Fuck VITAS Hospice in Boynton Beach Florida
And not Vytas Reid the weather guy in West Palm Beach. Though seriously fuck that stupid red plaid jacket he wears every goddamned day. Mom and I hated watching him.
Specifically, I say fuck VITAS the nursing home agency in the Palm Beaches.
I got a call from them yesterday, following up on some allegations I made a few months ago.
They tried to call several times. But it was only, um, last weekend that I could even admit publicly that my mother had died.
Also this guy who calls usually asks for my mom by name. So I just say no she can’t come to the phone right now.
Other times he calls and refers to me by my last name. Like yesterday, he asked for Mom and I said she’s not here. He said oh ok is this (last name).
My reply was one of my trademark exasperated sighs.
Anyway he said he has done an investigation and he’s been missing my statement on what was reported to him.
Honestly I’d forgotten about it all. But hey, since we are here reopening the wound, pop some corn, Sparky. I got issues.
I put Mom in the hospital last August. The third or fourth hospital system at that point, I’d lost count.
Anyway, the pain was uncontrollable and would never be controlled. And the treatment options were all pretty terrible.
But rather than be human, the medical director said welp fine then, call hospice. Have a good rest of your life.
Just kidding. She wasn’t that nice to say have a nice anything.
Mom was appalled. She felt OK. Hospice, really?
After Cocoa died in January, I could tell something changed in Mom. I mean, I have never been the same, either. But she had said something like she wishes she could have gone first, so Cocoa could have comforted me through that.
I mean, she also said I’d probably miss Cocoa more. Which … maybe I do. But in a totally different way.
Hindsight being what it is, I think things happened in the right order. Mom was here to comfort me through all my big losses. So I was better equipped to handle losing her.
Anyway, in March, it was clear that the pain was getting worse. Our last car ride was in March 24. I still have the parking receipt from Deerfield Beach. 3/24/24 at 4:24 p.m.
I should have played the lottery. But at that point, we were all basically on autopilot.
Second week of April, I called hospice. There are really only two options here, and the other one had even worse reviews than VITAS.
Justin was my main nurse. He was useless. He liked to sit here and stare at the water and talk about himself and play on his phone.
When I got the bill from Medicare last week for “skilled nursing services” — for over a thousand dollars an hour — I laughed. The second good laugh I got this summer.
I told the guy who called me yesterday, “You guys sent me a request for a donation last month. It was the first I laughed all summer. And I am tempted to call Medicare and report fraud.”
Justin did not provide a thousand dollars’ worth of care once a week. I was the one doing all the bathing, lifting, wound-dressing.
He did not do SHIT.
He did not give me supplies. He told me Medicare pays for supplies and he did not get me anything I asked for. Save for the one day he fished a pair of XS gloves out of his trunk.
I told the caller, there is NOTHING about me that is extra small. Fuck this idiot.
Also, I said your doctor on call in the Boynton office is a joke. His name is Ichabod or ItchyBalls or something. Anyway I said this guy stood in my house and took calls from other patients. Has anyone mentioned HIPAA to him.
And what’s worse is how he and Justin covered for each other. It took eight days to get pain medication ordered. EIGHT DAYS.
Both of these fools blamed each other. Justin said the doctor is new. (To doctoring?) The doctor said Justin is busy.
I know Justin ain’t making no thousand dollars an hour. Hell Justin even said I should pursue nursing because you really only need a pulse to pass the meager requirements in Florida. And there’s job security because there are so many sick people and no one wants to work in the field.
I said my cousin did hospice for her mom, and they would get pain meds at midnight, the day they asked.
I said you run a clown show there. And then for Justin to have the nerve to ask me out for tacos while my mother was trying to tell him about her pain?
I don’t even care about the getting solicited in my own home. Someone should tell his wife and kids though.
Also like I told the caller, I’m over here ordering supplies off Amazon and groceries off Instacart and food for delivery.
I didn’t tell him, but since my memories are coming back to me now, there was a good three weeks where I did not set foot outside of my house other than to buy pain patches at Walgreens.
VITAS thought I was problematic because I stopped letting Justin in. I always had an excuse. Mom told me to tell him — and eventually Renie at the Boynton office — I’m always on calls and don’t have time to entertain this joker.
Eventually Renie sent a different nurse, Mariel. And I loved her.
Mariel actually texted on her off days to ask how Miss Robin was. And did she need anything.
And I’d get the pills or whatever in the next day or two. Whenever that Spanish mail-order pharmacy with the “empanada” sounding name could figure it out.
And then there was Sarah the night nurse. Who arrived exactly five minutes after Mom died. Not her fault. I had called the Boynton office and she drove up from Boca.
I tell you, everything in Boynton is cursed. I knew we were doomed when that was our main office. Real talk, if I could have moved us to any other city, I would have.
In any event, I confessed my rage to Sarah. After she helped me with the funeral director and all that, she went and reported it all.
Good girl.
Anyway I told the caller I don’t have plans to pursue any sort of litigation. Justin and ItchyBalls were absolute failures, but Mariel and Sarah were good to me when I needed them most.
The caller said he would talk to Justin. That this is unprofessional and unacceptable.
I said I really don’t care what you do. But as a supervisor, I concur that you have to address bad behavior.
I did emphasize that my mom was LUCKY to have me to take care of her. I feel bad for people who have to let in these idiots and never get their supplies or the high-price-tag care that Medicare thinks they are getting.
My guess is they probably don’t like Justin and want to fire him, and they needed me to do help them do it.
My guess is ItchyBalls isn’t going anywhere.
OH! So Mom passed on Father’s Day at 2:47 a.m. That’s when she took her last breath.
She opened her eyes super briefly, closed them, and was gone.
After the insanity that was the previous three hours, it was nice to see her at peace.
Sarah got stuck at the broken front gate (heavy sigh) at 3 a.m. so I had to run down and let her in.
I mean, why not let Mom down one last time, right? Me and the HOA.
Sarah pronounced her at 3:25 a.m.
The undertaker was sweet and cute and he said I could have all the time I wanted with her. But I said the best way to honor her is to get her the fuck out of this place before all the fraggles wake up.
By 5 a.m., I was alone for good.
Sarah said VITAS offers caregiver support for a year. I said please tell them never to call me.
I got a call Monday afternoon. The CNA I had been waiting for because I was breaking Mom’s and my backs with bathing attempts, was at my doorstep.
They never told her Mom had passed.
I don’t blame her. I blame that fucking clown show that is VITAS Hospice in Boynton Beach, Florida. With locations in Delray Beach, Boca Raton and West Palm Beach. For the Google crawlers.
I didn’t get her ashes back for well over a week. The funeral director happens to live in this complex (trademark heavy sigh) and he finally called me to say we cannot get a doctor here for some reason.
OK I grew up in the funeral industry and I never, first of all, had to have a medical professional make the call for me. And second, she’s been in a freezer for how many days and you need a doctor to tell you she’s dead?
Well.
So anyway a month ago I needed to use her death certificate to close her bank account, as TD had frozen it and I was like nope, MINE.
The doctor’s name on the death certificate …
ItchyBalls.
They had to dig up this motherfucker to fail my mother one more time?!
And no fucking wonder I had to wait so long. Where the fuck was he, itching his balls in someone else’s house?!
OH MY GOD I HATE VITAS HOSPICE IN BOYNTON BEACH. HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT SO MUCH BURN IT TO THE FUCKING GROUND.