Once again I find myself at a point in time when something has to be decided on regarding my dad’s care, and I’m still incredulous at the reality that he has to be cared for at a nursing home. At a nursing home!
As I’ve stated on this blog before, living in a home was a thing of the movies, or the soap operas I’d watch as a tween on summer vacation. You know, uber wealthy soap opera family puts grandma away so they can start planning how to get all of her money, stocks, and high-end art. It’s certainly not something our family would ever do. But here we are.
My father gets his nutrition (and Parkinson’s medication) through a peg tube. He receives nebulizer treatments three times a day. He is wearing a catheter because, as he is incontinent, urine could make the bed sore he has on his sacrum that much worse. Oh yeah, he’s wearing a vac machine to drain the wound. It’s a lot.
But it gets worse.
As physical therapy pointed out to us last week, the regimen they have for him isn’t showing any improvement. And then came the warning: insurance is going to cut this plan of care.
So now the social worker at the nursing home (review to come later; I’m not happy with several things about the culture there) is trying to find a long term care facility that will accept my dad’s health care insurance (an Aetna plan administered via the Medicare program. It’s not the best, but it’s something).
I asked physical therapy if there’s any way we can get a wheelchair so we can take my dad outside when the weather warms up. (This weekend, we’re supposed to get above 60-degree weather!) They stalled (as usual) with an excuse about having to order it. But the thing about this experience is that it has made me a major league demanding (yet nice; no yelling!) bitch when it comes to my dad’s care at that facility. So, it’s GOING to happen. I don’t care if I have to make 100 phone calls and knock on every single administrator’s door.
Wish me luck.