book- paper

(Place on page 221, after para. 5 "I was told..")

The following incident was one of the strangest of my social work career and hastened my departure from the Manor.

An elderly woman by the name of Mrs. Hampton became one of our residents on the third floor just after Mrs. Alfgren left the facility. Mrs. Hampton suffered from advanced Alzheimer's, amongst many health concerns. At times she  recognized family, but for the most part, she was extremely confused, babbling and often calling out for no apparent reason. Per her Social History, she was once a very refined and dignified lady, a devoted wife, mother and church- goer.

Her husband seemed to be a friendly guy, visiting often, sometimes two or three times daily, many times during meals. He insisted his wife remain in bed at all times. The family could be demanding of staff, such as, if  lunch was even a few minutes late, the husband would walk down the long hall to the nurse's station and complain. Care Plan Conferences, which generally ran 15-20 minutes par case, quarterly escalated to an hour to discuss Mrs. Hampton's care, allowing the family time  to vent their long list of complaints.

The staff tried to remain calm and patient with  the Hamptons, knowing Mr. Hampton felt guilty because he could not take care of his wife at home. He had an extremely difficult time coping with her confusion and calling out. He refused offers to attend support groups, and my support as well as counseling from our behavior specialists, fell on deaf ears.

However, I seemed to have a good relationship with Mr. Hampton, as I stopped by every day to check on his wife and spent a  considerable amount of time listening to his concerns. I only saw his son, Jackson Hampton, esquire, at meetings, since he worked as a local attorney and only visited at night.

Every time I did encounter the son, he viewed me in a peculiar way, sizing me up with a frown before speaking. When he did address me it was not in a friendly way, like his father. Instead  his tone was patronizing, as if he were speaking to a child. During conferences he seemed to isolate me as a source of many of the problems concerning his mother at the Manor, even concerns I had nothing to do with, including healing bed sores or making sure she was dressed in her favorite housecoats in bed every day.

Since our new administrator did not attend the meetings, I took the brunt of the complaints. But it was more than being a sounding board. I was used to hearing complaints from disgruntled families over the years. Something was different about this family, especially the son.

I began to think I was being paranoid about this family until other staff noticed the same thing. Word began to trickle down to me from the night shift that Jackson had voiced an issue with the fact I was the social worker caring for his mother. I never had a problem with her, Mr. Hampton or even the son for that matter. Since I knew they could be demanding, I made sure I dotted my I's and crossed my T's when it came to documentation, answering their calls and requests in a timely fashion, and sending out notices of future meetings well in advance.

Unbelievably, the son had confided to one of his favorite night shift aides that he had reservations about my abilities because I was in a wheelchair. Again, the old fallacy of "being in a wheelchair must mean the wheelchair user is  mentally deficient too" reared its ugly head. I was surprised by this attitude from this particular gentleman because he was obviously intelligent to hold the position he did, plus he was black. Surely he would understand when someone was insensitive and prejudice to others, just because of appearance.

His complaints were also heard in the new administrator's office, either by letter or phone calls, but obviously his objections  to me didn't have solid proof  or justification to fire me. First, I was the only social worker in the facility. And second, when she gave me the required "warning", for no reason at all, I denied any wrong doing, yet understood her veiled threats. Mrs. Hampton was a private pay resident, which meant big money was involved. With a facility already struggling to fill the beds, any threats of transferring such a resident to another facility had to be met seriously.

If it came down to Mrs. Hampton ( or, more specifically, Jackson) and me, I would be the ultimate loser.

I wasn't sure how to handle this. I didn't have Mrs. Alfgren or Andrea around to support me or even to consult. But I had to do something in order to save my job. So I decided to call Jackson Hampton and have a little chat.

I was never so nervous before as I dialed his work number. I had been involved in many an intricate  one-to-one face-off in the past, from discussing Advance Directives to family disputes, but this was a different animal. No one had ever questioned my ability to do my job solely because I used a wheelchair to get around. It seemed so stupid, yet here I was, waiting for the receptionist to connect me.

At first, Jackson was caught off-guard by my call. He immediately asked if his mother was okay and I assured him  that she was fine.

"Then why are you calling me? I specifically left a note in my mother's chart that I am not to be bothered  at work unless it's an extreme emergency," he said.

Oops. I didn't remember seeing such a note in her chart. In fact, this family wanted to be called for every little thing. This call was getting off to a splendid start!

I apologized, intimidated by his voice and this surprise stance, and I began to back down, mumbling something about "I called to see how things are going" or something really lame like that.

"I'm sorry. I am extremely busy at the moment," he replied. "But I'm actually glad you called..."

Glad I called? After telling me he should not be called at work? What was up?

"I want you to leave a copy of my mothers' Residents Rights with my father," he asked. "I'll pick it up tonight when I visit. Can you do that for me?"

"Sure, Mr. Hampton. I'll make a copy and run it up to your father right away," I replied.

"All right then," he answered. "I will see you at the next meeting a a few weeks. "

And that was that. I exhaled, hoping I was in his good graces.

I made the copy, folded it and stuck it in an envelope before dropping it off with Mr. Hampton, who was dozing in a chair next to his wife's bed as I entered the room, knocking. He greeted me warmly, assuring me that his son would get the paperwork. "God bless," was his usual parting line.

So that brings us to why I was sitting in the new administrator's office on that bright morning in March. Was it yet another warning that I "wasn't keeping up?"  If it involved the Hamptons, I expected to hear about the phone call. I did check and couldn't find a note in front of Mrs. Hampton's chart about not calling the son at work unless it was an extreme emergency. Whatever, I had already made up my mind that I would take my lumps for that one and move on.

Instead, the new administrator walked from behind her desk, shut the door, and produced a torn and crumpled two wads of white paper, along with a ripped envelope. "What is this?" she demanded.

"Paper," I replied, not meaning to be a smart-ass, but not knowing what else to say.

She didn't find that humorous. She soon informed me those two crumpled pieces of paper were the exact same Residents Rights I had left for Mr. Hampton the night before.

"Why on earth would you ever stuff anything, let alone a document, into an envelope like this,  and give it  to a family member?" she roared.

"I didn't," I honestly replied, horrified. I took the wrinkled papers from her. Yep, it was the Residents Rights forms I had copied. But I didn't give them to the old man  that way. I would never do something unprofessional  like that. My mind raced, and I tried to remember exactly how I folded the paper and sealed the envelope the day before. No, I wasn't going crazy.

"Well then, how can you explain this?" she stared at me with her icy eyes.

"I can't," I admitted.

Clearly, either Mr. Hampton opened the envelope, examined the contents, then hastily stuffed  them back into the envelope, or the son had set me up. I couldn't explain  the situation, only that I had this sinking feeling in my stomach .  A basic task, such as folding two pieces of paper and neatly placing them inside an envelope before sealing the contents, fed into Jackson's discriminating and stereotypical  view that I was a half-wit .For something so ridiculous, my Manor days were doomed.

Back then, the Americans with Disabilities Act was only in it's infancy. Now, there are laws protecting people with disabilities from unfair practises in the workplace. But that was then, and this is now.

Instead of fighting, I felt defeated. How could anyone do such a thing? My faith in mankind took a direct hit and I sank deeper in my chair.