Chapter 13 - FLORENCE GOES HOME
Not my home.
Hers.
The apartment repairs had been complete for months.
We replaced furniture damaged during the old water leak.
Installed safer bathroom rails.
Set up medication management through a pharmacy blister-pack service.
Florence chose a visiting nurse twice weekly at first.
Not because she was incompetent.
Because after months of medication manipulation, she wanted an independent second set of eyes.
She hired the nurse herself.
Paid herself.
Fired the first one because:
“She calls me sweetie.”
I laughed for ten minutes.
The second nurse called her Mrs. Weaver.
Survived.
Her keys returned.
Driving evaluation recommended limiting night driving but found her safe during daylight.
She accepted.
No one confiscated the car.
Her cognition improved after sedative exposure stopped.
Repeat neuropsychological testing showed mild age-related memory deficits, not dementia.
Dr. Crane amended records.
He also implemented a new clinic policy:
When capacity questions involve a caregiver with potential financial interest, obtain independent history where possible.
Good.
Institutions can learn without pretending one doctor caused abuse.
Florence’s bruises faded.
The cut in her mouth healed.
The harder things remained.
She checked water before drinking.
Would not let anyone pour from a pitcher.
Refused to sleep under heavy blankets because the soaked bedding had trapped her.
Therapy helped.
Not instantly.
One evening she called:
“Lucas.”
“Yes?”
“I need you to come over.”
I panicked.
“What happened?”
“My television remote is possessed.”
Trauma had trained me to expect danger from every phone call.
I arrived.
The batteries were dead.
Florence watched me replace them.
“You look disappointed.”
“I’m thrilled.”
“You need a hobby.”
May you like
“Apparently.”
Ordinary emergencies became medicine.
