Homefront Fuckery

The week before last we all piled into my sister’s Yukon and took my father to see his 93 year-old sister in Vancouver and then drove down Hwy-101 drinking in the ocean view on those days it wasn’t foggy or “misty” as I heard several people call it.

Things seemed fairly good with him.  I mean HE thought the trip had been fun.  We were stressed worrying about him ‘cuz he is 87 after  all.  On the drive from the coast – straight across Oregon – we noticed he was coughing quite a bit.  We’d inquire, he’d say he was all right, he was fine.   We dropped him off in Nampa Sunday night.  By   Wednesday just after noon, he was on the way to the ER at Mercy Medical Center.  He has several comorbidities, one being congestive heart failure.

Now I’m not even sure how to explain this or the mindset that goes along with it.   I don’t even know if I should try.  Suffice it to say, the manner in which my sister and I who have guardianship of my father live is decidedly different than the manner in which my siblings live, and it is most striking in housing.  Over the past month or so we’d become increasingly disconcerted with my father’s living conditions again.  It was nowhere near what we found him in Kuna, but it was pretty damned obvious to us, he couldn’t stay there much longer.  Sooo, our thinking was – we’ll take him to the coast and when we get back we’ll start that gawd-awful process of finding ‘some place’ for him – more than likely an assisted living facility, some place where he could have his little dog, Tucker.

The paramedics called us for two reasons: 1) Dad was refusing to go anywhere with the paramedics, and 2) We’re guardians.  They voiced concern about the condition of the house.  They weren’t sure if he was incontinent of bowel and bladder, they just found him in that “condition.”   When we go to the emergency room, the charge nurse told me the same thing.  When my father was stabilized, he was transferred to the VA in Boise, and it was there because of the report from the paramedics ‘the team’ assigned to my father would not release him until we found ‘some place’ for him other than where he had been.

Everything seemed to be flowing swimmingly until we hit the use of tobacco snag.  As long as I’ve known him, my father has chewed tobacco.  He says at one point he smoked a pipe; he doesn’t remember why he switched.  Personally, I would’ve preferred sticking with the pipe.  But c’est la vie, he chews – but that became a pain in the ass obstacle because of the “use of tobacco products” phraseology.  Now we found a rehab place for him (3-4 weeks to build up his strength) that will accommodate his ‘chewing.’   It was, however, not without discussion creeping towards a major tantrum.   Our hospital campus, just like St. Luke’s downtown that’s around the corner from us, is tobacco-free.  Not just smoking free, tobacco free.

We have joined other Treasure Valley hospitals (St. Luke’s, St. Al’s, West Valley Medical Center and Treasure Valley Hospital) as a tobacco-free campus.

Fortunately we found him a lovely place, lovely, without too much hassle.  Okay – notwithstanding that on his second day he told a 19 year-old CNA that she had a “nice crotch.”  We clipped that shit in the butt – post haste.  Not only is it so fucking inappropriate but it GROSSES US OUT!

I’m learning about how difficult it is to be poor – not me or even my father.  Just what it takes to qualify for certain programs, certain kinds of help – even food stamps, it’s amazing to me how little one has to earn to qualify.  No wonder people fall through the cracks.   I’m also learning about Medicare, Medicaid.  I’m looking at it as it’ll be helpful information when I get older.

I had almost gotten to a point where I could actually blog a bit every day or at the very least a few times a week.   I paid SO much attention during the Democratic convention but couldn’t do much in the way of blogging other than reading or watching.  Just too worn out.

We’ve become organized.   We have more of a handle on what’s upcoming in our latest court battle in gaining a clear title/deed to my father’s property so it can be sold to take care of him. Our youngest sibling has made the claim she is 50% owner due to a quit deed signed by my mother.  (Our mother signed it while still married to our father and since this is a community property state, my father has to also sign and he did not.  The quit deed came some 10 days following the death of my sister’s two children in a car accident.  We’re not sure of the connection.) We’re submitting evidence to the bank, as well as the prosecutor’s office – proof of fraud in relation to my father’s bank accounts (money market and checking), theft of property from his home, barn,  & shop, and incidents that continue to occur.

And, this, this is a perfect example. There is a conservator who has been appointed to care for our father’s money and ‘estate.’  A change in address resulted in the recent receipt of a check from Hubble Homes.  The conservator not knowing why my father would be getting such a check called Hubble Homes.    One of the first things we noted was a prominent sign advertising Hubble Homes on my father’s property, and in going over my father’s receipts/deposits I found that checks had been received from Hubble.   I called and sure enough, Hubble Homes was paying for the use of property.   So – the conservator’s office discussed with those at Hubble Homes this most recent check. A call had been received from the “other owner” of the property, a stop payment was placed on the original check (sitting in the conservator’s office), and another check issued to the “other owner.”   This shit just continually pisses me off.   Here it is that my sister and I, who have been estranged from our father for years upon years because of his violence, are now entrusted with doing what’s best for him and in recouping what’s been stolen from him.  All because our siblings have taken advantage of him and have no apparent interest in doing what’s best for him or even in taking care of him.  Goddamnit!

And the one thing we found out Friday when talking to those at the rehab center about his plan of care.   Our story, though unique in certain aspects, is NOT an unfamiliar one.   That’s the sad thing, right there.


2 Responses

  1. Good Lord, I don’t know how you do it, but I’m thinking of you….

  2. Ohhhh….no need to be thinking of me, MG. I have to get it out, otherwise it festers and I take it out on other people, other drivers, etc. Besides it affords me the opportunity to use one of my favoritestttt of words – fuckery.

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