This is what dying poor in America looks like

Signing the divorce papers was probably Charlie’s lowest point.  His wife sitting by his side, occasionally she would swat at the air at some invisible fly buzzing around the room.  There was no fly.  Just the acrid smell of the nursing home, a horrifying mix of sweat, shit, and desperation.  He tried to focus his aged eyes on the legal papers as the tears swirled past his nose and losing traction, fell onto his crusty sweater.  He had no intention of leaving his beloved’s side.  No interest in abandoning his life.  But if he was going to give the level of care necessary for the Alzheimer’s riddled brain of his spouse, he had to sign the divorce papers and declare her bankrupt.  Only then would Medicaid pay.  This is what dying poor in America looks like. He regretted not being able to take her home.  Not really home, the four-bedroom in the tony suburbs in which their children had grown up, but the small condo he now inhabited by himself at night when not camped at the nursing home. They had moved there a decade ago when the foreclosure papers had been finalized.  Charlie winced, but then his face softened.  He was too old for such regrets.  Home, he thought to himself, wasn’t even a place anyway.  This comforted him as he grasped his beloveds hand tighter inducing an unexpected moan. Home was sitting in this hell-bent institution, ignoring the demented squalls that emanated loosely from confused lips,  holding each other. When death comes Charlie’...
Source: Kevin, M.D. - Medical Weblog - Category: General Medicine Authors: Tags: Physician Geriatrics Public Health & Policy Source Type: blogs