The following day, I found myself at the hospital, the corridors familiar yet daunting. I was here to meet with a patient advocate, hoping to glean some insight into the decisions made during my spouse’s hospitalization. The waiting area was busy, voices mingling with the distant beeps of machinery, but I felt detached, my mind elsewhere.
A nurse walked by, offering a sympathetic smile as she recognized me from earlier visits. “The advocate will be with you shortly,” she assured, gesturing towards a door marked with a simple plaque: “Patient Advocacy.”
Inside, the advocate introduced herself as Karen, her demeanor calm and professional. “I understand you’re seeking information about your spouse’s care,” she said, leafing through a file. “We have records of all decisions made during their stay.”
As she spoke, I watched her fingers move deftly over the pages, stopping occasionally to highlight a note or signature. “Here,” she pointed to a section marked March 15th. “This is when the power of attorney was signed. Your spouse was under medication, but we have a witness signature confirming they were coherent.”
The words settled over me like a heavy fog. I had trusted that those handling the situation had my spouse’s best interests at heart, yet the evidence seemed to suggest otherwise. “And their sibling?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Karen nodded, “They were present for most of the discussions.”
I left the office with copies of the relevant pages, each one a piece of the puzzle I was desperate to complete. The reality of the situation was clearer now, but the path forward remained uncertain. I needed to confront the sibling, to understand their intentions and the extent of their involvement.
Back at home, I sat with the documents spread before me, the weight of the past few months pressing down. The clock ticked steadily, a reminder that time was moving forward, even if I felt stuck in a loop of confusion and unanswered questions.
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