Mom, the Call Button, and My Own Bad Example

I’ve been hanging out with Mom at the skilled nursing facility for about four hours. Since I’m on disability due to my awesome health—please read that with the intended sarcasm—I have some time.

While I’ve been here, she has used the call button at least four times. Eventually, I had a conversation with her about it.

My first reaction came from how I behaved when I was in the hospital. I hardly ever used the call button. I thought that if I kept calling, people might respond more slowly.

That was my assumption. No one ever told me that would happen.

In fact, I’ve been told that my reluctance to call can create its own problems because I sometimes wait too long. And I have a pretty good example of that.

During a hospital stay here in Mount Pleasant, I felt my blood sugar dropping. I thought maybe it would bounce back on its own.

So I waited.

And waited.

Eventually, I realized I was in trouble. I pressed the call button and could barely get out the words that my blood sugar was low.

A nurse arrived with a glucose monitor and checked it with a finger stick. If I remember correctly, the reading was somewhere in the high 40s.

Then came the orange juice, graham crackers, peanut butter, cheese—the nurse brought what felt like every available food item.

When I called, the nurses’ desk understood that I needed help urgently. At the time, I took that as evidence that they rarely called unless I was serious.

Looking back, I can’t say that my previous silence had anything to do with their response. What I do know is that I waited until I could barely explain what was happening.

That is not exactly a success story about being a low-maintenance patient.

So, while I may have opinions about Mom pressing her call button, I also need to remember that my approach wasn’t necessarily better. Four calls in four hours doesn’t tell the whole story. What she needed matters more than the number.

There is room to be considerate of busy staff and, when practical, ask for several things at once. There also has to be room to ask for help without feeling like a nuisance.

After writing about advocating for Mom, I suppose I need to apply that same thinking when she advocates for herself.

Apparently, I’m not just spending time with her. I’m getting a refresher course in my own contradictions.

Mom Needed a Bathroom. We Needed a Solution.

My mother is now in a skilled nursing facility. She had a stroke at the end of June 2026 and a second one about three weeks ago. This is her fourth hospital or medical facility in the last three months.

That is a lot of moving, adjusting, and starting over. I get it. I’ve been there.

Part of the longer-term plan involves her wish not to return home once she gets back to where she was before the second stroke. That is a story for another time.

Today’s story is about something much more immediate: Mom needed to use the bathroom.

She arrived at the facility this afternoon, and her evaluations weren’t complete yet. Because physical therapy hadn’t evaluated her, there was uncertainty about how she could safely get to the bathroom—or whether she could get there at all.

I understood the concern. Nobody wanted her to fall or get hurt.

But her need to go wouldn’t wait for an evaluation.

I heard the explanation from three different people, delivered almost the same way each time. What I didn’t hear was a solution.

Mom and I asked for a bedpan.

We were told the facility doesn’t use bedpans.

Okay. So what do we do now?

This was also the point when I started feeling increasingly confident about my decision not to pursue a career in healthcare. As I wrote recently, patience is not one of my strengths. Hearing the same explanation repeatedly while my mother still needed help was putting that to the test.

I asked again: We need to find a solution. She can’t simply not go.

Eventually, someone made the executive decision to find a bedpan. I assume someone dug it out of the nonexistent basement.

Crisis averted.

I appreciate the need for evaluations and safe procedures. I also appreciate the person who finally found a way to help. But there needs to be an answer for what happens while a new resident is waiting for those evaluations.

From our side of the conversation, we had a basic, immediate need and several explanations of why it was complicated.

What would have helped was hearing: “We haven’t assessed her mobility yet. Here is how we can help her safely in the meantime.”

That would have given Mom some reassurance and both of us a plan.

Today, we eventually got there. It just took three explanations and a supposedly unavailable bedpan.