Over the past several months,
Georgia’s seniors, especially those affected by Alzheimer’s and
dementia, have faced a whole host of obstacles related to the COVID-19
pandemic, including an increased vulnerability to abuse, neglect and
exploitation. Due to the devastation I have witnessed with family and
friends following a dementia and Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I chose to
become actively involved in the Alzheimer’s Association mission.
When
families are in these situations and losing hope, they need to feel
confident in our system to provide safe and supportive care.
Unfortunately, so many caregivers and responders do not completely
understand the characteristics of the disease, and they may react
inappropriately or even harmfully to our loved ones. Families are
enduring stress and worry about the abuse and exploitation they might
face from those trying to take advantage of them, whether emotionally,
physically or financially.
Thankfully,
the Increasing Alzheimer’s Awareness to Prevent Elder Abuse Act is an
important step in protecting all seniors, especially those with dementia
from elder abuse. This legislation will ensure that families can have
more peace of mind knowing that our first responders will have the tools
they need to intervene and prevent elder abuse.
On behalf of Georgians with dementia and
the Alzheimer’s Association, I want to thank Rep. Sanford Bishop for
his leadership on this issue as a co-sponsor of the Increasing
Alzheimer’s Awareness to Prevent Elder Abuse Act.
That husband was abusive, the other side argues,
urging the court to affirm Ryan Morris' removal from their Riverside
County home
Ryan Morris, right, and husband Sean Spicer, at their wedding in 2014.,
Spicer became Morris’ legal guardian. (Photo courtesy probate court
file)
By Teri Sforza
In the latest twist in a confounding legal case that pits two
fundamental rights for the disabled squarely against one another, a man
with the mental capacity of a first-grader is appealing a judge’s
decision to strip his husband of legal guardianship and move the disabled man out of their Riverside County home.
In a brief filed with the California Fourth District Court of Appeal,
attorneys for Ryan Morris are seeking to reverse the trial court
ruling, arguing that his limited understanding of what it means to be
married should never have been factored into the judge’s decision. The
case presents a direct conflict between the hard-won right for the
disabled to marry and have sex lives, just like everyone else, and their right to be protected from abuse and undue influence.
“There is a large body of case authority reflecting an extremely low
level of mental capacity needed before making the decision to marry or
execute a will,” says the brief, which seeks to return guardianship to
Morris’ spouse, Sean Spicer. “Marriage arises out of a civil contract,
but courts recognize this is a special kind of contract that does not
require the same level of mental capacity of the parties as other kinds
of contracts.”
The Riverside County judge — who removed Spicer, a man of regular
intelligence, as legal conservator for Morris — made numerous errors of
law and abused her discretion, Morris’ attorneys said. Morris’ mental
capacity was not an issue properly before the court; Morris loves
Spicer, wants Spicer as his legal guardian and wants to live with him;
and the law “imposes a preference” for Morris’ desires, they argue in
their appeal.
Attorneys for Morris’ identical twin brother, Ronald Moore of Orange County, tore into that logic in their response, filed in October.
“The trial court did not annul or set aside the marriage between
Spicer and Morris, nor did the trial court modify any of the rights
afforded to Morris,” they argued. “He still possesses the rights to
consent or withhold consent to marriage and to control his social and
sexual contacts. Hence, any claims to the contrary … are diversions from
the monumental abuses inflicted on Morris by Spicer.”
Absent from Morris’ appeal was any mention of those abuses —
including Spicer’s threats to send Morris back to his adoptive mother’s
house, where he had been sexually abused as a child — when he
misbehaved, Moore’s attorneys argued. Spicer also threatened to take off
his wedding ring, end the marriage and send Morris away for emergency
mental health treatment when Morris was difficult or violent. And Spicer
punished Morris by restricting visits with his biological family, which
desperately wanted to see him.
Spicer also continued to make their home in a Romoland trailer with
his parents, despite violent episodes between Morris and Spicer’s
mother, and between Morris and Spicer himself. The judge also cited an
unsettling episode in which Spicer’s mother attempted to commit suicide
by slitting her wrists in front of Morris.
Attorneys for twin Moore called Spicer’s behavior reprehensible.
“What kind of person, let alone a spouse and conservator, would do and
say such things to a young man that has the mental capacity of a young
child in the range of 5 to 7 years old?” they wrote.
In the ruling
that’s now contested, Riverside Superior Court Judge Sunshine Sykes
said love may not be the best yardstick for decision-making. While she
had no doubt that love existed between Morris and Spicer, “sometimes
choices based upon love are not always choices made based upon best
interest,” she wrote. “The lines between spouse and conservator have
been blurred to such an extent that it is no longer in Ryan’s best
interest to have Sean in the role of conservator. This is evidenced by
numerous instances of abusive behavior.”
The judge appointed the Riverside public guardian as temporary conservator and moved Morris to a new home.
Constitutional violations
“The trial court’s order in this case impermissibly interfered with
(Morris’) right to be married because the order required that he be
removed from the home of his spouse,” says the appeal by Mark J. Andrew
Flory of Brown White & Osborn.
“The court’s order also limited visitation between Ryan and his
spouse to visits in a therapeutic setting only. The trial court’s order
has the effect of interfering with (his) fundamental right to be married
because the order forces Ryan and his spouse to live separately,” and
that, they argue, violates both the United States and California
constitutions.
“This Court should reverse the trial court’s order removing the limited conservator,” the appeal said.
Morris and identical twin Moore were taken into state custody shortly
after birth due to their parents’ mental illness. Their grandmother
fought for custody of both boys, but got only Moore, the healthy baby.
Morris had so many special needs he was kept in foster care.
Morris’ foster mother adopted him over the biological family’s
vehement objections, then cut off communication. The foster mother
surrendered her license last year after the death of a 16-year-old at
her facility.
Removed for cause
A legal response by Charles S. Krolikowski and Jason M. Caruso of
Newmeyer & Dillion LLP says the appeals court should look with great
skepticism on the “inaccurate factual and legal propositions” raised in
the appeal.
“The trial court removed Spicer as conservator for cause,” they
argued. “The trial court’s decision to remove a conservator is a matter
of discretion … determined by the court on case-by-case basis.”
Spicer testified to mistreating and threatening Morris, they argued.
And while Morris may say he wants Spicer as conservator now, Morris also
has said he doesn’t want to be married or live with Spicer as well.
A video of Morris and
Spicer’s wedding shows Morris didn’t understand he was at his own
wedding, instead mistaking the ceremony for a baptism. But the judge
didn’t annul the marriage because of Morris’ lack of capacity, and it
didn’t modify his right to marry or spend time with anyone he wants,
they said.
“There was a mountain of evidence to support the removal of Spicer,”
they wrote. “This is not a close call. The decision of the trial court
should be affirmed.”
Morris’ attorneys have until Dec. 14 to file their reply. The appeals court is expected to made a decision sometime next year.
Although singer Britney Spears is seemingly determined to get out from being legally bound to her father Jamie Spears, she should have an exit strategy, especially when it comes to her $60 million fortune.
Britney Spears |VALERIE MACON / /AFP via Getty Images
Jamie
has been his daughter’s personal conservator since 2008 following a
public breakdown. He managed her career and finances until 2019 but
stepped away temporarily to deal with a health issue. Jamie appointed
Jodi Montgomery to step in temporarily, but now Britney wants Jodi to
remain in the role.
Britney
has since petitioned to have Jamie removed, however her request was
denied. Judge Brenda Penny suggested Britney and her father explore his
removal “down the road,” The Associated Press reports.
Britney’s attorney claimed his client is afraid of her father. “My
client has informed me that she is afraid of her father,” her attorney,
Samuel D. Ingham III shared. “She also stated that she will not perform
as long as her father is in charge of her career. We are really at a
crossroads.”
Britney Spears should explore her options now
Ultimately,
Britney will have more control over her finances. But a massive fortune
requires more than an armchair accountant. Her total living expenses
in 2018 amounted to about $400,000. This included purchases made at
some of her favorite stores like Target, Home Depot, Walmart, and Bed,
Bath & Beyond. She also spent $70,000 on travel in 2018. Plus she
gives ex-husband Kevin Federline $20,000 a month in child support.
Jamie Spears has been making about $130,000 a year, but he was also bringing in 1.5% of revenues from her Las Vegas residency, ET reports.
Felt like a little trip to paradise for an early birthday celebration ✈️🌺☀️🌴💕💋🤸🏼♀️🙊🎂🌟 !!!!!!!!! pic.twitter.com/RxZef9vJ81
And while blowing $60 million is difficult, Wealth Advisor
points out it isn’t impossible, especially if she doesn’t find a better
way to manage her wealth. “The real danger is that she’ll accumulate an
entourage of freeloaders who then run up the bills or worse, marry
their way into a legal share of her money,” the site pondered once
Britney’s father is no longer in charge of her money.
Adding,
“Like a lot of family conservators and family trustees, Britney’s
father isn’t really trained for any of that. All he has is his
experience as a parent and a human being, which for most of us is good
but not always perfect.”
Wealth
Advisor suggested that Britney find a way to make her current savings
last a lifetime, which could be achieved through a special needs trust
or a similar vehicle.
Britney Spears is essentially ‘retired’
Elaine
Renoire, president of the National Association to Stop Guardian Abuse
made a good point about the conservatorship. “As long as she is bringing
in so much money and as long as the lawyers and conservators are
getting paid, there is little incentive to end it,” she told The New York Times. “Usually, the conservatorship just keeps going unless the conservatee makes a fuss or the family does.”
Britney has essentially “made a fuss” but Jamie remains as her
conservator. She’s since stopped performing and hasn’t performed since
2019, after her father’s health crisis. Certainly, the global pandemic
has also added another layer as most performers are currently unable to
hold live shows.
Her live Las Vegas residency generated $500,000 per show, the Las Vegas Review-Journal reports. In 2017, her residency alone generated $100 million, according to Forbes. But she hung up her mic last year and has now vowed to remain “retired” while her father is in charge of her life.
A disbarred lawyer who
previously worked in Sturgis is accused of stealing money from a second
client and covering her fraud by giving false documents to a tax
preparer and lying to a legal assistant, lawyer and judge.
Rena
Hymans, a 48-year-old from Vale, is now facing 57 charges in federal
court related to allegedly stealing $217,699 from two clients between
2014 and 2019, according to a 21-page indictment.
Hymans
pleaded not guilty in September at the federal courthouse in Rapid City
to 38 counts of wire fraud, 17 counts of money laundering, one count of
mail fraud and one count of bank fraud. She was released pre-trial.
If
convicted, Hymans faces up to 30 years in prison on the bank fraud
charge and up to 20 years on each mail fraud, wire fraud and money
laundering count.
The
charges come after Hymans resigned from the South Dakota State Bar on
Jan. 22, which means she’s no longer eligible to practice law, according
to documents provided by the state court administrator.
Hymans resigned after learning the state bar was investigating a
complaint that accused her of breaking a law that says it’s illegal for
attorneys to use clients' money in unauthorized ways. She was also
accused of violating professional rules about misconduct and safekeeping
property.
“I do not desire to contest or defend against the above-described
complaint, allegations or instances of alleged misconduct,” Hymans wrote
in her resignation letter.
Hymans was indicted in August on
charges related to allegedly stealing $167,699 between May 2017 and July
2019 from a client who inherited the money from a relative. She was
indicted on additional charges the next month related to allegedly
stealing $50,000 from a second client between February 2014 and November
2015.
According to the new indictment:
In
February 2014 Hymans put $50,000 in her client trust account for the
Gilbert Keester Estate and was supposed to hold the money until
litigation surrounding the estate was settled. Hymans instead embezzled
the money into other accounts and used it for work and personal
expenses.
In
order to conceal the fraud, Hymans told her legal assistant that the
transferred funds were earnings for her legal services. She also
provided falsified documents to her income tax preparer that made the
embezzled money look like income.
The
mail fraud charge relates to Hymans sending a 2016 letter to a lawyer
involved in the estate litigation that said the $50,000 remained in her
client trust account when she had already spent it.
Hymans
appeared in the Oglala Sioux court in 2018 on behalf of the Gilbert
Keester Estate and falsely told the judge that she still had all of the
money in her client trust account.
Later
that year she wrote a check from her client trust account to the estate
by using money that belonged to the other client she defrauded.
Varahn Chamblee outside one of the hair salons
where she works in the Bronx.
(Joshua Rashaad McFadden/The New Republic)
What it’s like to stay alive as the virus charts its fatal course
through a home for the elderly in one of the worst-hit neighborhoods in
the Bronx.
by Ava Kofman
When
someone in the building died, a notice was often taped to a window in
the lobby: “WE REGRET TO ANNOUNCE THE PASSING OF OUR FRIEND….” The signs
did not say how or where the friend had died, and because they were
eventually removed, they could be easy to miss. In March, as these names
began to appear more frequently at Bronxwood, an assisted living
facility in New York, Varahn Chamblee tried to keep track. Varahn, who
had lived at Bronxwood for almost a year, was president of its resident
council. Her neighbors admired her poise and quiet confidence. She spoke
regularly with management, but as the coronavirus swept through the
five-story building, they told her as little about its progress as they
told anyone else.
Some
residents estimated that 25 people had died — that was the number
Varahn had heard — but others thought the toll had to be higher. There
was talk that a man on the second floor had been the first to go,
followed by a beloved housekeeper. An administrator known as Mr. Stern
called in sick. Around the same time, Varahn noticed that the woman who
fed the pigeons had also disappeared.
The
New York State Department of Health advises adult care facilities to
inform residents about confirmed and suspected COVID-19 cases. But
inhabitants of Bronxwood said they were kept in the dark. In the absence
of official communication, it was difficult to sort out hearsay from
fact. “I was told that it was 42 people,” said Renee Johnson, who lived
on the floor above Varahn. “But honestly we don’t know. They are not
telling us anything.” When for a couple of weeks Renee herself was
bedridden — fatigued and wheezing — there were rumors that she, too, had
passed away.
Because
so many people were missing, and no one knew where they’d gone, life
began to feel like a horror film. The dining room, once an outlet for
gossip and intrigue, was shuttered and the theater room padlocked. Staff
covered the lobby in tape, as if it were the scene of a crime. The
library began filling up with the possessions of those who had vanished:
their televisions and computers, their walkers and bags of clothes.
It
seemed like a good omen when a few residents came back from the
hospital grinning, having faced the ordeal and lived to tell about it.
“I wouldn’t even say to them, ‘I thought you were dead,’” Varahn said.
“I was just happy to see them.” But then she spotted these survivors in
the lobby or going out shopping and worried that the sickness would
continue to spread.
The
virus was taking the worst toll in the Bronx, and Bronxwood sat within
the borough’s hardest-hit ZIP code, although it would be weeks until
anyone would know this. But by April, it was clear that elderly Black
and brown people with preexisting health conditions, living in crowded
housing in the city’s poorest neighborhoods, were among those most
susceptible. That many of Bronxwood’s residents belonged to this
demographic did not escape anyone there.
When
Varahn arrived at Bronxwood in the summer of 2019, she was 65 and still
worked at two salons. She hadn’t been planning to move to an assisted
living facility, but she was desperate to find an affordable room. She
had been sharing a ground-floor apartment with her 28-year-old son in
Allerton, a working-class neighborhood in the Bronx, before her landlady
pushed her out to make space for her grandchildren. Friends told Varahn
she should have taken the matter to court, and maybe she could have,
but she believed that things happened for a reason.
In
the brick vastness of the east Bronx, with its towering apartment
blocks and modest duplexes, Bronxwood’s cream-and-beige exterior stood
out. The building was just a 20-minute walk up the street from her old
apartment, so she didn’t have to worry about missing her clients, her
church sisters or the kids she mentored, who called her Mother V. Her
benefits covered the $1,270 rent, which included three meals a day and
housekeeping. The shared bedrooms — crammed with two twin beds, two
stout night tables, two wardrobes and two wooden dressers — were small,
but Varahn didn’t think she’d spend much time in hers.
On
the first floor, which housed the recreation and meeting rooms, there
was always something to do. Staff threw holiday parties and monthly
birthday celebrations. Visitors came by to help with knitting and
coloring and computer lessons. There was Uno, Pokeno and afternoon
bingo. On Wednesdays, members of the cooking club prepared Cornish hens,
fish and chips, liver with onions. In the afternoon, bands would
perform — classical and jazz, calypso and merengue — and some of the
singers were quite talented.
Glenda King outside Bronxwood, an assisted living facility in New York, in September.
(Joshua Rashaad McFadden/The New Republic)
Not
long after Varahn moved in, she met Glenda King at a Bible study group.
Glenda, who is 68 and has lived at Bronxwood for over seven years,
wears square transition lenses and tucks her gray hair into a prim, low
bun. Dryly self-deprecating, she considers herself an introvert who has
the misfortune to live in a building with 270 other people. She makes a
point of being friendly, even though she likes to say that she has no
true friends.
At
first, Glenda found Varahn to be reserved, but she soon realized that
what she had mistaken for detachment was simply Varahn’s way of taking
in her new surroundings. Varahn knew how to draw people out and listen
to their problems. She had worked as a beautician since high school,
first at flagship boutiques in the city and later for the disco diva
Carol Douglas and on the sets of Spike Lee films. Her clients felt
comfortable confiding in her, and before long, so did the residents of
Bronxwood. “I can go up and talk to her about anything,” Glenda told me.
“Her forte is humility.”
All
adult care facilities are legally required to maintain a forum where
residents can independently discuss their living conditions, but some
resident councils, like Bronxwood’s, are more active than others.
Although Varahn was new to the building, people encouraged her to run
for president. She would bring an unusual amount of political experience
to the council: She had previously served as vice chair of the Allerton
Barnes Block Association and as president of both the neighborhood
merchant’s group and a charity society at her church. Under her bed, she
stored the plaques from various luncheons that had celebrated her civic
advocacy.
After
Varahn’s victory in the September elections, Glenda, who had worked for
many years as a typist, took on the duties of council secretary, and
Hurshel Godfrey, another longtime resident, assumed the vice presidency.
Every month, the council gathered in the main lobby, which fit about 60
people, some of them perched on their walkers. Varahn, who has a broad,
serious face and a sleek bob, dressed for the occasion in crisp
two-piece suits with lapels. She worked to cultivate a shared sense of
purpose. “I never said I could do something, even if that was true,” she said. “I always emphasized that we could do it together.”
One
of the first things Varahn noticed that fall, as the weather grew
colder, was how few residents had proper winter clothes. Some explained
that they were stuck indoors because they lacked coats. Old men shuffled
around in flip-flops in the rain. In the annual grant application for
extra state funding, Varahn secured a bigger clothing allowance — $200
per resident — and a double-oven stove for the communal kitchen. She
brought in educational speakers for Veterans Day and Black History
Month, and planned field trips to go out dancing and to the casino.
“Varahn had a lot of connections,” Hurshel said. “I knew a few people,
but she knew a lot.”
Some
of the local politicians Varahn was acquainted with started asking her
if she had ever considered running for higher office: The City Council
elections were coming up in 2021. In February, she started riding the
subway to midtown Manhattan to take a class for first-time candidates.
Former campaign managers shared tips on electoral strategy and the best
kind of eye contact to make with large crowds. Maybe, she thought,
electoral politics was her calling.
At
this point, the virus was said to be on the other side of the world. It
hadn’t yet surfaced in a nursing home in Kirkland, Washington, or in
New Rochelle, just a short drive up the road.
Until
the 1980s, elderly Americans with medical needs had limited options:
They could age at home with family or aides, or they could “park and
die,” as the saying went, at a nursing home. Assisted living facilities
emerged as a third way, rejecting the clinical strictures of a medical
institution in favor of a more informal, dormlike setting.
In
the last four decades, demand for assisted living has soared. The
paradigm promises residents the freedom to live autonomously — and
operators freedom from regulation. Unlike nursing homes, assisted living
facilities are not subject to federal oversight. The standards for care
— along with the definition of “assisted living” — vary greatly from
state to state (and from facility to facility).
During
the pandemic, these freedoms have become liabilities. “If infection
control was limited and regulation was already ineffective in nursing
homes, it’s almost nonexistent in assisted living,” said David
Grabowski, a professor of health care policy at Harvard Medical School
who studies long-term care for older adults. “It’s all the problems we
are talking about with nursing homes, but even more so. There’s less
regulation, far less staffing and many of the residents are just as
sick.” The population in assisted living often closely resembles that of
nursing homes, yet there are no requirements that the former provide
full-time medical staff. In New York, according to government data, half
of those in assisted living are over 85, two-thirds need help bathing
and a third have Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia.
At
Bronxwood, the state’s third-largest adult care facility, residents
said that employees initially lacked protective gear as they cleaned
dozens of rooms. As in other homes in the city at the start of the
outbreak, shared bathrooms and group meals made it difficult to isolate.
And because it is not a medical institution, residents continued to
enter and leave the building as they’d always done. (Neither Bronxwood
nor Daniel Stern, an administrator, responded to repeated requests for
comment.)
Bronxwood, New York state’s third-largest adult care facility.
(Joshua Rashaad McFadden/The New Republic)
Less
than 1% of Americans reside in long-term care facilities — a category
that includes nursing homes and assisted living residences — but these
facilities account for around 40% of the country’s COVID-19 deaths.
Researchers caution that this figure represents an undercount. Many
states do not publish this data, or do so incompletely, and fewer than
half of all states report cases in assisted living facilities, according
to research by the Kaiser Family Foundation. “As a result,” the
analysis said, “it is difficult to know the extent to which residents
and staff at assisted living facilities have been affected by COVID-19
or the extent to which interventions are urgently needed.”
The
way that New York counts deaths has been controversial from the start.
That’s because the state’s Health Department will not attribute a death
to a residential health care facility unless the death occurs on the
premises. The unusual policy has baffled residents and their family
members, along with lawmakers and health care experts. “This is a really
big hole in New York state data,” Grabowski said. “If someone lives for
a long time in a nursing home, it makes no sense that their death is
then attributed to the hospital rather than the nursing home.” Without a
proper count of cases and deaths, advocates argue, officials cannot
direct scrutiny or resources to afflicted homes.
For
more than two hours at a hearing in August, legislators repeatedly
pressed the state health commissioner, Dr. Howard Zucker, for the number
of deaths that could be traced back to residential health care
facilities. His answers did not satisfy his interrogators. “It seems,
sir, that in this case you are choosing to define it differently so you
can look better,” said Gustavo Rivera, the state Senate Health Committee
chairman, whose district includes part of the Bronx. “And that’s a
problem.”
Gov.
Andrew Cuomo has boasted about the relatively low death toll in the
state’s nursing homes, despite the fact that no other state counts these
deaths as New York does. As of mid-November, there have been more than
6,619 virus-related deaths within the state’s nursing homes and 179 in
its adult care facilities, according to official data. Bronxwood,
however, has never appeared in that tally.
“The
public list is incomplete and misleading,” said Geoff Lieberman, the
executive director of the Coalition of Institutionalized Aged and
Disabled, an organization that advocates on behalf of adult home
residents in New York City. “Either everyone at Bronxwood died at the
hospital, or the information isn’t being accurately reported.” Before
the August hearing, Lieberman and his colleagues at CIAD interviewed
residents at 28 adult homes in New York City, including Bronxwood, and
tallied around 250 deaths from their accounts — a stark contrast to the
53 deaths that facilities had self-reported to the state. Bronxwood
employees likewise sounded the alarm: In April, six staff members told
local news that by their count more than a dozen residents had died.
Residents
played detective, too. In May, when the U.S. death toll hit 100,000,
Renee Johnson tried to match the names she saw in the newspaper to those
of her missing neighbors. “We lost a lot of friends,” she said. “And
you’re scared — you’re really scared — because you don’t know if you’re
next.”
Jonah
Bruno, a spokesman for the Department of Health, defended New York’s
approach to counting COVID-19 deaths in residential health care
settings. “The Department goes to great lengths to ensure the accuracy
and consistency in our data reporting,” he wrote in an email. Bruno did
not disclose how many residents died in the hospital after falling ill
at Bronxwood, but he noted that the facility passed an infection control
survey in May. “Since the start of this pandemic,” he added, “we have
made protecting the most vulnerable New Yorkers, including those in
adult care facilities, our top priority.”
Slowly
and then all at once, everything that had made Bronxwood bearable was
taken away. Residents were discouraged from seeing one another, going
outside or congregating in common areas. Visitors were banned. Whenever
people lingered downstairs or smoked out on the patio, staff ushered
them back to their rooms.
Varahn
hung posters in the lobby to try to boost morale. The first gave the
administration and staff five hand-drawn stars and thanked them “for
caring during COVID-19.” “WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER,” read the second,
on which she had colored an American flag. Some residents thought their
president was doing the best she could, given the circumstances. Others
were offended. They didn’t want to thank anyone: They were miserable.
Deborah
Berger, who lives on the fourth floor, likened the new regime to living
in a giant day care center. Glenda said she felt like a puppy in a
doghouse. Renee compared it to jail.
The
analogies were ready at hand, but what was harder to express was how
little trust they had in the institution tasked with protecting them.
“Nobody is talking to us,” Renee said. “The staff just say: ‘Go to your
room. Go to your room.’ There’s no feelings. There’s no nothing.”
Renee Johnson outside Bronxwood in September.
(Joshua Rashaad McFadden/The New Republic)
Glenda
washed her hands until she felt as if they were going to fall off. She
wiped everything down with bleach — door handles, dresser, windowsill.
She had a weak left lung, and she was terrified. “If I get one hit of
that coronavirus,” she liked to say, “I’m not going to make it.” When
her legs got stiff from sitting, she paced up and down her
cappuccino-colored hallway, about the length of a city block. Other
times, wearing a surgical mask, she wheeled her walker downstairs,
though the state of affairs there could be disappointing. A lot of
residents didn’t wear masks. They huddled around the TV and crowded in
the elevator. People were getting complacent. “Not me,” Glenda said.
The
council had suspended its meetings, but toward the end of April,
several residents approached Varahn to report that Bronxwood was not
giving them their stimulus checks. In fact, complaints about missing or
partial stimulus checks were so widespread throughout the city’s
facilities that the state issued a guidance: Residents’ money belonged
to residents. Varahn convened an impromptu meeting with the council’s
leadership in the stairwell — the only somewhat quiet place in the
building — to strategize about what to do.
Hurshel,
the vice president, was planning to ask about his check. “Don’t ask,”
Varahn coached him. “Say, ‘I came here to get my money and I’ll cash it
myself.’” Glenda noted that people with dementia might not remember the
existence of the checks in the first place, so she knocked on doors to
remind them.
Part
of Varahn’s role as president was to relay these and other concerns to
Mr. Stern. They had an easy, playful rapport. Sometimes, he asked what
an intelligent woman like her was doing living in a place like this. The
question flattered her, but it also unsettled her, as if she wasn’t
wanted or didn’t belong.
People
talked about leaving Bronxwood almost as soon as they arrived, but the
truth was that they were there because they had nowhere else to go. The
elderly are typically steered to places like Bronxwood after a stay in
the hospital. They have taken a fall or needed a surgery, and while
they’re recovering, lose their apartment. Others, like Glenda, are
recommended by a caseworker at a shelter. It’s not uncommon for such
homes to hire recruiters to help fill their beds.
While
many assisted living facilities cater to a wealthy clientele, who pay
out of pocket, Bronxwood primarily serves low-income seniors. (It is,
technically speaking, an adult home with an assisted living program.)
Most residents sign over their supplemental security income to pay for
the room and board — and out of that sum the facility gives them a $207
“personal needs allowance” each month. The money runs out quickly, since
it often goes toward phone bills, toiletries, transportation and more
nutritious food.
Out
of Bronxwood’s 270 or so residents, more than half are enrolled in its
assisted living program, whose costs are covered by Medicaid. In theory,
the program offers an extra level of care to those who need it. In
practice, it functions as a “huge financial boon” to the adult home
industry, said Tanya Kessler, a senior staff attorney with Mobilization
for Justice, a legal services organization. Bronxwood can charge
Medicaid between $78 and $154 per enrolled resident each day, depending
on his or her needs. But Kessler said there’s little oversight into
whether this additional funding results in additional care. Bruno, the
spokesman, said that the Health Department conducts regular inspections
of assisted living programs “to ensure all applicable laws, regulations
and guidelines are being followed.”
Healthier
residents at Bronxwood told me that they seemed to be roomed with those
who were more infirm, effectively placing them in the role of an extra
aide. “One of the big complaints we hear is, ‘I’m not well myself, but
they put this person in here that they expect me to look after,’” said
Sherletta McCaskill, who, as the training director of CIAD, helps adult
home residents organize councils and independent living classes. “It
speaks to the lack of services that these homes are providing.” The most
recent audit by New York’s Office of the Medicaid Inspector General
found that Bronxwood had overbilled Medicaid by $4.4 million in 2006 and
2007. (Bronxwood requested an administrative hearing to challenge the
findings, according to an OMIG spokesperson; the date is pending.)
In
the pandemic, everyone’s escape plans, loudly discussed yet endlessly
deferred, took on a new urgency. Residents told Varahn that they were
joining the city’s long wait list for subsidized senior housing, or that
a son or daughter was coming to rescue them. Faye Washington, who was
68 and lived down the hall from Glenda, tried to compile a list of
senior housing options in the Bronx. “You know why I want to get out?”
Faye said. “Because when all those people passed away, it killed me.”
Faye Washington outside Bronxwood in September.
(Joshua Rashaad McFadden/The New Republic)
Faye
told Glenda, “I’m taking you with me.” But Glenda was not in any hurry.
It was safer, she felt, to be where an aide could hear if she called
for help. She had heart problems, anxiety, memory loss and chronic
fatigue. Her family had asked her to stay with them, but she did not
want to babysit relatives. As she saw it, if God had wished her to have
more children, he would have let her keep getting her period.
Varahn’s
family urged her to leave as soon as possible, even if it meant losing a
month of rent. But where would she go? Varahn wondered. And then what
would she do? The lady who lived across the hall had gone to see her
daughter in Georgia, and now she was stuck there while all her things
were here.
As
the lockdown dragged on, Varahn felt herself sliding into a depression.
Before March, she was always out with a client or at some community
meeting. Now she was eating three meals a day on a rectangular folding
table at the edge of her bed. She was gaining weight from staying
inside. Her feet were swollen. Her back hurt.
She
started taking walks, sometimes just a few blocks, to relieve the pain.
The soccer field across the street, where kids played on Saturdays, was
empty. Many of the stores on White Plains Road, Boston Road and
Allerton Avenue, including the salons, were closed until further notice,
and some days it felt like the entire world was at a standstill.
It
wasn’t just the forced isolation that discouraged her. Everything was
happening on some sort of screen, and the tedious video engagements and
text messages often left her frustrated. In her class for first-time
campaigners, which had migrated to Zoom, the connection was always
faltering, making it difficult to understand what anyone was trying to
say.
At
other times, she wasn’t isolated enough. Her roommate rose at dawn and
sold loose cigarettes throughout the day. People were always stopping
by. Whenever Varahn was on a call or at a virtual meeting, the roommate
muttered under her breath or cursed sarcastically. Once, the noise was
so disruptive to the class that the instructor told Varahn to mute
herself, which she found humiliating. What would have been merely an
inconvenient pairing in normal times had under quarantine become an
oppressively intimate arrangement. There was also the problem of
Varahn’s older sister, Childris, whose heart was starting to fail. The
grief put a constant pressure on her days. All this made it hard to
concentrate, and she soon fell behind on her studies. So many things
about her path to the City Council were uncertain now anyway. Was a
person of her age expected to knock on doors? Would she have to campaign
through a computer screen?
Varahn
began searching for a way to reclaim her freedom. She asked Mr. Stern
for a room of her own. As far as she could tell, there was plenty of
space in the building. A private accommodation could double as a little
office for the council, she reasoned — somewhere that residents could
feel comfortable speaking to her. But management never acted on her
request. Victoria Kelley, a former jazz singer who had lived at
Bronxwood for three years, suspected that Varahn’s battle for the
clothing allowance had turned administrators against her. Such
retaliation is not unheard of, according to advocates who work with
residents at adult care facilities. “If you don’t have someone on the
council to fight for you, nothing gets done, but Varahn did fight,”
Victoria told me. “Some of the naysayers got jealous.”
With
the arrival of spring, a different approach revealed itself to Varahn.
First she rented a car, so she could get around more easily. Bright
flowers fringed the patio, and slender trees cast ragged patches of
shade on the sidewalk. Her errands had been piling up, too. She needed
to buy cases of bottled water, pick up her son’s stimulus check from her
ex-landlord, haul her sheets to the laundromat after her roommate got
bedbugs.
Then
she started driving for the pleasure of it, humming along to power
ballads on Christian radio and chatting on the phone with friends. She
found herself going through the boxes in her U-Haul storage unit, making
a mental inventory of all the things she didn’t have space for at
Bronxwood, like her slow cooker, her turkey roaster, her Ashley Stewart
outfits, her dance costumes. One weekend, a few FOR SALE signs caught
her attention. That was when she realized what was happening: She wanted
out.
It
was a complicated undertaking. Most apartments were too expensive,
which is why she hadn’t been able to get one in time last year. And even
if she was lucky enough to find something affordable, she would have to
keep working — perhaps, if salons weren’t allowed to reopen, somewhere
that wasn’t a salon. Then again, she didn’t want any of the residents to
feel that she was leaving them behind.
One
morning toward the end of July, Glenda’s cellphone rang. The sound
surprised her, because she had stopped paying the bill. When Glenda
called the number back from the room’s landline, it turned out to be
Varahn, who announced that she was moving out the next day and promised
to stop by in September “to pass the torch.” Glenda told Varahn she was
happy for her, and she was. But she wished her friend had let her know
sooner. Hurshel, the vice president, was unable to step in, because he,
too, had just left. After five years on the city waitlist for affordable
housing, he’d finally landed a new spot. It was less than a block away
from Bronxwood. “You have to get out of there,” he warned his old
friends.
That
same week, Bronxwood laid off employees without warning, apparently
because of the declining number of residents. There was no longer an
aide for the fourth floor, according to three people who lived there,
and there was no one to speak up about it. “I feel stripped naked, like
we’re getting ready for the slaughterhouse,” Glenda said the next day.
We were sitting down the street, and as staff trailed out of the
building at the end of the afternoon shift — a long procession of teal
and navy scrubs — some of them were wiping away tears. “Right now, the
administration can say anything goes.”
Glenda
knew she did not want to serve as president, even in an interim
capacity, and asked Renee, a former president, what to do. Renee was
telling everyone who had asked her this question the same thing: She
didn’t have a clue. “We’re so lost right now,” Renee said to me in
August. Her bingo crew had dwindled from more than 15 players to fewer
than 10. She was pessimistic about the prospects for a socially
distanced election: “We don’t even know who is dead or alive.”
Varahn
had implied to Glenda that she was staying in the Bronx. In reality,
she was moving to suburban Maryland. She had signed the lease for a
one-bedroom apartment in a senior living community just a short drive
away from her daughter’s house. It was everything that Bronxwood was
not: serene and quiet, lush with greenery.
She
had told Glenda only half of the story because she couldn’t quite
believe her good fortune. “I feel so sorry because some of them are
waiting there thinking that they will someday get an apartment,” Varahn
said. “If it wasn’t for my associations” — the support from her family,
her earnings from the salon — “I would be stuck there, too.”
Her
family was relieved about her departure, but Varahn remained uneasy.
With a room of her own, she thought, or even a different roommate, she
probably would have stayed. As it was, the likely return of the virus in
the winter frightened her.
When
she packed up her belongings, she felt as if she were packing up the
future she had once imagined for herself. “By now, I would have been
running for City Council, if this virus didn’t happen,” she said. “So
I’m saying to myself, well, you know, that wasn’t in God’s plan.” Though
she kept her move a secret, one resident spotted her carrying boxes in
the hallway and asked her, “Are you just going to leave us like that?”
It was the same question she had been asking herself for months.
In
a handwritten letter Varahn gave to Bronxwood’s administrators before
she left, she expressed her desire to remain president from afar until
it was safe to hold an election. She had planned to retire there, the
letter said, yet it was impossible to do so under the current
circumstances. She expected Mr. Stern, or at least his secretary, to
call to offer his regrets, but she never got a response. It made her
feel as though nothing she had done at Bronxwood mattered — as though
she had never lived there at all.
Four certified
nursing assistants who have worked at a Missoula senior care facility
that experienced the largest known coronavirus outbreak in Montana this
fall said Village Health & Rehabilitation could have done more to
protect its residents.
The
one current and three former employees cited numerous issues including
unclear communication about COVID-19 safety protocols, staffing
shortages, and controversial directives from management.
The
Goodman Group owns Village Health and two other senior care facilities
in Missoula. In extensive responses to the Missoulian, Goodman Group
spokesperson Amy Rotenberg disputed the employees’ claims that the
facility fell short. Rather, Rotenberg said Village Health was "fully
prepared when the spike in cases occurred both in terms of staffing and
in terms of appropriate and safe protocol(s)." She counted an average
staffing level at 106% above (more than double) the state's recommended
minimum from Oct. 1 to Nov. 19.
The
Missoula City-County Health Department investigated similar anonymous
complaints against the facility, but did not issue any violation-based
citations as a result. However, Village Health did not pass a state
COVID-19 infection control audit in early November, according to the
Montana Department of Public Health and Human Services and confirmed by
Rotenberg.
Rotenberg
said the facility passed a subsequent state inspection. Tuesday,
Rotenberg said Village Health no longer had any active cases.
But
neither state inspection document is yet available to the public. And
the situation is complicated by the opaque way COVID-19 statistics are
provided and updated by local, state and national agencies (see related
story from Nov. 29).
As
COVID-19 cases continue to rise in Missoula and across the nation,
nursing homes and long-term care facilities have become ground zero for
outbreaks. The older residents that nursing homes serve are considered
most vulnerable to the effects of the coronavirus. And the number of
cases can skyrocket quickly.
The
Village Health & Rehabilitation is the largest nursing home in
Missoula, with 193 beds. In late September, Village Health reported a
couple of positive cases among staff. By Nov. 15, 80 percent of its
total residents had tested positive for COVID-19, according to a
database from the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services (CMS), a
federal agency that licenses skilled nursing homes. The most recent CMS
data show 18 deaths due to COVID-19, or roughly half of the 42 deaths in
Missoula County since the pandemic began.
Tabitha
Power, a former CNA at Village Health, told the Missoulian that
management increased attention to safety protocols as the facility
experienced the first cluster of cases among staff this fall. Power said
she left her job to care for her father. However, she and the three
other CNAs also raised concerns that illustrate the challenges of
keeping the virus at bay in such settings. The following issues are the
ones CNAs each noted separately and were identified in the anonymous
complaints to the local health department.
The
Missoulian is not naming three CNAs. Two no longer work at Village
Health and fear they may not get hired in Missoula as the Goodman Group
manages two other nearby facilities. The third is a current employee.
Communicating safety protocols
Employees
who spoke with the Missoulian said they received mixed messages about
how to best keep residents and themselves safe from infection.
“I
was told by a nurse that I was supposed to don and doff in every
room," an anonymous employee said of wearing personal protective
equipment. "I was told by another nurse that I'm supposed to reuse
gowns."
The
Missoula City-County Health Department conducted a site visit at
Village Health following an anonymous Oct. 2 complaint that stated
Village Health was not taking proper precautions to protect employees
and residents from COVID-19. The investigation found Village Health to
be in "generally good compliance with the Health Officer’s Order,
including employees wearing face coverings, no communal dining or group
activities, and a visitor restriction policy."
The report summarizing the visit
did not note any conversations with non-administrative staff, apart
from an exchange with staff who confirmed that no group activities were
taking place. During the visit, administrative staff at Village Health
told the inspector that residents were required to wear cloth face
coverings in the hallway but not in their rooms, which most residents
share with another resident.
In response to claims that Village Health did not clearly communicate COVID-19 protocol with staff, Village Health said in a statement
that staff were trained on an ongoing basis beginning in February and
"again and again to reinforce and share new guidance in small groups, in
person and in writing (ex. posters with policies). The training has
included education on PPE requirements, donning and doffing,
handwashing, cleaning equipment, and using shields and goggles. COVID
specific information books and resources are available on all units at
all times. National and regional support services are on the floor
regularly supervising and are present to offer additional guidance and
to clarify protocols. We regularly audit each facility for compliance
and provide one-to-one or small group re-education."
Village Health fared well on its May 2019 annual health inspection, with any deficiencies listed as posing minimal harm. The facility also passed two COVID-19 focused infection control audits
the state conducted for CMS. But Village Health did not pass an
infection control audit on Nov. 4, Rotenberg confirmed in an email.
Montana Department of Public
Health and Human Services spokesperson Jon Ebelt said the state health
department was issuing a Plan of Correction to Village Health citing any
deficiencies, and said that document is not yet available to the
public. Village Health confirmed in an email that it received the notice
from the state.
"We
are reviewing the findings now, which include some isolated incidents
of employees not properly donning masks as instructed at the time of the
survey and some missing documentation from a specific session of
screening," Rotenberg said in an email. "... Any deviation from our
rigorous protocols by any staff member is concerning to us and will
promptly be addressed and corrections made that the dept of health has
identified."
Prior
to receiving the notice from the state, Village Health said that it was
addressing COVID-19 with the "highest attention to staff safety and
top-quality care for residents. Since the onset of the COVID-19
pandemic, state oversight bodies had found no violations of regulations
and guidance, and independent sources provided Village Health with top
ratings for safety and adherence to best practices in the industry."
Rotenberg
said in an email Tuesday that the state conducted another infection
control survey on Nov. 23 and Village Health was informed that it would
be receiving zero citations. DPHHS has not issued any plans of
corrections related to COVID-19 to the other three nursing homes in
Missoula, according to the most recent information available on the
state website.
Missoula City-County Health
Department records show Village Health was the focus of 10 of 13
complaints pertaining to senior care facilities from the beginning of
September to Nov. 5. The local health department issued no
violation-based orders in response to the complaints.
Local health department
officials have not issued any violation-based orders to long-term care
facilities or nursing homes the two months prior to Nov. 5 when the
Missoulian last requested any new complaints, according to Shannon
Therriault, director of environmental health. The department ordered
some businesses to close until they comply with COVID-19 restrictions,
but it does not have authority to shutter federally regulated nursing
homes.
Local
health departments can prohibit new admissions and order other
anti-contagion actions but "closing the doors and removing the residents
falls under licensing authorities," according to Ellen Leahy, director
and health officer for the Missoula City-County Health Department.
Appropriate staffing levels
Concerns
about staffing shortages resulting in long and understaffed shifts
appeared in interviews with the CNAs and in complaints to the local
health department. CNAs told the Missoulian that as more staff had to
quarantine, "8-hour shifts turned into 10- to 15-hour shifts" and said
that upon showing up to a shift, it was not uncommon to find out that a
coworker had called in sick. A CNA provided the Missoulian with text
messages between her and a staff member who schedules shifts that stated
on several days the facility was "desperate for coverage" and offered a
bonus to work.
In
response to complaints to the Missoula City-County Health Department
citing staffing shortages, including one complaint that stated, "Staff
are working with up to 24 residents at a time for one CNA and one
nurse,” the department's infectious disease specialist Pam Whitney told
the Missoulian the department explored finding more resources for
staffing at long-term care facilities, including the National Guard.
In
a statement to the Missoulian, Village Health denied "any report that
there are severe staffing shortages" and said the facility has had
"tremendous support from our staff, contractors and regional and
corporate teams." Village Health added that staff regularly work 8- and
12- hour shifts, and are not scheduled to care for more than 20
residents without support. Village Health said in a statement that while
"the total headcount of all care providers fluctuates daily based on
census of residents," the facility averages 106% above the state minimum
requirements for both licensed staff and aides.
Skilled
nursing homes are not required to meet a specific staff-to-resident
ratio, and are instead required to meet a minimum number of hours for
registered nurses, licensed practical nurses and nursing aides, based on
the time of day and the number of beds in the facility. According to state law,
nursing homes in Montana with more than 100 beds will be given
individual consideration, but a 100-bed facility would need to have at
least 120 nursing aide hours in a 24-hour period, in addition to 32
registered nurse hours and 32 licensed practical nurse hours.
Whitney said in an email that
short-handed facilities "eventually pulled other staff in." The health
officials declined to name the facility with a severe shortage, but
Leahy said it was "one of the larger ones." Village Health is the
largest skilled nursing home in Missoula County. The second largest
facility is Hillside Health & Rehabilitation, which has 95 beds and
as of Nov. 15, reported its first resident COVID-19 case.
Work protocols
CNAs
who tested positive for COVID-19 said they were asked to return to work
at Village Health while still recovering, and a complaint to the
Missoula City-County Health Department alleged an unsafe practice
because an employee who tested positive was working with positive
residents.
In an
investigation of that complaint, the Missoula City-County Health
Department found that Village Health had gotten approval from the state
health department for two asymptomatic positive staff members to work
with positive COVID patients.
Leahy
had previously denied that request. The state was unaware that Leahy
had denied that request and agreed the decision was within the
jurisdiction of the local health office, according to Whitney.
Leahy
also confirmed that some facilities have been hit so hard by
quarantines and isolations that they have implemented new protocols from
the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for how asymptomatic
quarantined workers can go back to work on a “case by case basis.”
The emergency protocols
the CDC released allow health care workers who have tested positive for
COVID-19 to continue working with suspected or confirmed COVID-19
patients, pending approval from the appropriate state, local,
territorial, and/or tribal health authorities, as a measure to mitigate staffing shortages.
Village
Health said in a statement that staff are not allowed to return to work
until they obtain approval from the Missoula City-County Health
Department; "Any suggestion that there is pressure to return to work
before authorized by health protocol is untrue."
A
separate complaint submitted to the local health department on Oct. 21
stated that “Staff is working in both COVID and non-COVID halls on the
same shift often," and a CNA stated that she would work in the COVID
unit one day, and another hall without positive cases the next day.
In
response to the complaint, the local health department again contacted
Village Health and was told that "staff worked on one or the other area,
and were not working both areas in one shift," Whitney told the
Missoulian.
Village
Health reiterated in its statement that it does not float staff from a
COVID unit to a non-COVID unit in the same shift, and that "proper
infection control is practiced in all units with appropriate PPE, and
enhanced protocols are added when the staff enter a COVID unit." It
added it is testing all staff and residents per CMS guidelines and has
sufficient PPE.
Safety, prevention
Through
its spokesperson, Village Health stressed its attention to keeping
residents safe and healthy: “We remain focused on prevention, as the
safety and well-being of residents and team members is our top
priority.”
The CNAs
the Missoulian spoke with also corroborated some of the practices
outlined by Village Health in statements, such as surveillance testing,
the use of PPE in the designated COVID-19 hall (although CNAs cited
varying supplies of PPE and use requirements at the onset of the
outbreak) and the notification of cases to residents' families and
staff, which is mandated by CMS.
Village
Health concluded its original statement to the Missoulian saying: "Our
commitment to our residents and valued staff is and always has been
steadfast. We greatly appreciate the daily commitment and dedication of
our staff who care for our residents with utmost skill and compassion
during this especially challenging time."
Editor's note: Dee Strauss, executive director of Village Health, is married to Jim Strauss, publisher of the Missoulian.
A 44-year-old Shreveport woman has been indicted for her role in an
elder fraud scheme in the Eastern District of Texas, announced U.S.
Attorney Stephen J. Cox.
Monica Ruiz was named in an indictment returned by a federal grand jury, which charged her with wire fraud.
According
to the indictment, Ruiz enlisted a variety of false and fraudulent
pretenses, representations, and promises in a scheme to defraud an
elderly victim from Bullard. Among the various misrepresentations Ruiz
made in order to obtain money from the victim were the following:
- That Ruiz had been in a coma;
- That Ruiz had brain surgery;
- That Ruiz was falsely arrested and imprisoned;
- That Ruiz had bribed a judge and prosecutor;
- That Ruiz’s son died in a car accident in Pennsylvania;
- That Ruiz was in a car accident;
- That Ruiz had a kidney transplant;
- That Ruiz’s daughter was committed to a mental institution;
- That Ruiz was incarcerated; and
- That Ruiz’s grandmother died.
At
times, Ruiz impersonated other people in communications with the
victim. At other times, she created and used false personas in
communications with the victim. Over the course of her scheme, Ruiz
obtained more than $4.850 million from the victim.
If convicted,
Ruiz faces up to 20 years in federal prison. A grand jury indictment is
not evidence of guilt. A defendant is presumed innocent until proven
guilty beyond a reasonable doubt in a court of law.
In Oct. 2017,
President Trump signed the bipartisan Elder Abuse Prevention and
Prosecution Act into law. The EAPPA’s purpose is to increase the federal
government’s focus on preventing elder abuse and exploitation.
Subsequently, the Department of Justice launched the Elder Justice
Initiative. Through the EJI, the Department has participated in hundreds
of criminal and civil enforcement actions involving misconduct that
targeted vulnerable seniors.
This past March, the Department
announced the largest elder fraud enforcement action in American
history, charging more than 400 defendants in a nationwide sweep. he
Department has likewise conducted hundreds of trainings and outreach
sessions across the country. The EJI website contains useful
information, including educational resources about prevalent financial
scams so you can guard against them.
In August, the Eastern
District of Texas announced plans to develop a new initiative, in
partnership with law enforcement, to increase enforcement efforts to
combat transnational elder fraud schemes and their extensive networks of
associates and money mules who launder the stolen funds.
If you
or someone you know is age 60 or older and has been a victim of
financial fraud, help is standing by at the National Elder Fraud
Hotline: 1-833-FRAUD-11 (1-833-372-8311). This U.S. Department of
Justice hotline, managed by the Office for Victims of Crime, is staffed
by experienced professionals who provide personalized support to callers
by assessing the needs of the victim, and identifying relevant next
steps. Case managers will identify appropriate reporting agencies,
provide information to callers to assist them in reporting, connect
callers directly with appropriate agencies, and provide resources and
referrals, on a case-by-case basis. Reporting is the first step.
Reporting can help authorities identify those who commit fraud and
reporting certain financial losses due to fraud as soon as possible can
increase the likelihood of recovering losses. The hotline is staffed 7
days a week from 6:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. Eastern Time. English, Spanish,
and other languages are available.
This case is being
investigated by the U.S. Secret Service with the assistance of the Tyler
Police Department and the Louisiana State Police - Gaming Enforcement
Division and is being prosecuted by Assistant U.S. Attorney Nathaniel C.
Kummerfeld.
A global pandemic doesn’t give us cause to treat the aged callously.
by Shai Held
Crises can elicit compassion, but they can also evoke callousness. Since
the outbreak of the coronavirus pandemic, we’ve witnessed communities
coming together (even as they have sometimes been physically forced
apart), and we’ve seen individuals engaging in simple acts of kindness
to remind the sick and quarantined that they are not forgotten. Yet from
some quarters, we’ve also seen a degree of cruelty that is truly
staggering.
Earlier today, a friend posted on Facebook about an experience he’d just
had on the Upper West Side of Manhattan: “I heard a guy who looked to
be in his 20s say that it’s not a big deal cause the elderly are gonna
die anyway. Then he and his friend laughed … Maybe I’m lucky that I had
awesome grandparents and maybe this guy didn’t but what is wrong with
people???” Some have tried to dress up their heartlessness as
generational retribution. As someone tweeted at me earlier today, “To be
perfectly honest, and this is awful, but to the young, watching as the
elderly over and over and over choose their own interests ahead of
Climate policy kind of feels like they’re wishing us to a death they
won’t have to experience. It’s a sad bit of fair play.”
Notice how the all-too-familiar rhetoric of dehumanization works:
“The elderly” are bunched together as a faceless mass, all of them
considered culprits and thus effectively deserving of the suffering the
pandemic will inflict upon them. Lost entirely is the fact that the
elderly are individual human beings, each with a distinctive face and
voice, each with hopes and dreams, memories and regrets, friendships and
marriages, loves lost and loves sustained. But they deserve to die—and as for us, we can just go about our business.
It
is bad enough if we remain indifferent to the plight of our elders; it
is far worse to dress up our failings as moral indignation.
As a
rabbi and theologian watching this ethical train wreck, I find myself
thinking about the biblical mandate to “honor your father and mother.”
The Hebrew word usually translated as “honor,” kabed, comes
from a root meaning “weight.” At the deepest level, then, the biblical
command is thus to treat the elderly as weighty. Conversely, the Bible
prohibits “cursing” one’s parents. The Hebrew word usually translated as
“curse,” tekalel, derives from a root meaning “light.” At
bottom, then, the biblical proscription is on treating the elderly
lightly, as if they are inconsequential.
Why
do I say “the elderly”? In its biblical context, the obligation to
honor parents is a command given to grown children (as are the Ten
Commandments more broadly—you don’t tell children not to commit adultery
nor to covet their neighbors’ fields). When you are an adult, the Bible
instructs, you must not abandon the elderly. Giving voice to a
pervasive human fear, the Psalmist prays, “Do not cast me off in old
age; when my strength fails, do not forsake me!”
What does it say
about our society that people think of the elderly so dismissively—and
moreover, that they feel no shame about expressing such thoughts
publicly? I find myself wondering whether this colossal moral failure is
exacerbated by the most troubled parts of our cultural and economic
life. When people are measured and valued by their economic
productivity, it is easy to treat people whose most economically
productive days have passed as, well, worthless.
From a religious
perspective, if there is one thing we ought to teach our children, it is
that our worth as human beings does not depend on or derive from what
we do or accomplish or produce; we are, each of us, infinitely valuable
just because we are created in the image of God. We mattered before we
were old enough to be economically productive, and we will go on
mattering even after we cease to be economically productive.
Varied ethical and religious traditions find their own ways to affirm an
elemental truth of human life: The elderly deserve our respect and,
when necessary, our protection. The mark of a decent society is that it
resists the temptation to spurn the defenseless. It is almost a truism
that the moral fabric of a society is best measured by how it treats the
vulnerable in its midst—and yet it is a lesson we never seem to tire of
forgetting. “You shall rise before the aged and show deference to the
old,” the Bible says—look out for them and, in the process, become more
human yourself.
