By Vanessa K. De Luca
Last year, I moved closer to my parents to make it easier for me to check in on them. My dad, 81, is increasingly showing signs of senility and my mom, 78, sometimes has arthritis pain so severe that when the weather is unfavorable she can barely get out of bed. As their only child and sole eldercare provider, I’ve always known the day would come for me to step up and help. I just didn’t know that day would come at the beginning of 2025 and last for three months and counting during a season of seismic governmental upheaval.
One morning in early January, dad and I took mom to see her primary care physician because she hadn’t been eating, was unable to stand on her own, and we both were worried. When the doctor told us – three minutes into the examination – to take mom to the hospital immediately, I admit I was taken aback. But I also knew what I had to do. With his level of memory loss, dad could not be responsible for tracking what was happening, so I took over. I’m good in emergencies – clear-minded, focused, and always ready to advocate for the best care for my family.
Once we got mom to the hospital, a team of emergency room doctors went to work and, after a few hours, decided it would be best to admit my mom for further observation. She stayed at the hospital for 10 days as various doctors tried to understand why she had no appetite and how her weakened state was affecting the rest of her body.
Sure, I wanted her to have the best care, and I am thankful my parents retired with good health insurance and Medicare benefits. But I couldn’t help but worry about how much this would cost. I showed up all day, every day to make sure that A) everyone knew I was keeping tabs on the medical team assigned to take care of her; B) grill the doctors about what tests they’d ordered and why so that nothing unnecessary would be added on; C) clock how many times each doctor from each discipline – attending doctor, cardiology, gastroenterology, oncology – showed up and why, and to hear their findings firsthand; and D) let folks know that my mom has loved ones that will raise holy hell if she doesn’t get the attention she deserves, so don’t try us.
This meant bringing my laptop to her hospital room and hoping the in-room Wi-Fi wouldn’t go haywire as I tried to fulfill my daily work assignments. (It often did.) It meant staying with my dad at their house to grocery shop, cook meals, pay bills, and help care for him, too. My friends who’ve already experienced this type of family health emergency were unbelievably generous with their time, letting me call day or night for advice, and offering me a shoulder to cry on — and even their guest room — so I could take a short break when it all felt too overwhelming to handle.
While the not-knowing was endlessly frustrating, I had to be patient with the doctors and nurses. When the treatment team tried to circumvent my questions, I insisted they come to my mom’s room to talk to us in person, or at least call my cell each day to keep me informed. I could tell I was working everyone’s last nerve, but ask me if I cared.
Eventually, the doctors collectively agreed that Mom’s dangerously low blood pressure and pulse rate were the result of severe dehydration. She was dehydrated because she was not eating enough to keep her system in good running order. She wasn’t eating because she kept saying she always felt full. And, as it turned out, that full feeling was related to an undiagnosed gastrointestinal issue. One domino falls, and the rest follow.
It was clear in those early days that Mom probably wouldn’t come home as soon as we’d hoped. She needed to be transferred to a short-term care facility so that she could get more rest, continue to be carefully monitored, and get stronger with the help of nutritional and physical therapy. Still, all I could hear was the sound of a cash register echoing in my head. Ka-ching, Ka-ching, Ka-ching.
Thank God Mom’s insurance plan approved her stay for a few weeks. Dad and I visited her daily and couldn’t wait for her to be discharged. She finally came home in early February. But her healthcare needs didn’t end. Mom has been receiving services from The Visiting Nurses, including a nurse to check her vitals, a home health care aid, a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, and a social worker. She’s also had to add several new prescriptions to her care plan, as well as much-needed medical equipment — a transport chair, cane, commode, and shower chair — to support her as she continues to recover. These services add up, which is why my parents’ health insurance and Medicare are a godsend. I can’t imagine what our options would have been like were it not for this vital safety net.
As I watch what’s unfolding each day under the Trump administration, the political “signifying” that threatens to slash Medicare and Medicaid benefits, the desire to gut Social Security (on which both of my parents rely to pay for bills and their household essentials each month) and the overall seeming lack of empathy for our elderly population, I am both incensed and triggered.
My parents have worked hard all their lives and deserve to reap the benefits they’ve long been promised. But there’s another reason I’m on edge. By this age, I’d hoped to have had enough money to help my parents with anything they need financially. The sad reality is that putting two kids through college, paying for two divorces and child support, and struggling through an ever-competitive job market have rendered me incapable of helping out financially in the way I’d intended. It’s my secret shame.
Should the walls of our societal infrastructure come tumbling down in the name of DOGE, I honestly don’t know what will happen — not just to my family, but to millions of American families. In the meantime, I am preparing for the worst and hoping for the best, understanding that other generations who came before us somehow managed to survive. And so will we.