On January 17, the facility called Tom. Mom had fallen and needed X-rays. He said he was tied up in meetings. When they mentioned the $800 ambulance fee, he refused. Then he called me—to vent. I told him to handle it as he saw fit and hung up.
They arranged a budget-friendly transport van to take her to urgent care, only three miles away. The driver left her there, assuming someone would meet her.
She waited in the clinic for six hours—cold, confused, in slippers and a thin sweater—hoping her sons would arrive. By 7 p.m., the clinic was closing. Staff called Tom. No answer. They called me. I ignored it, sitting in a Florida restaurant, pretending not to see the Michigan number.
That’s when Derek appeared.
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