When six nurses run from the same house, it is easy to assume the patient is the problem. Daniel believed that too, until he watched the seventh nurse prepare a dose his father had never been prescribed.
Finding a home nurse for my 79-year-old father-in-law should not have been impossible.
Walter could still walk.
He fed himself and read the newspaper every morning.
He still argued about baseball and remembered birthdays better than I did.
However, he had arthritis and some heart issues.
He also needed help keeping track of medication, meals, and nighttime safety.
That was all.
At least, that was what we thought.
Then the nurses started quitting.
The first lasted four days.
The second left halfway through her night shift.
The third called the agency the next morning and said she would not return.
By the sixth nurse, Daniel and I had stopped being surprised.
That one walked out of Walter’s house at two in the morning without even taking her coat.
The agency called Daniel.
“She says she’ll send someone for her belongings tomorrow.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead. “What is happening in that house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad yell at her?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“Did he hurt her?”
“She said no.”
“Then what happened? Why are they all quitting?”
The coordinator hesitated.
“She just kept saying she couldn’t go back.”
That was almost exactly what the others had said.
“I’m sorry. I can’t go back there.”
None of them would explain properly. Walter insisted nothing had happened.
Every time Daniel asked, his father became irritated. “I slept. I didn’t do anything.”
“Six women don’t quit because you sleep.”
“Then maybe your agency hires cowards or lazy people.”
“Dad, don’t say that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You’ve never had this problem before.”
Walter waved him off. “I don’t need strangers wandering around my house anyway.”
The problem was that he did.
He’d fallen twice in six months.
Once, he left the stove on.
His cardiologist had changed three prescriptions.
Walter had accidentally doubled one dose because he couldn’t remember taking it.
He wasn’t helpless. But he wasn’t safe alone every night either.
After nurse number six quit, Daniel came home and sat at our kitchen table for almost an hour without saying much.
Then he said, “I’m going in.”
I looked up. “Going where?”
“Dad’s house.”
“You go there a few times every week.”
“No. I’m going in as staff. I don’t want him to know it’s his son.”
“You’re joking.”
He wasn’t.
The agency had already scheduled another nurse.
Daniel called and told them the family wanted to provide a temporary home health aide.
The aide would train alongside the nurse because we hoped to take over more of Walter’s care ourselves.
That part was true. The fake part was Daniel’s identity.
He told the agency that the aide was a man called Michael.
He cut his beard down to stubble.
He wore reading glasses he didn’t need.
He bought a ridiculous baseball cap.
He wore a medical mask whenever he was close to Walter.
He also changed the way he spoke and said he would keep his distance from Walter.
I told him he sounded ridiculous.
He said, “Good. Dad has heard my voice for 45 years; I need to sound funny.”
Walter’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and Daniel deliberately kept interaction minimal.
He carried laundry and cleaned the kitchen.
He took notes and let the new nurse, Jenna, handle almost everything involving Walter directly.
For two days, nothing happened. Daniel texted me constantly.
“Dad complained about his soup.”
Ten minutes later: “Dad complained that the TV remote is too complicated.”
Then: “He told Jenna she’s too young to know how to make coffee.”
I replied, “Sounds completely normal.”
He sent back, “Exactly.”
By the third night, I started wondering whether the problem had really been the nurses.
Maybe six people had somehow misunderstood Walter.
Maybe his temper had gotten worse on some occasions.
Maybe Daniel would learn absolutely nothing.
Then, at 11:37 p.m., my phone buzzed. “Something’s wrong.”
I sat up in bed. “What?”
Daniel didn’t answer. I called, and he declined it.
Then another text came.
“Stay awake.”
At Walter’s house, Jenna had started preparing the midnight medication.
Walter took one pill before bed and another around midnight because of how his doctor had scheduled them.
Daniel had seen the routine twice already.
That night, though, Jenna opened the medication drawer and took out a small bottle.
It was not one of the pharmacy bottles.
This one had no printed pharmacy label.
Daniel watched her unscrew the cap.
“What is that?”
She looked up.
“You weren’t told?”
“Told what?”
Her face changed.
She glanced toward Walter’s bedroom.
Then lowered her voice. “Every nurse gets the same instruction.”
Daniel stepped closer. “What instruction?”
Jenna opened the drawer wider. A folded piece of paper was taped to the inside.
She handed it to him.
It read: “At midnight, mix the liquid from Bottle 12 into evening medication. Do not discuss this with Walter. He becomes agitated if told.”
Daniel read it twice. “Who wrote this?”
Jenna shook her head. “It was here when I started.”
“The agency told you to do this?”
“No. I assumed it’s from the family. It is not uncommon to get instructions from them.”
Daniel took the bottle. “Have you given him any?”
“I gave him last night.”
“And everything was okay?”
“Nothing happened at first.”
“And later?”
Jenna looked toward the hallway. “He woke up around two in the morning.”
“And what did he do?”
“He was confused.”
“How?”
“He kept asking where his wife was.”
Walter’s wife, Daniel’s mother, had been dead for eight years.
Jenna continued. “Then he told me she was standing in the hallway.”
Daniel was shocked.
“He said, ‘She’s back.'”
Then Jenna hesitated.
“What?”
“He said I was going to die.”
