Ask any case manager what keeps them up at night and most of them will tell you some version of the same thing: it’s not the discharge plan they wrote. It’s everything that was supposed to happen after the discharge plan was handed over, and didn’t. The follow-up appointment that
David wants specifics. I’ve learned this over enough conversations with sons and daughters trying to plan their parent’s recovery: vague reassurance doesn’t help. “We’ll take good care of them” means nothing if you don’t know what the actual recovery looks like for the specific thing your parent went through.
The discharge nurse hands you a folder. It has a follow-up appointment card, a list of medications with new dosages, and a sheet of paper that says “activity as tolerated.” Everyone shakes hands. Your dad is wheeled out to the car in a wheelchair he won’t need by next week,
Your mother-in-law is 84. She’s had a hard year. And when you gently suggested she at least go look at a few assisted living apartments, just to see what’s out there, she told you she’ll know when the time is right. Meanwhile, she’s calling more. Asking for help with things
Most people who contact us have done their research. They’ve read about dementia. They know what stage their parents are in. They have questions about accountability, caregiver consistency, and what happens if something goes wrong. What they don’t always know is what actually happens after they make the call. That’s
Nobody tells you, when dementia enters the picture, that you’re now a caregiver. It happens quietly. You start driving more. You stay longer at each visit. You start calling every night just to check. You rearrange your work schedule. You cancel plans without really noticing you’re doing it. You lie
When a parent is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or another form of dementia, most families’ first instinct is to protect. Lock the stove. Take the car keys. Remove anything that could go wrong. That instinct makes sense. But it can get ahead of where someone actually is. Dementia progresses differently for
Your dad walked out the front door at 2 a.m. last Tuesday. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know he was doing anything unusual. He was just walking — the way he always walked when something in his mind told him to move. You found him three houses down, barefoot,
Someone said the word hospice. Maybe it was the doctor. Maybe it was the social worker at the hospital, talking quietly before she slipped out of the room. Maybe you half-heard it through the fog of a terrible week. And now it’s your job to make a good decision. That