The Tale of the Bipolar Priest

This is a long, circuitous tale, but I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version.

I went to a modest house in central Phoenix to do an assessment on a gentleman who was in his early 70s. His name was Alek. His wife, who was by his side, was Ginnie. I remember that they struck me as Ward and June Cleaver. She had a dress on and pearls – just like June!

Well, I start talking to Ward…um, I mean Alek. I told them how the assessment would go and that they can feel free to ask me any questions or give me any additional information as the assessment continues. I requested that they get Alek’s medications together so that I can write them down for my assessment. Ginnie got up and got all his medication bottles while I continued to talk to Alek. Everything was going along pretty smoothly.

However, the look on Alek’s face. I can only describe it as reticent…maybe apprehensive. He just did NOT look comfortable with this process or with my being in his home. I don’t think it was personal. I think he just didn’t like people in his personal space, asking personal questions.

When I looked at his meds, there was a blood pressure medication and the rest were psychotropic in nature. My guess was that he had bipolar disorder. As the assessment went along, Alek and Ginnie started opening up – mostly Ginnie. Alek was a former Catholic priest. She had been his parishioner some years back and they fell in love. When they were in their late 30s, Alek left the priesthood and married Ginnie. Ginnie said their life “turned crazy” after that. She married Alek, having no idea that he had bipolar disorder. Yep, there we were. Bingo!

As we got to the behavioral section of the assessment, Ginnie started telling stories about Alek and his depressive and manic cycles. He cycled slowly, but the swings were huge. Alek would go into intense, deep, dark depression for weeks where he would rarely leave his house. He didn’t want to speak to anyone or do anything. After he cycled out of that, he would just “go wild,” as Ginnie described it. She then told me the story that changed their lives forever.

In his manic phase, Alek decided to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He withdrew every bit of cash that he and Ginnie had, bought a plane ticket, and was on his way to New Orleans to party and gamble. At this point, Alek didn’t remember anything else. Ginnie had no idea that Alek was leaving. He didn’t tell her he was leaving and didn’t tell her where he was going. She just saw an empty bed and an empty bank account. She didn’t hear from Alek for months.

This was in the days before social media and Alek and Ginnie’s children were calling hospitals and police stations all over the country. After months of trying, they finally hit pay dirt. Months earlier, police and paramedics responded to a man found severely beaten. He had no ID, no distinguishing features. He was a Caucasian man with brown, but graying hair. He was of average build and average weight. He was beaten so badly that his features were indistinct under the lacerations and bruises. The police had posted a picture of “John Doe” in several newspapers, asking if anyone knew him. Alek’s kids flew out to New Orleans, after talking to the police, and were able to positively identify him in the hospital. Poor Alek had been beaten, robbed, and left for dead.

So, here we are back in Phoenix. Thankfully, Alek survived. He had a traumatic brain injury from the beating. No wonder the expression I saw on his face! This family went through so much, but by a miracle – or by a sliver of a chance – they were reunited. Ginnie told me she made sure that Alek stayed on his meds and that he had been doing very well ever since he finished rehab. Sad, sad story, but in the end the family was reunited and so grateful to have Alek home, safe and sound.

The Tale of the Bipolar Priest

This is a long, circuitous tale, but I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version.

I went to a modest house in central Phoenix to do an assessment on a gentleman who was in his early 70s. His name was Alek. His wife, who was by his side, was Ginnie. I remember that they struck me as Ward and June Cleaver. She had a dress on and pearls – just like June!

Well, I start talking to Ward…um, I mean Alek. I told them how the assessment would go and that they can feel free to ask me any questions or give me any additional information as the assessment continues. I requested that they get Alek’s medications together so that I can write them down for my assessment. Ginnie got up and got all his medication bottles while I continued to talk to Alek. Everything was going along pretty smoothly.

However, the look on Alek’s face. I can only describe it as reticent…maybe apprehensive. He just did NOT look comfortable with this process or with my being in his home. I don’t think it was personal. I think he just didn’t like people in his personal space, asking personal questions.

When I looked at his meds, there was a blood pressure medication and the rest were psychotropic in nature. My guess was that he had bipolar disorder. As the assessment went along, Alek and Ginnie started opening up – mostly Ginnie. Alek was a former Catholic priest. She had been his parishioner some years back and they fell in love. When they were in their late 30s, Alek left the priesthood and married Ginnie. Ginnie said their life “turned crazy” after that. She married Alek, having no idea that he had bipolar disorder. Yep, there we were. Bingo!

As we got to the behavioral section of the assessment, Ginnie started telling stories about Alek and his depressive and manic cycles. He cycled slowly, but the swings were huge. Alek would go into intense, deep, dark depression for weeks where he would rarely leave his house. He didn’t want to speak to anyone or do anything. After he cycled out of that, he would just “go wild,” as Ginnie described it. She then told me the story that changed their lives forever.

In his manic phase, Alek decided to go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He withdrew every bit of cash that he and Ginnie had, bought a plane ticket, and was on his way to New Orleans to party and gamble. At this point, Alek didn’t remember anything else. Ginnie had no idea that Alek was leaving. He didn’t tell her he was leaving and didn’t tell her where he was going. She just saw an empty bed and an empty bank account. She didn’t hear from Alek for months.

This was in the days before social media and Alek and Ginnie’s children were calling hospitals and police stations all over the country. After months of trying, they finally hit pay dirt. Months earlier, police and paramedics responded to a man found severely beaten. He had no ID, no distinguishing features. He was a Caucasian man with brown, but graying hair. He was of average build and average weight. He was beaten so badly that his features were indistinct under the lacerations and bruises. The police had posted a picture of “John Doe” in several newspapers, asking if anyone knew him. Alek’s kids flew out to New Orleans, after talking to the police, and were able to positively identify him in the hospital. Poor Alek had been beaten, robbed, and left for dead.

So, here we are back in Phoenix. Thankfully, Alek survived. He had a traumatic brain injury from the beating. No wonder the expression I saw on his face! This family went through so much, but by a miracle – or by a sliver of a chance – they were reunited. Ginnie told me she made sure that Alek stayed on his meds and that he had been doing very well ever since he finished rehab. Sad, sad story, but in the end the family was reunited and so grateful to have Alek home, safe and sound.

Narcissism – it’s all about me

I made a post on Facebook about narcissism. So, here I go. This post is about me.

The first time I heard of Narcissus was when I was a child. We used to have beautiful flower beds in what my mom called “the hourglass” in front of our home. I was asking about all the flowers we had and she pointed out the narcissuses (or is it narcissi?). She then told me that the flower was named after the hunter in Greek mythology, the man who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water.

This blog was prompted by a notification on Facebook that someone in my past had written an inspirational book about their life. This was a person who was in a position of power. They used their power to control and manipulate others in the name of “ministry.” And, it isn’t just me and my perception. I’m in a small group on Facebook where we have gathered to support each other and help each other through what was a difficult time, the time we allowed this person to influence us. I don’t make this assessment lightly.

We can all be prone to narcissistic behavior. I think it’s pretty common to think about your own wants and needs. Narcissism, however, is different than selfishness. But, they need not be mutually exclusive. Narcissistic Personality Disorder is a whole different entity from your run-of-the-mill selfishness. How do I know? For one, there was a very significant person in my life and family who clearly had NPD, having at least seven and maybe all nine of the criteria below. While it worked for them, it tended to be destructive to others who interacted with and was in the social circle of this person.

Although my DSM (Diagnostic & Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) is outdated, it lists the criteria for NPD as “A pervasive pattern of grandiosity (in fantasy or behavior), need for admiration, and lack of empathy (emphasis mine), beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five (or more) of the following:

1. has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)
2. is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love
3. believes that he or she is “special” and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)
4. requires excessive admiration
5. has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations
6. is interpersonally exploitative, i.e. takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends
7.  lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others
8. is often envious of others or believes that others are envious of him or her
9. shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes.”

For two, I have had a couple of clients who had NPD for whom I provided treatment. Let me tell you, personality disorders are very hard to treat. Medications don’t seem to help much if they even will agree to take their meds (“I don’t need them”). Counseling hasn’t proved to be helpful in these two circumstances. In both of these cases, there was absolutely no recognition that they were harming others. NO! In fact, others were doing them wrong.

I wish I could tell you what book not to read, but I’m not willing to name it at this point. I just hope it doesn’t come across your reading list. If it really is about their life, yes, you will find moments of inspiration. But, do you want to have to wade through the narcissism to get there?

You’re welcome.

 

 

The Day I Met My Grandfather

This blog is a little more personal than my usual blathering.

It’s about the day I met my maternal grandfather. He is pictured on his wedding day when he married my grandmother, Zofia (Americanized to Sophie). I’m thinking this is probably around 1919 or 1920.

As he passed away in 1971, I only have bits and pieces. I was 8-years-old when he passed and that was a long time ago. My memories are fading…

Adam Widuch was born in Poland, I believe in the Zywiec region. He came to the USA in 1909 from what he named as Austria. He was 27-years-old. I was told at one time he was a monk. I do not know what order. I was told that he was a neighbor of my grandmother’s. She was a young widow with two children when the flu epidemic hit. He looked after Zofia and her kids. They decided to marry – for love? I don’t know. It has been speculated that it didn’t look good for a bachelor to be visiting a widow to care for her. So, there he is in his wedding duds for his picture.

Adam and Zofia divorced in 1929. Apparently, he had quite a temper. Eventually, my grandmother remarried, after being excommunicated from the church for being divorced. This third husband of hers adopted my mom and on they went with life – and what an interesting life it was!

I don’t think my mom had much contact with her father, even though he lived close by. He lived in Michigan City, Indiana and my mom lived in La Porte, Indiana – about 13 miles away. My mom and grandmother moved to Arizona in 1942, so now there was a lot of geography between them.

When my mom was in her mid-30’s, she started corresponding with her father and going back to Indiana to visit him as she could. Because my mom was not educated in her native language, she could not read or write in Polish. When her father would write her letters, she would need to find someone to translate them for her. Fortunately, there were a few Polish people in Litchfield Park who could help her. (A subsequent translator of these letters told me that Adam’s Polish was very bad – that his written language was indicative of an uneducated person who spliced quasi-English and Polish together.)

When I was 6-years-old, we went back to Illinois and Indiana for our family visit. Being from Arizona, my cousins were teasing me about doing a rain dance. So, I did one for them. I had seen many rain dances, so thought I would give it a try. Immediately it began to rain. As my mom and I got into the car to head to Northern Indiana, it began to pour.

My mom turned on the radio and we listened to the tornado warnings. She was nervous. I could tell. At one point, she told me she was happy that I picked the route that we were driving because a trailer had blown over and blocked the other highway we would have taken.

As we drove up to Adam’s house on Tilden Avenue, right across the street from the railroad tracks, the rain was still pouring down with lots of lightning and thunder. My mom told me to run into the house as fast as I could so I wouldn’t get too wet. It was no use. I was soaked to the bone. I was a crazy kid – not one to be quiet or polite. I ran into the house. I ran into Grandpa’s bedroom where he was sound asleep and I yelled, “Hi Grandpa, we’re here!”

I’ll never forget how he sat up bolt-upright in bed with a startled look on his face. My mom hadn’t told me that he didn’t speak English. Or did she and I forgot? Or didn’t care?There I was, a strange kid, waking him from a pleasant sleep, and talking excitedly in a language he didn’t understand.

I remember a few things about him. He built contraptions in his yard to trap squirrels. What he did with them, I don’t know. He had a basement that smelled like mildew (everything seemed to smell like mildew in Northern Indiana – that and Polish sausage). He drank peppermint schnapps and he spit in the waste basket. I don’t think he ever spoke to me. He and my mom talked a mile a minute in their language that I didn’t understand.

I believe I might have seen him one more time after that. So, how did you meet your grandpa?

The Day I Got a Date at Work

The title of this blog is somewhat misleading. I always got dates at work 😉

But, this date was a little different.

At this time I was a Health Program Manager with the Arizona Long-Term Care System. I had a new social worker on my staff and I wanted to take her out on some assessments for training purposes. The new social worker’s name was Maritza. She was very experienced and had come to us from the Division of Developmental Disabilities. She was very knowledgeable about developmental disabilities, but was somewhat new to the elderly/physically disabled clients.

Every morning, I would go through the face sheets for the intakes and would assign them to our staff of nurses and social workers. One of these face sheets was for an applicant that was applying for the program as elderly/physically disabled. Her name was Socorro and she was 23-years-old. Socorro was also Spanish-speaking. This would be a great assessment to take Maritza on, as she is bilingual. (At that time, I was bilingual too…I have lost my fluency due to disuse).

Maritza and I pulled up to a modest home near the Durango Curve, both of us complaining about having to get out of the air-conditioned state vehicle. But, we got out after sitting there for a few moments, reviewing our assessment tool and soaking in the last few moments of A/C.

When we got into the house, Socorro was there with both of her parents. As this would be the first time Maritza had seen an assessment, I conducted the interview while Maritza observed. Socorro appeared – on the outside – to NOT be disabled. But, looks can be deceiving when it comes to illness. While I was moving through the questions, Socorro sat across from me, grinning – a kind of socially inappropriate grin. Her eyes, grin, and pure joy seemed out of place during an assessment to determine if she required long-term care or not.

As I went through the questions, Socorro’s parents would do all the answering until we got to a pause. Socorro burst out with a long verbal celebration of my beauty. I think I blushed a bit. I then redirected the interview back to the situation at hand. But, no. And, Maritza couldn’t hide her laughter, as much as she tried.

Her speech went something like this: You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen. Your eyes shine with life and beauty, like bright shining stars. You light up the room when you walk in. When you walk away, there is only darkness. Everyone is astounded by your beauty. So beautiful! So beautiful! So, so beautiful!

At least it started out G-rated.

It went on for a few more seconds. I interrupted and redirected her back to the situation at hand – getting this interview completed. It was a little embarrassing, but I had to keep going. As I was starting back to the interview, Socorro loudly interrupted.

“Your mouth, your lips, they are so beautiful. I want to kiss them. I want to kiss them every day of my life. And, your blouse, I can see through your blouse. I see what is behind your blouse, behind your bra, and I want you. I can see inside your chest. I can see your lungs breathing. I can see your heart beating and I want you.”

Okay, so it’s starting to get a little R-rated here.

At this point, Maritza is dying. My new, professional social worker was losing it – one of those times that you can’t control the giggles. She tried, but couldn’t. It made me feel even more uncomfortable that my employee was laughing at my predicament.

When we wrapped up the interview (finally), Maritza and I were walking in that sweltering heat, back to the car.

Maritza: Well, I guess you have a hot date tonight!

Me: Yeah…about that…

Socorro’s primary diagnosis was schizoaffective disorder. She wasn’t eligible for our program. But, at least I had a date…

 

The Day I Got Very Sick

I started with Arizona Long-Term Care in September, 1996. While I worked with the general public before that time, I had not often worked with people who were sick, chronically ill, and/or dying. So, my immune system probably was relatively calm and dormant.

However, I remember the moment I walked into Tiffani’s apartment in Maryvale. As soon as the door opened, I smelled infection and immediately thought, “Uh-oh.” Well, I was right. I did my assessment on Tiffani. She was very sick with probably an upper respiratory infection, sinus infection, something like that. During the assessment she just sat on her couch and answered my questions. Her disability was that she had a pretty aggressive form of rheumatoid arthritis. She was in her late 60’s and she had a rough time doing her day-to-day care like dressing, bathing, etc. Other than her being actively ill, it was an otherwise non-remarkable assessment.

Two days later I felt like death. I had a pretty bad upper respiratory infection. Even though this was a new job, I had to duck out of work for a few days. I went to my mom’s and let her take care of the kids and me. In and out of my delirium, I remember watching The Animaniacs and I have fuzzy memories of seeing my kids during that time. My mom always took good care of me when I was sick. I had to get back to work!

After several days off from work, hoping that my new boss didn’t think I was a slacker, I returned to work. I returned too soon. I was off another few days. On and on this pattern went – my trying to get back to work and then feeling weak and sick and taking a day or two off – for over a month. I’m so grateful I was able to keep my job and that my boss was so understanding (may she RIP). I’m hoping by returning to work I didn’t infect anyone else, especially my clients!

A year later, I was still having trouble with breathing – getting winded when playing basketball with the kids, feeling weak and tired and coughing. It took a long, long time to clear up.

Not an exciting story…that’s it…the time I got an infection from one of my clients.

 

This One was Tough

I usually like to have a theme picture accompanying my blog, but I couldn’t think of a picture for this one.

In my career, I’ve entered people’s homes and their lives at very vulnerable moments. Every single person I visited left an impression on me. They taught me about chronic illness, disability, and death. They were my teachers and I respect them as I now face my own difficulties.

(I may get some of the details wrong here because this has been a while and it was a very complex case.)

Bethanne and Jamal were from the Midwest and retired in Sun City West in the late ’90s. They had a beautiful house on a golf course. Their eldest daughter was a doctor – a professor at Stanford. Their son had a very successful tech business in Silicon Valley. Bethanne was intelligent, witty, but very proper. Jamal was a chiseled retired businessman who now spent his mornings on the golf course.

One day Bethanne awakened in the morning and was speaking in an Irish brogue. Alarmed, Jamal called his physician daughter, Audrey. “What do I do? She woke up, came into the kitchen in her robe and started speaking to me like a leprechaun. She is only in her nightgown and robe and she never comes out of the bedroom undressed.” Audrey told her dad to take Bethanne to the emergency room, which he did. They went over to the ER at Del Webb where she was poked, prodded, and evaluated. She was given a diagnosis of dementia and bipolar disorder and was admitted to a nearby behavioral health facility.

In behavioral health, Bethanne declined. She refused to eat. Her behavior became more erratic. She made multiple attempts to escape through a window. She really wasn’t fitting the criteria for bipolar disorder. However, the medical staff maintained she had dementia. She would spontaneously roll around on the floor and act like an out-of-control child. Bethanne threw tantrums. She continued to speak in an Irish brogue.

Bethanne’s daughter, Audrey, flew in to assess her mom for herself. She was just puzzled. Then, the day after Audrey had flown in, Bethanne started having myoclonic jerking – these are shock-like, jerking involuntary movements. Audrey was stunned. She dug through everything she could, trying to find out how and why her mom went from healthy and normal to absolutely bizarre – and now the constant jerking movements!

By the time I saw Bethanne for her assessment, she had declined even more. She was being tube-fed, suctioned (as she had limited swallowing ability), and she could not open her eyes or speak.

Now this is weird…it was breast cancer.

Yes, it was breast cancer that caused all of this. Bethanne had undiagnosed breast cancer, which then spread. It is very rare to get personality changes and myoclonic jerking from breast cancer. But, Audrey’s research paid off. When I talked to Audrey on the phone, she went into great detail as to how she did her research and how she finally had her “Aha!” moment. By then it was too far gone, of course.

I don’t know how to end this…just that it is a strange phenomenon. And, I’ll leave this right here.

The Magic Milk Carton

Marcella was a client I met at Desert Oasis.

She had a whole back story (don’t we all). She was a stay-at-home mom to three kids in Scottsdale. Her husband, Lee, had been an attorney and was now retired. The kids were all grown and she now had several grandchildren. She was very social and involved in her community, volunteering for many civic projects and school activities when the kids were young.

Looking back, Lee said that Marcella was a little on the paranoid side – or maybe a lot on the paranoid side. From the time they got married, she accused Lee of lusting after other women and having affairs. Lee was a deacon in their church. Marcella would threaten to tell Lee’s colleagues and their fellow church members about Lee’s indiscretions. Marcella even told Lee that she followed him and caught him in the act more than once!

Lee continued to deny the affairs over the decades, but that wasn’t all. As time went by, the accusations got worse and Marcella appeared to be having delusions. She complained about the housekeeper stealing her clothes. She complained about their landscapers stealing her money. She said their kids had all turned to a life of crime and were going to come and get her.

Her behavior continued to worsen. When Marcella was in her late 60s, she fell and broke her hip. This episode ignited all kinds of delusions and accusations. After Marcella had  her open reduction internal fixation of her right hip, she went to Desert Oasis for rehabilitation. However, she would not cooperate with her therapists. She kept accusing both the occupational therapist and the physical therapist of wanting to poison her, steal her money, and other heinous things. Marcella would howl off and on through the night – howling like a wolf.

It was clear to Lee that he would be unable to care for Marcella at home. He opted to have her stay at Desert Oasis – at least until she improved. She was worse than she had ever been.

A psychiatrist was called in and she diagnosed Marcella with paranoid schizophrenia. Dr Hammel prescribed Haldol, an anti-psychotic, for Marcella. Another problem came up. Marcella was losing weight uncontrollably. She was refusing her medications and refusing her meals. She refused to eat because she said the staff was trying to kill her by poisoning her – specifically, poisoning her food.

Because her weight was starting to get dangerously low and her poor nutrition was spiraling her behaviors out of control, the psychiatrist ordered Haldol to be injected into Marcella’s unopened milk carton. That way, Marcella could see that the milk was sealed and not tampered with. At least she would drink her milk if it was unopened. And, the Haldol might kick in enough to make her less paranoid so that she would eat and maybe not howl throughout the night.

And that, folks, is called a self-fulfilling prophecy.

 

Speaking of Desert Oasis…

In my previous blog post, I wrote about a couple who lived at Desert Oasis in Phoenix. Desert Oasis had a beautiful name, but was not at all like the picture featured (a day in paradise)!

Content warning: Some of this blog may be offensive.

So, speaking of my days at Desert Oasis, there are so many memories there. There was some good memories, many sad memories, and many just plain ol’ crazy memories. And, just as a reminder, this is the place I would tell Dave, “If you love me, please don’t ever put me at Desert Oasis.”

I’m just going to list off some random memories of the people there.

There was the Executive Director, Rebekah. Rebekah had worked at another nursing home – one where my husband had gone in as a consultant. She remembered my husband because of his red hair and brown eyes. Her son had red hair and brown eyes and Dave reminded her of her son. She was super sweet and always remembered that I was married to the man that looked like her son.

There was the guy I called “the cross-dresser” in my mind. Bear with me. Back then, I didn’t know much about transgender people. In fact, I’m still no expert except that spend a little time with my transgender friends and family members. Anyway, Bruce (aka “the cross-dresser) was a retired military officer who had served in the Navy. He lived in the independent living section of Desert Oasis. To me, he was an average older man – nothing too spectacular stood out. However, he always wore the cutest pumps. He would frequently wear cute pink pumps with a matching purse.

There was Dorothea. She was quite elderly and getting toward the end of her days. She was the sister of a very notable (and wealthy) politician. I thought it was so sad that her brother would let his sister spend her final days in such a not-so-great place. I’m sure there was more involved in the decision to place her there. Dorothea and I hit it off and I would come see her whenever I was assessing someone else, so that she would have company. Wait…I saw her for my own friendship needs, too. She was a pleasure to spend time with. She loved to quilt. Although I didn’t know how to quilt at this time, I really enjoyed the pieces she put together.

There was Alan, the guy who was tattooed from head to toe. When I do an assessment, I review the medical records. The doctor had written, “This unfortunate man has tattoos all over his body, including his scrotum and his bald head.” Yeah, getting tattooed on your scrotum sounds very unfortunate.

There was Mai, a sweet little lady that didn’t speak any English and was always trying to give me baked good. No. I don’t accept baked goods from clients. But, it was really sweet of her to offer.

There was Dominic. Apparently Dominic was a bit of an exhibitionist. He wasn’t very blatant about it. He would just make sure his hospital gown was up a little and his blankets were down a little. When I was assessing him, I had just assumed that the linens were in disarray and that it was accidental. When I discussed behaviors with the nursing staff, they informed me that Dominic always makes sure that people can see his parts.

Shane had a problem  with prostitutes. As I mentioned in the earlier blog, the prostitutes came around Desert Oasis at the beginning of the month, when residents received their social security checks. Shane would spend all his money on prostitutes and booze. He was clever, though. He didn’t drink the booze. He used the booze to pay his hookers when his money ran out.

Gary was in the nursing home because he had been previously hospitalized for some sort of anal complication (I can’t remember whether it was ulcers, fissures, perforation). After his stay in the hospital, Gary came for rehab at Desert Oasis. Gary was gay and his physician gave him explicit orders to not have a certain type of sex until he was healed. However, Gary’s boyfriend came in day after day and they apparently had relations in the nursing home. Gary got worse and worse. Finally, they were able to get through to them that this had to stop – at least for a while. I’m happy to say that Gary got better and was able to move over to the independent living section.

There are so many more people I remember at Desert Oasis, but we’ll leave it at that for today.

Taken in by Charles Keating

As someone who conducted assessments for Medicaid applicants, I went to a lot of places in the Phoenix area – some nice, some not-so-nice. There was this one place – let’s call it Desert Oasis – that was the pit of hell. The absolute pit of hell. It was a nursing home/rehab center that also had an independent living section for seniors. The place was run-down, shabby, in a rough part of town, and riddled with drugs and prostitutes. And, when I talk about prostitutes and drugs, I mean AT the independent living building and nursing home. At the beginning of the month, when residents would receive their social security checks (back then it was SSI on the first of the month and SSDI and SSA on the third of the month), the prostitutes and druggies would show up – servicing the elderly crowd at Desert Oasis.

I worked at Desert Oasis frequently. I used to come home and tell Dave, “If you love me, please don’t put me in Desert Oasis when I need care. PLEASE!!!” This was the kind of place that after I handled the nursing charts, I would go in the bathroom and scrub my hands. Well, I AM a bit of a germaphobe, but ANYONE would want to scrub after being in Desert Oasis. And, oh the colorful characters at Desert Oasis! They were what made me love working there. They were just wonderful – both the staff and the residents.

I went out to do an assessment on a gentleman who lived with his wife in the independent living section. Ned and Emily had lived in a little apartment at Desert Oasis for several years. Ned was getting older – into his 80s and was starting to need a little bit of assistance with bathing, dressing, and such. So, they applied for services. What a lovely and dignified couple.  To be honest, they didn’t seem “fit in” with the colorful crowd at Desert Oasis. And, they were so, so sad. There was a dark cloud hanging over them. Depression? Existential angst? Why the palpable feeling of sorrow in the room?

As many of my clients did, they told me their story. Both Ned and Emily had worked hard their whole lives. Ned had started a business in Phoenix back when they were in their 20s. It had grown and thrived and they were highly successful. Emily had worked for the legislature until her retirement – over 30 years. They lived in a very well-appointed home in the Piestewa Peak area. They were financially very successful.

Given my title of this blog, you can probably figure out what happened next – especially if you lived in Arizona in the 1980s. Ned and Emily had invested heavily in Lincoln Savings and Loan, as they were personal acquaintances with Charles Keating. Those unfortunate events led to them “losing everything,” as they told me. After working so hard and being the most upstanding citizens, they had to move to Desert Oasis – the only place they could afford to live – among the poorest of the poor who still had roofs over their heads.

Because Ned was eligible with the program I was working for, I saw him every six months. I saw him decline, time after time that I saw him. I heard is tale of woe every time I saw him. Yet, I also saw his resilience. Investing can be scary stuff.

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