Hero

courage.

Okay, I’ve suffered a stroke. But I’m alive. And I’m going to get better.

She listened as the doctor told her that they would run a series of tests—among them a CT Scan and various MRIs—to determine the extent of damage. Some of those tests were conducted while they were attending to her and it was quickly discovered that she’d not only lost the ability for speech, her left side was completely paralyzed. Tears of frustration welled out of Adelle’s eyes as she tried to make a fist with her left hand at the doctor’s urging.

“It’s okay,” he said, patting her arm gently. “Now we know, and we’re going to do what we can to see that you regain use of your left side again.”

As frustrated as she was by being unable to communicate verbally, she still had full use of her right side and that was at least something she could be thankful for. She was able to answer simple yes and no questions by tapping her finger on the bed’s guardrail. She could also write.

Through writing down questions, Adelle was able to learn that she’d been out of it for five days, that she was at Philadelphia General Hospital in Center City, and that the blood clot that triggered her stroke had been treated and that she would likely undergo a long course of post stroke therapy. But first, they had to learn how much damage the stroke had caused.

At some point somebody must have called Tonya because while Adelle was in Radiology getting prepped for the first of a series of MRIs, her daughter was at her side. Tonya hugged her.

“Oh momma, I was so worried!”

And with her daughter at her side, in the midst of all those machines and computers, her worry and emotion gave way and Adelle allowed herself to cry in her daughter’s arms. It was a cry of relief. She was still alive.

Chapter Four

Three days later Tonya Brown sat at the nursing station’s front desk filling out the paperwork and making the final preparations for her mother’s discharge, ignoring the disapproving look from the Patient Admissions nurse.

“Are you sure you’d rather not have your mother admitted directly into a Hospice Nursing Facility?” the woman asked.

The nameplate on her desk identified her as Georgina Spaulding and she was a large woman with an olive complexion and coal black hair going gray in spots.

“I mean…I understand why your mother would feel a bit apprehensive about entering a nursing home, but I assure you Hospice Nursing is the best in the state.”

“I’ve tried convincing my mother to just stay there but she won’t hear of it,” Tonya said. She was filling out the last of the paperwork. “Trust me, I told her there was no use going back home when she could simply get all the care she could ever want at a full-fledged hospice and rehabilitation center, but she made it clear that she wasn’t going to an old folks home.”

Georgina rolled her eyes.

“Big difference between a hospice and a nursing home for old folks. Besides, there are resident physicians on staff twenty-four seven. The nurses are board certified, too. They aren’t just nursing assistants.”

“I know,” Tonya said. She met Georgina’s gaze over the cluttered desk. “But she wants to be home. In a way, I don’t blame her.”

Georgina sighed. “Believe me, I understand but…well, that neighborhood your mother lives in isn’t the ideal situation for someone of her age and…well, her condition.”

Tonya nodded. She agreed with the woman, but debating it wasn’t going to change her mother’s mind. Nothing would.

“Are you sure about this?” Georgina asked again.

Tonya looked up from the forms. “I’m sure. They’ve already arranged for a home-care nurse for my mother.”

“And they had no problem with…the neighborhood?”

Tonya resumed filling out the paperwork. Was that a hint of disapproval in the Admissions Nurse’s voice? “They had no problem at all.”

Tonya had been worried that Hospice Nursing would balk at sending home care nurses to her mother’s apartment for her care, but they hadn’t. She originally wanted to put her mother up in her basement, in nearby Lansdale. Had talked about it with her husband, in fact, and he was supportive of the idea. Their basement opened out onto the backyard and was completely finished, with a full bathroom. Currently they used it as an extra family room and a rumpus room for the kids. Turning it into a temporary apartment for momma would have been a snap, but she wouldn’t have it. I’m going to my home! Momma wrote in the spiral bound notebook she now kept beside her bed. No amount of arguing or persuasion would change her mind. She was going home and that was final.

“I’m surprised,” Georgina continued. “Last time we had a patient discharged to that area who required home care, a nurse was mugged on her way home. Was almost beaten to death.”

“My mother’s very well known in the neighborhood,” Tonya said quickly. “I don’t think we’ll have that problem.” She met Georgina’s gaze, daring the woman to continue. Georgina nodded and averted her eyes, suddenly becoming busy with her own paperwork.

“Very well,” Georgina said. She reached into a file beside her desk and pulled out a series of pamphlets. “I have some information here on ischemic strokes, as well as a guideline sheet on diet and exercise for your mother. Hospice Nursing will be more than happy to help you if you need any more information.”

And with that, the subject of Adelle Smith returning to her neighborhood in her now disabled condition was finished.

Chapter Five

Doris had been watching Natsinet all day as she’d gone about her rounds, changing bed pans and sheets, giving sponge baths and exercising the less ambulatory patients, checking vital signs, doling out medications and making notations in their charts. The woman was careful and meticulous and, despite her comments about African-Americans, showed no favoritism as she went from patient to patient.

“Can you cook?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know how to cook? Many of our patients are on specialized diets and sometimes our nurses are asked to prepare meals for them.”

“Yes. I can cook.”

“Good. Come into my office when you’re done with your rounds.”

The old nurse walked away and Natsinet followed her with her eyes until the old woman reached the end of the hall and exited the ward.

“Nurse? Nurse? Can I have my meds now please? My arthritis is starting to hurt.”

An old Black man, one of the few patients who was actually older than Doris, was tugging at the sleeve of her nursing jacket. Natsinet jerked her arm away, scowling in contempt.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever put your filthy hands on me!” She glared at him murderously as she cradled her arm, sheltering it from his touch.

The old man recoiled, startled by Natsinet’s sudden inexplicable fury. “I-I just wanted my medication.”

Natsinet checked his chart, still scowling at him. His name was Thomas Adamson, and he’d been in the care of the nursing home for four years. He had both osteo and rheumatoid arthritis and was scheduled for a shot of Remicade, the brand name for infliximab, a tumor-necrosis factor inhibitor. He was also recovering from his sixth