Miracle Stories
The spindly trees stood tall along the roadside, tucked into the mountains the higher they climbed.
“I think the nursing home’s after this next bend,” Mom said.
The kids bounced on the van seats with excitement.
Dusti, who was deaf and had special needs, clapped her hands. “Go see Grandpa!” She could talk, but couldn’t hear without hearing aids.
On a summer day in 2004, the nursing home had called, saying that Grandpa “Pete” Martin was depressed and losing weight. His failed hip surgery had left him confined to the bed or wheelchair.
I hoped we could cheer him up.
Mom pulled into the parking lot of the Evergreen Care Center. The beautiful front entrance with potted plants and neatly trimmed bushes looked like a home.
We unbuckled our seat belts and climbed out of the van, glad to walk around after the fourteen hour drive from Illinois.
Unlike a normal facility with shiny linoleum floors and a constant odor of latex gloves, this nursing home had carpeted floors and smelled fresh and clean.
A nurse pointed toward the hallway to her left.
From their wheelchairs, the residents smiled at us. Some waved to four year-old Savannah, exclaiming, “What a cute little girl!”
Dusti, my twin sister, grasped my hand. By her intense grip, I knew she was excited to see Grandpa.
We hadn’t seen Grandpa since he moved to Colorado with Uncle Van a year ago. Grandpa had lived with us in our small house for almost seven months, while recuperating from a slight stroke and a broken ankle sustained in therapy.
Dusti had sat with him for hours, drinking coffee and ordering him to exercise more. Grandpa could never completely understand what she said because he didn’t know sign language.
Grandpa, slumped in his wheelchair at the end of the hall, looked up as we passed a medicine cart. Confusion washed over his face at first, but realization quickly settled in his eyes. “Oh boy!”
Dusti, throwing her arms around his large bony shoulders, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and told him that we drove a long way to see him.
Grandpa watched her sign. Nodding his head, he moved his fingers around in a circle, as if signing to her.
Laughing, she playfully slapped his hands down. “No, Grandpa,” she signed. “You not know sign.”
He chuckled, and then gazed around at the rest of us.
Savannah shyly peeked from behind my back. I don’t think she remembered Grandpa as well as the rest of us.
While we kids told Grandpa about our garden, Mom went out and brought back Burger King, his favorite fast food. The next day, he wanted to take us out to lunch. First, we stopped at the bank for Mom to withdraw some money from his account.
She returned empty-handed. Sitting down on the van seat in front of her father-in-law, she said,
“Your account’s overdrawn.”
The color drained from Grandpa’s face. “Overdrawn?” he repeated.
“You didn’t pay for rent, electricity or go to gas stations, did you?”
He sat silently, putting his forefinger to his upper lip.
Even though no one said anything, I knew what had happened.
While he had been in the hospital recovering from his stroke, he’d fallen during therapy.
Grandpa, acting like a scared child in a tree, grabbed onto the therapist who lost his grip on the safety belt.
Uncle Van sued the hospital, and ordered the staff to keep Grandpa in bed until he could settle the law suit. Grandpa stayed with us because his strength had deteriorated, but after he’d won the settlement, Uncle Van convinced him to move to Colorado. Uncle Van said his wife, a registered nurse, could give offer more professional care.
No one needed to be told that Uncle Van had siphoned the bank account.
Using his friendly personality to charm people, Uncle Van deceived those he met long enough to get his greedy hands on their funds. He had done this with his great uncle when they co-owned a deli, and vanished as soon as he had pilfered enough money to live comfortably. That’s why
Grandpa was in the nursing home now and not living with my aunt and uncle.
No doubt Grandpa was thinking about Uncle Van’s actions as he mulled over his empty bank account.
Mom wasn’t happy either. To have a family member mistreat her father-in-law was beyond her human understanding.
In 1998, Grandpa lived with us after a neck surgery rendered him helpless. Mom had changed his diapers, helped him eat, and made him do his therapy. He’d called her “Sarge.” She did those things because she loved him.
At the end of our week’s visit, we left Grandpa, sitting in his wheelchair beside his bed. Tears rolled down our cheeks as we hugged goodbye, sad for his penniless position.
“We have your address,” I said.
We promised to write and call often.
Two months after our visit, Dad and Mom received a phone call from the Evergreen nursing home.
“Your dad isn’t doing well,” a nurse said.
Since Dad wasn’t able to visit before, my parents quickly made plans to fly out.
When they arrived, Grandpa was bleeding profusely from his catheter.
Uncle Van stormed up and down the hallway, blaming the nursing home for not taking care of Grandpa properly.
An ambulance rushed Grandpa to the hospital. Three times, the emergency personnel revived his heart.
After Grandpa was stabilized, my parents came back home.
Soon, we learned that Uncle Van had moved Grandpa to a different nursing home without telling the Evergreen nursing home. Dad called his brother’s house, but he had moved, too.
Rendered helpless with nowhere else to collect information, we continued with our lives. For three years, we wondered where Grandpa lived.
One spring afternoon, we sat in the living room, talking about our time in Colorado and where we thought Grandpa might be.
“I wonder if we can find anything online,” Mom said, jumping from the couch and sitting down at the computer.
She launched a two-week search, calling every Colorado nursing home and Veteran’s hospital.
But the HIPAA Law prevented her from even verifying that an Arthur E. Martin was a patient at any facility.
My mom is shrewd. She decided that if the nurses wouldn’t divulge information, then perhaps the billing department would. Within hours, she uncovered the startling fact that Uncle Van had bounced Grandpa from nursing home to nursing home just before a bill came due.
“He has outstanding bills all over the state!” Mom exclaimed to Dad in between phone calls.
Dad could only shake his head in despair and disgust.
I don’t know how Mom found the information, but she contacted several of Uncle Van’s Colorado neighbors. They didn’t know what went on in the house because the windows were always buttoned. But three times, EMTs rushed to the house, transporting Grandpa to a nearby hospital.
Mom called the EMT billing department. “What is the latest bill for Arthur Martin?”
The unpaid account documented Grandpa’s cardiac arrest.
From this grim detail, we thought Grandpa had passed away, and Uncle Van didn’t file for a death certificate, which meant no funeral.
Mom called the FBI to report a missing person, and they told us to leave the situation in their hands.
For months, we lived with sadness, fearing we had lost Grandpa forever. Not even our nearby relatives who communicated with Uncle Van talked to us. We had no more leads, no more information.
Until a bright June afternoon in 2007. Mom handed the phone to Dad.
We watched Dad lean forward in his lawn chair on the patio, and we listened while he talked, waving his free hand. He answered a lot of questions that seemed to reference Grandpa.
When he hung up, he said, “That was a nursing home in Solon, Iowa.”
We sat on the edge of our plastic chairs, knowing the phone call involved Grandpa.
Dad told us that Uncle Van had dropped Grandpa off at the nursing home without personal belongings or money. Through public aid, the nursing home had provided clothing and necessities.
The few times our uncle did go to the nursing home, he caused such chaos, that Carly, the head nurse, had to find out if this other son was as bad as Uncle Van proclaimed.
Dad laughed. “She told me, ‘So, you’re the good son.’”
By the end of the week, we were in Solon, Iowa, at a much smaller nursing home with linoleum flooring. The staff greeted us warmly. When we introduced ourselves as “Pete’s” family, they beamed.
“He’s the favorite around here, always giving us candy,” one of his nurses said.
We followed a nurse to Grandpa’s room where we kids peeked around the corner.
Grandpa, sitting in a wheelchair, bent over the sink in his room, brushing his teeth. He looked up slowly, the toothbrush halfway to his mouth. “Geminately!” he exclaimed. The toothbrush fell into the sink as he wiped his mouth with a white towel.
The glint in Grandpa’s sallow eyes and the smile on his thin face brought tears to my eyes. Heartbroken at how frail he looked, I was thankful he was still alive.
He reached for our hands. “I thought I’d never see you again,”
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