got sick and I got him to agree to come to Texas with me, I promised him that I would not put him in a nursing home. I wasn’t able to keep that promise and I have felt bad about it from day one. When my father fell and ended up in the hospital, I promised him then that I would bring him home and he actually responded. I can’t go back on that promise.”

“Yes, but do you realize what a burden that will be on you and your family. You have children, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well I am concerned that this would be too much for you to handle.”

“My father lived with us, my family, for six months during his most violent, paranoid stage. If I could manage that, I can manage him now. Besides, my kids actually ask when granddad is coming home. They love and miss their grandfather, but they don’t like going to the nursing home. The other patients scare them. They’re not afraid of their granddad because they know what’s wrong with him and he’s family. They want to see him, but I try not to force them to go there. I want to bring him home because it’s where he belongs. I don’t work, so me being home twenty-four seven is not an issue. My husband works freelance, so he is often home more than most husbands. When I decided to do this, I thought about it in the terms of, ‘If I can’t get any help and it is just me taking care of him, can I do this and do I still want to?’ The answer to that was and still is yes. My father did it for his mother, now it’s my turn. Please help me keep my promise to my father.” I didn’t know what else to say. Denise said that she still had concerns and that she would prefer that I appoint someone else, through the agency, as his primary care giver. I relented and agreed. She then told me to call her once I got my father home so that she could do a home visit. I agreed to that as well and hung up.

I called Linda Maxville and told her what Denise had said. She said that she would have one of the home health care providers call me once I was approved. I kept in regular contact with Linda while I waited for approval.

During the months of waiting for approval, my father got less and less steady on his feet. He had several incidents of falling and/or being found on the floor after a fall. I’m not sure if it was out of fear or inability, but my father stopped his constant pacing. Every time I went to visit him, he was sitting in a chair in his room staring out into space. After several weeks of this, the staff had a television mounted on the wall of his room so he at least had something to look at while he sat. With my father’s new immobility, he began to gain weight quickly. I asked about cutting back his caloric intake on several occasions but was always told that it was up to the dietician. I left several messages for her/him but never received a call back. You know what, fuck it. I’m taking him home soon. I’ll deal with it then.

CBA approval finally came in sometime around the beginning of September. I spoke to Ms. Maxville and told her that I would need to have the equipment for my father sent before I brought him home. She informed me that no equipment or supplies could be sent before the patient went home. I asked how long after a patient came home did the equipment usually come. She told me between two and three weeks. How the hell can I bring him home without the equipment there!?!? This is crazy!

I expressed this dilemma and she told me that her hands were tied. She told me that I could call the Integra Care people myself to try and work something out. I thanked her, hung up and called. I explained the problem and got the same standard answer. The woman on the phone and I went around in circles for a while until she finally told me that I might try calling their supplier directly. She said that she had heard cases where they had bent the rules to send equipment before hand. I thanked her, got the number and called. I explained the situation to the woman at the supplier’s office. She told me that if I had a move in date, she could send me my father’s food, syringes, wheel chair, and bed the day before. I picked a random day out of the air, the following Wednesday. She agreed and said that someone would call to set up a time to deliver the items. I thanked her, hung up and called Keller Oaks to let them know the day I would be bringing my father home and arrange transport. I did it. I’m actually bringing him home.

That afternoon when the kids got home from school I told them. They were really excited and helped me clean out the front room that was to be my father’s. All was well and good until later that evening. As I sat alone watching Katrina coverage, it hit me… Mike was in New Orleans covering the hurricane for ABC National News and we didn’t know when he would be back. I was truly going to have to do this alone.

On Tuesday of the next week, my father’s bed and other supplies were delivered. I went up to the nursing home and moved most of my father’s clothing, room decorations, and his stereo. I filled out the release forms and talked to the DON to make sure there wasn’t anything I was forgetting. She and I talked extensively about how ridiculous we both thought it was that the guardianship office would not allow me to be my father’s primary care giver. Finally, I hugged her goodbye after setting up the transport time and left.

My father was brought home the next afternoon, just after 4 p.m. My father seemed like he was happy to be there. The kids came down from playing video games and said hello. My father responded by waving slightly. I had put him in the wheel chair to bring him in and then moved him to the lounge chair in the living room. It was a struggle, but I did manage. Damn he’s gained A LOT of weight. I knew that he normally went to bed just after dinner. So after the kids and I ate, I got my father back into his wheel chair and planned to take him to his room, feed him, change him and put him to bed. I brought him into his room, crushed up his meds and fed him, no problem. Then I went to get him changed. That’s when the problem arose. I had been told that my father had an issue with modesty, even in his present state. I didn’t realize how big of an issue this would be. As I stood him up and tried to undress him, he continually pulled at his clothing to keep them on. Okay, you know what Dad, the oog factor of having to deal with my naked father is not high on my list of things to do but work with me here would you please!

I was finally able to get him changed and into his pajamas, but then I couldn’t get him in the bed. I sat him down on the edge of the bed like I had on numerous occasions but when I tried to pull him further into the middle of the bed he wouldn’t budge. It was like trying to move one of the boulders of Stonehenge. I pulled, and pulled and pulled but try as I might, I couldn’t move him. My god, how much weight have you gained? I’ve never had this kind of trouble getting you moved.

Finally, I called Dayton in to help me. What I ended up doing was standing on the bed with my father underneath me and between my legs and pulling him from the armpits while Dayton swung his legs up into the bed. This is crazy. We cannot do this every night.

The next morning, I got the kids up and off to school and then went to tend to my father. It was worse than the night before.

Since having the issues with swallowing, my father had to sleep in a vertical position. I tried to pull my father to a more upright sitting position to take off his pajama shirt and put on a regular shirt. He wouldn’t budge. He was as rigid as concrete. I then tried to get his pants off to change him and them. As I tried to pull them off, he started tugging them back up and yelling, “I’m gonna tell on you! I’m gonna tell on you!” clear as day. Oh my god, you have got to be kidding me!

I was finally able to get his things off, but when I tried to get a clean brief on him, he urinated all over me. Oh, come on now!

I was finally able to get the brief on him by sliding my entire body underneath him and pulling him up while he kind of sat on my back. Now that I think about it, I’m not exactly sure how I managed it. I then went to put pants on him, but couldn’t. Finally, frustrated I swung his legs back into the bed and called Integra Care to find out when the home health aid would be coming to help. I asked when someone would be sent and asked if it would be possible to get someone or a couple someones for mornings to help get him up and evenings to help put him to bed. I was informed that it usually took several weeks before the in-home care actually started. What!?!?! I told the woman that my father was already at home and explained the difficulties that I was currently having and that no one had told me it would take two weeks before someone came in. She then told me that even if they did get someone immediately, they usually didn’t do split shifts. She said that she would see what she could do and call me back.

I went back and tried to get my father’s pants on him again with the same result. Not knowing what else to do I decided to call one of my neighbors Catherine, who I knew was a nurse and ask her for help. Thankfully, she was home and agreed to come right over. She helped me get my father’s pants and shirt on and then helped me get him out of bed and into his wheel chair. I felt horrible having to ask a neighbor to help me, having to have her deal with my half-naked father. Catherine stayed and visited for about an hour and then left.

Once it was my father and I alone again, I sat trying to talk to him for a while, but he wasn’t responding again. At lunchtime, I checked his blood pressure, which thankfully was fine and then got his medication and food ready for the feeding tube. When I went to feed my father his lunch, he began spitting up. This led to coughing, which shot fluid back at and on me out of his feeding tube. A few weeks before I brought my father home, apparently, he had had a bout of spitting and throwing up, but the nursing staff had assured me that this had stopped and it had been nothing to worry about. If he craps on me my day and my wardrobe will be complete!

I was able to get most of his food in him, but I started to panic. I called the nursing home and talked to Laurie, the regular nurse on duty. She assured me that this was something that happened every once in awhile and that my father would be fine. I called Integra Care again and asked what they had found out. The woman on the phone asked me my address again. I told her. She then asked me where it was near. I told her that it was up near Texas Motor Speedway. Her response was, “Oh, that’s far I don’t have anyone who will drive out that far.” What!?!? What the hell are you talking about!?!? He’s here now and you knew my address before hand! She again said that she would see what she could do and call me back. This happened several more times throughout the day until I finally snapped. Okay, you know what, I can’t do this. He must have gained 50 lbs since I started this whole process because I can’t lift him anymore. If I can’t lift him, I can’t change him and if I can’t change him alone, I can’t do this.

Come to find out later my father had only gained 30 lbs but those 30 lbs made the difference. I called the nursing home and told them what was happening. I apologized and told them that he would need to come back, I couldn’t do it. I was told not to feel bad because I wasn’t the first person to do this. I was put on hold while they tried to arrange transport. I was so stressed out at this point I don’t even remember who I spoke to. I do know it was a man. I’m not sure if it was Larry or who it was. When whomever came back to the phone they told me that they had other transports to do that day so if I needed transport from the home it wouldn’t be until after 7 p.m. I told them to set me up for transport but in the meantime, I would try and figure out how to get him back myself. I hung up the phone and racked my brain. Dayton came home from school while I was trying to decide what to do. I told him to watch granddad and then drove down the street to pick up Ian. When I came back, I had an idea. I asked Dayton to continue watching granddad and ran up the street to the model homes.

My neighbor Ron worked at the First Texas model home on the next block over from my house. Ron is an ex cop and a big guy at about 6’3 or so. I ran up to the model home hoping he was working. When I rounded the corner, I saw his Suburban in the parking lot and thanked my lucky stars. I went in and explained my day to Ron and asked if he would mind coming back to my house and helping me get my father into my car so that I could take him back to the nursing home. He graciously agreed and we drove back to my house in his Suburban. I went inside while Ron waited outside in the driveway. I wheeled my father out to the walkway and then pulled my car out into the driveway. Ron and I tried to get my father into my car, but couldn’t. We could not get him to bend enough to duck his head into the car. I remembered that the few times Mike and I had had to take my father places since becoming so stiff, we always took the Explorer. Thankfully, I had driven Mike to the airport when he left for New Orleans, so the Explorer was still in the driveway. We put my father back into the wheel chair, I pulled my car back into the garage, got out and unlocked the Explorer. As Ron and I tried to maneuver my father into the Explorer, my neighbor Catherine drove up. She got out and asked if we needed some help. We both said yes. While Ron and Catherine stood outside the passenger door bending and pushing, I squatted in the driver’s seat and pulled my father up and in. After a few tense moments, we finally had him in the SUV. I thanked Ron and he went back to work. Catherine then offered to watch the boys while I took my father to the nursing home. I thanked her and got the kids and handed them off to her. I then grabbed a handful of my father’s clothing and left.

I apologized over and over to my father the entire ride. I felt horrible taking him back, but with the added weight, I just couldn’t do it. I called the nursing home on my way to let them know that I was coming. I was met at the door by one of the secured unit orderlies and a wheelchair. Once we got my father out of the car, they wheeled him back while I got his clothing. When I brought my father’s clothing back to his room, he was sitting in the wheelchair smiling and talking happily, nonsensically, but happily. Son of a bitch! That was the last time I saw my father smile, strangely enough.

I felt like such a fool. I fought so hard to bring him home and be able to care for him myself, only to freak out and bring him back in less than a day. Everyone at the nursing home was very polite about it and told me not to feel bad, but I still couldn’t help myself. I felt like a traitor.

Over the next few weeks, Linda Maxville called several times to ask if I planned to try and bring my father home again. I didn’t answer the phone or return her phone calls. I was spent and embarrassed. Part of me wanted to continue to at least try and honor the promise I had made, but a bigger part of me could no longer go down that road.

The kids still asked, “When is granddad coming home?”

I would just answer, “I don’t know.” My father pretty much stopped walking from that day on. He would get moved daily from his bed to a Geri Chair, which looked like a kind of hydraulic lawn chair and then back again. After that day, I was hard pressed to get more than one or two one-word responses from him when I visited.

About a month after I brought my father back, he started shaking violently at times, having some sort of fit, which I was told were not seizures. No one has ever explained exactly what the problem was. All I can say is my father looked like he was in pain and I felt helpless.

A few moths later, the nursing staff and Dr. Maxville decided since my father was no longer mobile, he did not need to be in the locked ward. They called and asked if it would be okay for them to move him to a room in the regular residential unit. I told them that was fine and they did.

They moved my father in a room with a man by the name of Morris. Morris seemed a bit apprehensive the first time I came to visit my father in his new room, but that quickly went away when we realized after a short conversation that we had both lived in Chicago.

Since my father had become non-responsive for the most part whenever I came to visit, I would spend much of my time talking Chicago landmarks and sports with Morris. I would pull back the curtain between their two areas, climb up in the bed with my father and then Morris and I would visit. Sometimes, I would watch part of a movie with him. Morris had a pretty sweet set up in the room. His daughter had gotten him Direct TV hooked up in the room, plus she had bought him a DVD player and a subscription to Netficks, so Morris always had the latest movies. He would sit in his plush recliner and tell me about the latest movies he had just seen or what was going on with the ABC soap operas, which happen to be the ones I used to watch as a kid, so I could kind of follow along. It was sometimes a bit difficult though, because Morris was a bit hard of hearing, so his television was always on full blast. Whenever I visited and Morris left the room or was not in the room when I arrived, I would turn the sound down on the TV. My God, how loud does All My Children need to be? I hope Netficks doesn’t rent porn cause that could be really embarrassing. Or interesting, depending on your point of view.

You could almost say that my visits were pleasant, almost. Except for the fact that my father’s shaking fits seemed to continue to worsen. And with the shaking, my father’s facial expressions seemed to be that of extreme pain. On one visit, my father began shaking so violently he bounced me completely off the bed. I would call nurses and orderlies in, but there didn’t seem to be anything that they could do.

I continued to do my regular weekly visits until I had a brief run in with the law and got a D.U.I. on my way back from dodgeball one night. (Don’t ask; THAT subject is a book in itself. Let’s just say, dodgeball, four glasses of wine and the Keller DUI task force officer Craig Berry.) Because of all the court costs involved, among other things, I decided I needed to go back to work. I got a full time job and changed my visiting days to weekends.

I knew that my father had been given the bed that Morris’ wife had occupied before she passed away several months prior. On Saturday May 13, 2006 while visiting, Morris began to tell me the story of how he and his wife came to be at the nursing home. In relaying the story of how his wife died, he explained how after an illness she had refused to eat and was in need of a feeding tube. When they asked him what he wanted to do, he had told the staff not to put in the tube and to let her go. That, for me, was a “light bulb moment,” to quote Oprah. As I sat in my father’s shaking bed listening to Morris, seeing my father grimacing out of the corner of my eye, I knew what I had to do.