Leave the gun take the canoli

Patient is a derogatory  anachronism.  Those who are in need of emergency care, surgical procedures or even an ordinary flu shot are now referred to by the politically correct term “ consumer”.

Like the old slight of hand artists who ran  shell games in the pre-Disney days of Times Square ,  misdirection is the game plan of  the marketing professions branding  health care.      

Comparison shopping for doctors and medical services is as easy accessing the  websites  devoted to finding a doctor who  discounts procedures.   But buyer beware, in medicine as in the mall, you get what you pay for.  Is it worth scheduling your C-section in  a bargain basement facility?  Should you start a  tonsillectomy fund before you start a college fund for your baby?  

Shouldn’t medical services be part of the non-profit sector rather than big business?                

Its not whether I win or lose but  how fast I can expose a corrupt  referee.

From my front row seat at the death panel/health care boxing match, I have witnessed  the disenfranchised go down with a sucker punch.   The elderly are hit below the belt so often that their caretakers have  forgotten that its  against the rules.

Advocating for my mother means being prepared to jump in the ring at a moment’s notice to take on the heavyweight bully of the week.  I’ve been knocked out by insurance companies.   And    I’ve gone a few too many rounds with a sarcastic nursing home staff.      But I won’t back down.   I win some.  I lose more.   

My victories are  few and far between.  By packing every punch with research I made her doctor rethink the use of a controversail drug that left her catatonic.  And as long as my mother  is not suffering physical pain, and is lucid enough to recognize me,  no one will ever pull her feeding tube out again.    

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A wave of guilt washed over me as I sat in the  New York Cares office listening to   Ryan  Walls and Executive Director Gary Bagley  extol the virtues of volunteering with senior citizens.   The projects that New York Cares provide to hospitals, nursing homes and assisted living centers are a Godsend to the lonely and fun for the volunteers who sing,   record life stories and play parlor games with their  surrogate grandparents.   Even though volunteering among the octogenarians makes me feel young, I  rarely make the time to do it.

I drop in regularly at the Sparks Of Life project at Methodist Hospital to socialize over breakfast with Alzheimer patients.  Team Leader Barbara Blechman always bakes a diabetic friendly coffee cake and goes out of her way to pair me up with an Italian or Spanish speaking patient. The Methodist staff is always pleasant and smiling.  The posters on the walls of old movie stars and music from the CD player stir up memories and keep the conversation flowing.  Time flys at this project.

I always feel a little blue when I leave the beautifully decorated halls of Methodist.  I think of my mom who is in another  facility across town that has all the amenities of a Turkish prison.      

I used to volunteer at NYU Rusk Institute until I had a panic attack during a Bingo game.  Every time I would turn the wire cage,  all the little bingo balls would fly all over the place.  I feared that the lady in the corner who survived Auschwitz and a stroke would go down with B11 embedded in her cranium. Team Leader Allan Sih tried replacing Bingo with Trivial Pursuit and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire   but senility proved to be an obstacle.  

Of course, my favorite hospital is Lutheran Medical Center in Sunset Park. Even though the ER is always busy the staff is always courteous and patient.  Everyone there greets you with a smile.  The nurses treat everyone like royalty.     Whenever my mom is a patient there, I sleep well.  I know that there is always someone to feed her and talk to her.  And she really loves the “Musicians On Call” who  sing and play guitar in her room.  I always feel sorry for her when she is discharged and sent back to her rehabilitation warehouse in the high rent neighborhood.  

 I visit my mother in her little death panel room everyday.  I used to bring her a can of Ensure and  gelato until  she was put on a feeding tube.  The walls  in here room are gray.   Everything I  brought in to brighten the place up has been stolen along with her rings and a plastic bottle of Holy Water.  On a good day most of the people who work there are rude. 

 Last week, they got my mom out of bed for a special event in the day room.  All of the residents were treated to ice cream.  My mom wasn’t allowed to have any ice cream.   She sat there watching and crying.  She was still crying that evening when I arrived.

If an elementary school teacher excluded one child from an ice cream event and made that child watch, she would be charged with causing unnecessary mental stress and emotional abuse.  Nurses and nurses aides are part of the same union as teachers and para professionals so I wonder why they aren’t held to the  same standard.             

 But, as Bob Dylan once sang “it ain’t no use to sit and wonder why” so I’m devoteding all my free time to asking the appropriate authorities to create a better monitoring system for end of life care.             

The winds of change  blowing through the non-profit sector  are the  evivalent  of  a hurricane.  Budget cuts to meal programs for the elderly  have resulted in a change of menu that only an anorexic could love.  As of today,  the delivery of a single hot meal   by a friendly, familiar  face will be replaced with  frozen dinners that  arrive a few times during the work week.  While this may sound like a viable solution to some accountants in their 30’s, it is  cause for alarm to anyone who has ever dealt with an Alzheimer’s patient or mobility impaired octogenarian.     

 For several years, I’ve  volunteered with Caring Community, an organization near the  NYU campus, that assists  senior citizens in a variety of ways, including “friendly visits” and a daily hot meal program.  As a New York Cares team leader I’ve  mobilzed legions of volunteers on Saturday mornings and holidays to pack a nutritious early dinner for the elderly.  The warm entree and a side of fresh perishables,  including  milk,  juice and bread, was the least of what we provided.  Most of us signed up  because we understood the importance of  a few minutes of entertaining  conversation with each lonely client.  We were the eyes and ears of the organization.    We reported back to the social workers at Caring Community if we noticed anything odd,  like a client with  slurred speech or a bad smell in an apartment.  

 Many clients  do not own a microwave oven.   Those with  vintage  pacemakers powering  their hearts still use an old school stove.   Anyone with dementia probably should not be cooking with gas.  Theoretically,  everyone  should have a home attendant.  However, not all home attendents work weekends or full days.  Some clients only receive help for a random 4 or 5 hours a day.  I’m willing  to predict that some clients will cook 3 meals on Friday then go hungery until Monday.