Chapter 6: Trouble on the Horizon

Trouble on the Horizon

The situation at the nursing home was going from bad to worse. Dad's medication issues were a constant concern, with the staff wanting to either change or add to his medications nearly every week. Ever since their refusal to let him sit outside in the sunshine, his level of cooperation had deteriorated. Now the staff was desperately trying to medicate him into a state of submission.

One sunny day in late May, when Bill and I arrived to visit him, I was devastated to find him in the reading area in a complete stupor! Sitting next to him, I kissed him on the forehead. "Hi, Daddy," I said cheerily. Slowly he fixed his gaze on me and smiled slightly. Trying to draw him out, I told him of Jason's latest bowling scores, the antics of our cats, etc.

Unfortunately, the drugs were doing their job and his responses were nothing more than "uh huh", "that's nice", and "ok." The visit tore me apart inside. This was my father on pills, but this was not my father. His glazed eyes and slow speech were the direct result of his hefty diet of drugs, which in my opinion, constituted blatant drug abuse. My heart ached to see him so subdued. Everything within me cried, "This is wrong." He didn't deserve to be living like a caged animal, with no apparent rights. Yes, he needed supervision, but doping him up to keep him merely "existing" was nothing short of a crime.

I have nothing against medications, per se, but when they are overused and abused, their positive purpose becomes twisted into something dark and negative, robbing the individual of their true personality. That was what I was seeing happen to my precious father.

Off to Court at Last

About five weeks later, the end of June, the case finally went to court. Atty. Sturgel requested a simple change of venue from Sheboygan County to Vilas County, where they were now residing. Neither Mom nor Dad would be in attendance, but they knew the case was being heard.

The judge asked a few questions and we all assumed the venue would be changed that day. Why I was so optimistic I'll never know, especially after seven months of disappointments and problems. Sitting at the other table in the courtroom was a young, arrogant man who carried the title, "County Corporate Counsel." He had no interest in where my parents resided, but voiced grave concerns that if the venue were changed, my parents might at some point cost the county money.

This was like a bad, recurring nightmare. Different players but the same short-sighted rationale and opposition. I was stunned! I hoped the judge would not give too much credence to the corporate counsel, but after briefly considering everything, his decision was to refuse the change. All the work my attorney had done in my parents' behalf was now of no value. He sadly shook his head and said, "I'm sorry, I did my best."

The July Fourth Disaster

Summer is always busy at the casino where I worked 3rd shift as a cashier, and that Saturday evening was no different. When my phone rang, I quickly answered it with a bit of annoyance. It was my supervisor. "You need to call home when you have a minute." I knew if Bill was wanting to talk to me at midnight, something had to be wrong. I hurried my customers along and put my "closed" sign out as soon as the last one was serviced.

Bill answered on the first ring and told me he had some bad news. "Now what?" I sighed quietly. "The nursing home just called and your father has been taken to the psychiatric unit at St. Mary's Hospital." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I could just picture my poor father locked away in yet another strange place, confused and alone. What in the world had happened?

Apparently Dad had become very restless and uncooperative early that evening. No one really knew, or would say, what agitated him but things got out of control and he erupted like a long brewing volcano. In his outburst, he had shockingly slapped my mother and scared the other residents. The eight months of confinement had finally gotten to him and he snapped. The Sheriff's Department was just minutes away so Dad was quickly restrained and whisked off to the hospital.

I was so distraught I left work immediately. Once home, I phoned the hospital and was told that because it was a holiday weekend, nothing would be done until the following Tuesday, when a psychiatric consult would be held which Bill and I would be allowed to attend. In the meantime, I asked about visiting with my father. I was told only a one-hour visit would be possible but we could visit him the next morning.

After a fitful sleep, I anxiously prepared to go see my father on the psychiatric ward. On the way there, we stopped so I could buy him some chocolate covered cherries, one of his favorite treats. It tore me up to know that while everyone else was out vacationing and enjoying the holiday weekend, my father was locked away in this strange place, merely existing. I prayed our visit and the chocolates would at least brighten his day for a few moments.

The Warmth of a Smile

When patients are admitted to the psychiatric unit, they spend the first few hours in a special lock-down area where surveillance cameras allow the staff to constantly monitor them. The nurse on duty told me that in my father's case, he would not be moved into the main unit because he appeared quite settled and content where not so much activity was occurring.

Daddy did not really fit the portrait of an "average patient." He was not suicidal, nor in the middle of any other psychotic event. He was just an elderly, confused man who had lashed out when he could no longer take the strict, confining regimen of the nursing home.

Unlocking the door, the nurse showed us to the room where Dad was currently eating breakfast. Like all the rooms in this part of the unit, color seemed to be absent. Bedding, walls and fixtures ... everything seemed to be white. Dad and one other recent admission were at a table, each with a tray of food before them. Here they were eating silently, the drone of a television providing the only distraction.

Dad recognized us immediately and smiled warmly. I hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek. It was a tremendous relief to see him calm and content. I was amazed to realize that my father was more normal at this moment than he had been for the past few months in the nursing home. He was walking and talking and he appeared quite peaceful. It was so good to see him able to carry on a conversation with us and hear him laugh again. I couldn't help but wonder what made the difference?

After finishing his meal, we sat at a large table by the window, overlooking the yard below. The sun was shining brightly and it seemed a cheery place to settle down for a nice visit. We all chatted happily for quite some time. While it certainly was not the ideal situation, I was thankful that Dad was not agitated and distraught at being locked in this sterile place.

I feared for what lay ahead, but it diminished my pain to hear him laugh. We visited for the full hour allowed, and then left with a measure of peace that all was well for now.

As we left, I spoke briefly to the nurse and was rather stunned to learn that they were not giving him any medications whatsoever. It quickly became obvious to me that much of Dad's confusion, anger and agitation had been precisely because of being in such a drug-induced stupor at the nursing home. I silently vowed he would never be abused by drugs in this manner again.

The Psychiatric Consult

Early the next morning, Bill and I drove to the hospital where those in charge would decide where my father should go when discharged from the hospital. The nursing home was not willing to take him back, which of course I did not want anyway. Present in the conference room that morning was the Chief of Psychiatry, several staff members which had cared for my dad, and the hospital social worker.

Trying to remain composed, I pleaded with these people to allow us the opportunity to bring my father home, at least temporarily. Having been closely involved in his life, and with my background in social work and health care, I earnestly believed my father should at least have a chance to live a normal life before being shipped to yet another strange environment.

Once again, however, those in charge could not see the situation as I did. It was their decision that he needed closer supervision than we could give him at home. Their recommendation was for Dad to be placed in a county institution, 150 miles away, that had a good reputation of caring for people with problems like his.

I left the meeting feeling dejected and defeated. I was told I would be contacted by the social worker at the Clark County Care Facility, as soon as she could evaluate my father. The very next day I got a phone call from Janis Misling, the social worker at Clark. She and a colleague had just returned from visiting with my father. She said the visit went well and she believed Dad was appropriate for placement at their care facility.

The one sore spot arose when she asked if I would be agreeable to the use of medication if he needed it. At that point I vehemently opposed any use of psychotropic drugs because of the experience at the other nursing home. Janis listened patiently and said she understood where I was coming from. She did stress, however, that if medication were needed to diffuse a situation, my permission would be required at the time of admission. If I totally refused to allow him to be medicated, there was a good possibility that the facility could not accept him.

What to do? I pondered that weighty question constantly over the next 24 hours. The following day when I spoke to Janis, I relented in part. I agreed to allow them to use medication if needed, but not on a regular basis, and never to a point where he was zoned out. She was both understanding and agreeable to this and I began to feel perhaps she was one person I could actually trust with my father. Arrangements were made for him to be admitted later that week. I prayed he could settle in there and be happy.

Keeping Mom Informed

My mother was quite concerned about where my father was and how he was doing. He had been removed from the nursing home so abruptly that it was all very disturbing for her. She was relieved to hear about our visit with him and relaxed a bit, knowing I was overseeing everything.

With Dad no longer there, the double room seemed strangely quiet. I don't think she grasped the permanence of his leaving. They had been together day and night for the past eight months and now, suddenly, he was gone. For several weeks she took no interest in anything going on around her and repeatedly looked to me for reassurance that Dad was indeed fine. On the other hand, she seemed less stressed now that there were no outbursts of anger and frustration to deal with.

My parents were typical of so many couples from their era. They stuck together through thick and thin, always caring about each other, but adept at arguing with each other as well. I well recall the sounds of Mom hastily shutting windows and doors when a heated argument would break out. It was a time when privacy was held in high regard, and a family's "dirty laundry" was never to be aired.

So it was a rather difficult adjustment for Mom to suddenly be "on her own." I didn't know if they would ever see each other again, but I kept that thought to myself. The only thing I knew for sure was that because of Dad's outburst and loss of control, the hope of ever getting them their freedom and that house was now a dead issue. I would have to swallow my pain and focus instead on how to make their lives as full as possible. I knew they would do no less for me if the situation had been reversed.