The Protocol: A Prescription to Die by John P. Goetz Read Free Book Online Page A

Every aspect of her life now, including meals, was on a very precise schedule. Despite the events of the previous day, Eat could not remotely consider canceling his regular Sunday meal and visit with his mother. He called ahead so they could have a table set up and ready just for them. After lunch, he’d scheduled time to meet with her nurse, Joey.
    Eat pulled into the parking lot, and looked up at the five-story building. His mother’s room was on fifth floor, right in the corner. She had two picture windows that provided a view looking down into the center’s gardens. He couldn’t believe that she’d been living here as long as she had. Initially, he didn’t think he, his father, or his mother would survive the first six months. To say that the ordeal was trying, was a vast understatement.
    Two years ago Eat and his father made the agonizing decision that his mother needed more help than what either of them knew how to or could provide. Her Alzheimer’s was getting worse, and they were both afraid that she might hurt herself, or leave something burning on the stove, besides a grilled cheese. Eat’s parents were on a fixed income, so his father was initially worried about the expense of any assisted living center. Despite the fact that Eat constantly told them not to worry about anything, they resisted every attempt he made at providing them a financial cushion. By using a combination of her Social Security and retirement income from his father, they were able to find a very nice facility, the Sunshine Meadows Assisted Living Center. The proximity made it easy for Eat’s father to visit each day; which he did up to the day he died.
    The physical impacts of Alzheimer’s were easy to quantify. Easy to understand. Easy to see. Accepting was another story. The emotional aspects were excruciating for all involved. Eat and his father saw the woman they both loved, slowly slip away and become another person who at times couldn’t remember who either of them was. The disease was also agonizing for his mother because she didn’t understand why things were changing. From her point of view, she was being taken away from her home. Many times she believed people were stealing her clothes and going into her purse and taking her money.
    It was painful to see her degrade as fast as she had, to see her fall below the point where neither her husband nor son could help her. It was as if she was becoming a child again.
    Betty Lou had her own apartment with all of the comforts of home except a stove; which probably wasn’t a huge deal as she probably wasn’t going to be making her carbonized sandwiches for the other residents. For any cooking she wanted to do, she had to use a microwave oven—like mother, like son. For coffee, she was allowed a small, 4-cup coffee maker as long as it was on a timer and shut itself off after two hours. Everything that went into her room had to be approved by the property’s board of directors, and nursing staff. She had cable TV, a phone, and even an option to get Internet access if she wanted. A washer and dryer were available on each floor, and the residents had to schedule them on a daily, or weekly basis.
    Assisted living allowed her to live a relatively normal life. She didn’t have a roommate, and she wasn’t relegated to a hospital bed. Eat could even sleep on her small sofa, and spend the night with her if he wanted. Nurses came to visit her each day, and all of her meals, which were quite good, were provided on a very precise schedule. It wasn’t always a version of chicken surprise with Jell-o cabbage salad, and a can of Ensure. Some nights were beef stroganoff. Some were salmon. They even had special sea food nights once a month. Typically, they offered two entrées, and the resident had to choose one. Making decisions, however small, was actually beneficial. Her nurse ensured that she was taking her meds that her blood pressure was where it should be, and even did periodic blood