Health Care Doesn’t Care: An Old Folks' Hospital Diary (Fifth and last entry)

Posted by Michael Musto at 9:00 AM, May 9, 2008

At one point, I got a NICE letter from the home, saying they still had some of dad's things and I should come pick them up. I schlepped all the way down there and had to wait 30 tedious minutes for them to find someone to get the stuff—mostly useless T shirts—out of storage. The emerging pain in my ass—uncovered by insurance—was getting more pronounced than ever. Months later, I got a whole other note saying there were yet more of dad’s belongings to pick up! After confirming this unlikely scenario with a phone call, I once again trekked all the way to south Brooklyn, only to sit there whimpering for almost an hour as the inept employees engaged in a comic scramble to find the haul. They weren’t even sure what it was! They couldn’t even find the woman who’d sent the notice! And she never responded to my messages, nor did the home’s director!

Alas, there was no trace of the stolen money either, but a letter came about that too. Not surprisingly, it said they’d looked around and couldn’t seem to find it. "The investigation involved a search of Mr. Musto’s room, closet, and surrounding areas," said the notice. Yeah, that’s how they stole it in the first place!

Note to self: Get hit by a truck on 70th birthday. Make sure it’s a clean hit.

Health Care Doesn’t Care: An Old Folks' Hospital Diary (Part Four)

Posted by Michael Musto at 9:00 AM, May 8, 2008

Then came the bills—which we paid—and then the duplicate bills, which subtly strained to look new and unattended, but you can’t fool THIS cheapo. Next came a lab bill which said the insurance wouldn’t cover it—though they bizarrely had the wrong insurance company listed in tiny type! Then (let’s call it) Lutheran sent another bill, but I called and informed them we had already paid that amount. They obviously weren't listening because a collection agency then sent a notice demanding the very same sum. I wrote them back saying that I had the fucking canceled check in hand! They promptly dropped that, but sent a bill for a whole other amount—one that had never been brought up before! I sent them a letter asking for an explanation, but all I got in return was Lutheran coming up with a whole OTHER fee! Strangely, this was the first time they’d mentioned THIS whopping amount in the seventh months since my parents had left the place! And then came yet another all-new bill, plus they had someone calling us about that old amount—the one I had the canceled check for! If the folks had to deal with all these scams and loopholes on their own, they’d probably be homeless by now—but at least they’d be eligible for Medicaid.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

Health Care Doesn’t Care: An Old Folks' Hospital Diary (Part Three)

Posted by Michael Musto at 9:00 AM, May 7, 2008

A week later, it became clear that dad was gonna finally get out of the nursing center—basically because the insurance wouldn’t pay up anymore. They'd obviously done SOME quality work for him to have exultantly made it to freedom, but the social worker claimed it was illegal that the staff hadn’t first checked the house to see if he’d be safe there. Fine, I could add that to my imaginary 100-page lawsuit—the one I’d file if I weren’t teetering on emotional collapse myself.

Emergency 24-hour aid, paid for by charity, was sent—for my folks, not for me—and I was thrilled. But they stopped coming after three days because my parents weren’t eligible for Medicaid! (Sidebar: To qualify for that, you have to either piss away all your assets or hide them away and act poor. You must be either a sad old loser or a tricky old codger—and there are lawyers instructing you on exactly how to do so. They’ll even help you along on that goal by taking very large fees!)

The social worker’s organization promptly sent over someone with a handy list of their approved home-care agencies that charge big bucks to keep you company. Desperate, I called one of the agencies, but they informed me, “We’re not licensed to do any lifting. He would have to get up and walk by himself.” But he can barely move! That’s why we need help! Another firm said their workers will not under any circumstance perform hygiene-related tasks. I guess they could talk you through it, though. (“Go on, wipe your heinie. Come on, move your ass to the bathroom and grab some paper...”) I finally found a place with helpers who supposedly did lifting, cleaning, and everything else—for your entire life’s fortune. I started keeping my coat on at nightclubs to save a few dollars a night.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

Health Care Doesn't Care: An Old Folks' Hospital Diary (Part Two)

Posted by Michael Musto at 9:00 AM, May 6, 2008

Other little hardships were popping up like butt rashes. Dad's cash was mysteriously stolen from his room on his first day in the home--a lovely welcome. Worse, he fell off the bed because they didn't have the railings up. (Maybe they’d been stolen too.) He started healing from that, but two weeks later he slipped and fell again! “The railing was up on one side,” a worker explained to me in a sadistic monotone. What about the other side? “If we put two sides up, it’s a restraint,” she droned, simply. You can't argue with logic like that—and at least one more side was up than last time.

By now, I had no idea when he’d ever get out of this ridiculous hole. Talk about a restraint. The social worker had promised a meeting where we'd discuss his situation with the staff, but suddenly no one was saying another word about it. I sensed that they all wanted to keep dad there as long as the insurance would pay for it, and too bad if he wasn’t eating, kept falling, and had to shell over that copay.

Miraculously, my mom did get out—exactly when her full coverage expired, interestingly enough. Her at-home help was covered for a while too, but basically you get what you pay for. On the first day, the assigned woman was three hours late and on the second day she didn’t show up at all. The third day she came late and made herself lunch. And on the fourth day she rested.

Between hissy fits, I called dad’s social worker to beg for his own exit plan. “But he might fall in the house,” she said, pleadingly. “Well, he fell twice in the hospital,” I screeched. “How much worse can it get?” These people are geniuses at mumbo jumbo designed to distract you until the insurance runs out. Under pressure, she instructed me to call the head of rehab for more info about dad’s release. I did so, only to have the head of rehab cheerily say I should call the social worker! This was turning into a “Who’s on first?” routine, but without railings.

(To be continued tomorrow. . .)

PART ONE