Part 2 of First They Tortured Him, Then, He Died

Photo credit: Upsplash, Hai Duong

When Jeffrey’s mother died, he showed no visible signs of emotion, even in consideration of his ties to her. Some family members have said that he may have had either a psychological or neurological problem that kept him from relating to many others. That conclusion is impossible to prove. He took the money from the sale of their condo and insurance money and moved just outside of Orlando in an apartment complex not far from his only friend, who would die a few years later, leaving Jeffrey completely alone. Jeffrey either couldn’t or wouldn’t return to work, collapsing onto the floor of a fast food restaurant where he had gone for an interview. After that, he decided to sit in his apartment, eat a massive amount of ice cream and TV dinners, and watch an almost endless number of movies he bought at local pawn shops. He decorated his apartment with a panoply of Three Stooges and Betty Boop paraphernalia. He gained a massive amount of weight and collapsed and was rushed to a nearby hospital. He was diagnosed with heart failure at the time and perhaps other ailments, the details of which are not known.

Jeffrey’s physical condition necessitated his application for Social Security disability benefits, which were first denied and then awarded through the help of a knowledgeable relative. Though he visited physicians and a counselor at the time, his health continued to deteriorate. He could not afford the cost of his apartment, food, and maintenance of a car that was almost always in need of repair. His generous uncle and aunt continued to help him with money and found an apartment for him in Orlando.

At his new place, Jeffrey continued to live the lifestyle described above. He began to suffer serious medical emergencies that required hospitalizations and ended up first in a rehabilitation center, and then after several strokes, in a nursing home. Jeffrey’s arrival at the nursing home marked the beginning of the end of his life. The facility was billed as both a rehabilitation center and nursing home, where neither took place. Every conversation with him ended with “Get me out of here!” But there was no place left for him to go with his combination of Medicare and Medicaid. Relatives who visited reported the smell of urine and feces there, and Jeffrey’s sheets were stained with blood. Bugs were everywhere, and there were no phones in the rooms. About 90% or more of calls to the nursing home ended before anyone in authority could be reached. The nursing home’s administrator had no phone listed. Each time he would be rushed to the local medical center, he would be sent back to this hellhole until the next emergency. The nursing home only called when emergencies took place such as cutting a leg within hours of arriving at the nursing home and requiring stitches at the medical center. Attempts to get Jeffrey into another facility failed time and again, and each hospitalization saw him with different case managers and social workers who changed daily and did not follow through on his situation. The medical center’s sole positive, from my point of view, was the intensive care unit, where Jeffrey seemed to receive competent care, but it was too late, and the next series of medical emergencies witnessed him being literally bounced back and forth between the nursing home and the medical center, where he finally arrived in a coma. A few days later, Jeffrey died in hospice care within the hospital.

Getting Jeffrey’s cremated ashes from Florida was painstakingly slow. Memorial services set to gather relatives and scatter his ashes had to be rescheduled several times and finally took place in March. I scattered the bag of ashes with the help of another relative, a nephew. It was very windy and warm, and the ashes dissipated into the strong wind blowing from the southwest in the opposite direction of the long parade of jets above us making their final approach to LaGuardia Airport over Long Island Sound. His sister, my wife, read a eulogy. She had spent years trying to help Jeffrey in any way she could, and he would not speak in more than a few sentences during conversations. His responses during calls were pat and almost robotic in nature. As the ashes blew off with the wind, I thought of that day in September 54 years ago when Jeffrey rounded the corner of the school where he had drawn pictures for young kids.