Ciminal Neglect

For the last few days the local paper has been full of stories about “elder abuse”. Specifically the one that is drawing ink around here pertains to an eighty-five year old woman who was discovered in her home, unbathed, covered with her own filth.
The son who was supposed to be taking care of her is being charged. The son who “hadn’t visited in years” eventually discovered her and called the police.
The last two sentences say a lot. They should be reread and thought about. They tell us that, of whatever family she had, the woman had only ONE caretaker. The other brother who hadn’t bothered to come by for a long time obviously took no responsibility for her care. At all.
That left one. Does anyone stop to think what a job—literally a 24/7 job with no vacations, no days off—it is for one man, very likely in his sixties himself, to take care of someone so elderly she has lost continence and is unable to get to the bathroom herself? (He was obviously feeding her.)
If you were hiring that kind of care, it would legally require a weekly staff of eight or ten, with fill-ins for holidays, sick days and vacations. (If a patient needs to be lifted onto the toilet, it legally requires two caretakers.) That’ how many people that one man—now being charged for criminal neglect—was expected to fill in for. Anyone who charges the man with a crime had better first be willing to take his place for six months or so.
Well, you’re likely thinking, if he couldn’t handle it, why didn’t he call in the welfare people? I’m sure the judge and prosecutor will spare no amount verbiage to tell this miscreant how vast a system of social services we have available in the State of Michigan, and how it was his legal and moral duty to call upon them.
Let me tell you a personal story. By the early 1970s, my own mother became almost totally incapacitated by Multiple Sclerosis. My father who turned sixty then took over the duty of assisting her with her bathing, eating, dressing and personally lifted her on and off the toilet several times daily. (I his only son, lived 50 miles away.)
He did not leave the house for more than four hours at a stretch for twenty-five years. The rest of us could see that he was wearing out and, at the least, needed a few days off. He located one of the most highly rated nursing facilities in the country, only a mile from his home. This was in 1985.
It had assisted living quarters that were fully as luxurious as their home. There were people who could step in and assist if he needed time off or to rest. The home was run by the same religious denomination as they had attended all their lives—and several of their life- long friends were already living there.
The money was right—proceeds from their home would pay for the new condominium apartment, dollar for dollar. My dad was so excited he could hardly contain himself. He asked my wife and me to accompany him while he brought the matter up to my mother.
My mother heard us out and then lashed back. “You don’t love me!” Terrified of leaving her home, she ripped at every feeling and emotion we had. He dropped the issue of assisted living and resigned himself to life-long imprisonment. We could not talk him into taking any steps on his own. When home nursing services were located, he refused them. She had broken him.
Depression set in, but he did his duty—determined to prove that he did too love her. When he was not actively assisting her, he just sat and stared blankly. She would allow no medical personnel to enter the home—perfectly aware of what a professional might see and report.
Alzheimer’s set in. He began referring to her as his mother; he lost his driver’s license, dependent on others to get to the grocery store. She would not acknowledge he had any problem (her fear was palpable by now). She directed his most minute actions, but sometimes when he had put her on the toilet he forgot where she was, let alone who.
She, in the meantime, became blind. The weekly maid was writing out the checks (I was not permitted to see the books). Queries from the Internal Revenue Service begin piling up on her desk.
I called their pastor. He refused to help—even telling concerned parishioners to “stay out of it”. I called all manner of acquaintances and friends involved in senior services or adult protective services (by now we were afraid he would burn the house down). I got the same answer, even from practitioners as far away as California.
“There is nothing you can do. Go into court now, and the judge will side with them. All you can do is wait until there’s an emergency and they collapse.” My father lost continence; the house reeked; the carpet was ruined. The weekly maid would throw open all the doors to air the place out.
I finally bit the bullet, paid the $2500 legal fee and went to a lawyer. He took it to court. The court sent a Guardian ad Litum to inspect their home. Her report was appalling. When she arrived, my father could not find my mother. A judge took one look at her report and appointed me guardian and conservator. Even now, other relatives were calling me and berating me for trying to push them out of their home.
I had kept up contact with the nursing home. We made an appointment to talk about removing them from their home. The day before that appointment, they collapsed. A neighbor called the police and cut his way into the house. The police called me; acting on my three-day-old legal authority, I told them to take my parents to a hospital.
They were checked over (malnutrition, broken bones, Alzheimer’s, MS, and my father’s foot so badly injured that they considered amputation) and immediately put in full time nursing care (1998). Until she died two years hence, my mother never stopped berating me for taking her out of her home and stealing her money.
I strongly suspect that the man in the current news story did not have the education or the contacts that I had going for me. He may not have had the money for the lawyer or court. All of that availed me nothing. Let’s think long and hard before we convict this poor man for “elder abuse”. From the condition my mother and her house were in, they could have convicted my dad—or me.