I was the one who finally placed my father-in-law in a good nursing home after my late husband’s sister refused to help. One evening I visited and found him shivering. The room was freezing.
A nurse sighed when I complained. Diane, his daughter and legal proxy, had ordered the heat kept low. He prefers it cold, she’d said.
“He has arthritis,” I replied. “He hates the cold.”
But policy was policy.
I stayed the night, bringing blankets, a heater, tea. He whispered, “Cold.” I promised I wouldn’t let it continue.
With help from a lawyer friend, I began documenting everything. Then a nurse revealed Diane had even tried to block my visits. The final blow came when staff produced her voicemail: If he passes soon, that’s fine. I’m tired of paying.
In court, Pop was clear. Holding my hand, he told the judge, “I want Anne. She’s the one who comes.”
I became his proxy. He moved to a warm, sunny room. We spent his last months talking, remembering, sometimes just watching birds.
When he died, he left me a note: Thank you for keeping me warm.
Now I volunteer at the home.
Because the worst cruelty is often quiet—and sometimes love is simply the person who shows up.
