I stayed the night, brought a space heater, warm socks, a heated blanket, and made him tea. When he looked at me and whispered, “Cold,” I promised I’d fix it.
The facility director confirmed what I already knew: unless I could prove neglect or challenge Diane’s authority, nothing would change.
At home, I found an old letter Pop had written to David years before. In it, he said he trusted David—and me—to handle things when the time came. He admitted Diane didn’t want responsibility, just money. I called Colin, an elder law attorney who’d helped with David’s estate. We moved quickly.
For two weeks I documented everything—temperatures, photos of the thermostat, Pop wrapped in blankets, notes from staff. One nurse slipped me a record of Diane’s call demanding they restrict my visits. On a rare clear day, Pop squeezed my hand and said he wanted me making his decisions.
Colin filed a petition to have me named medical proxy. Diane exploded. But in court, the truth surfaced. A senior nurse had saved a voicemail from Diane complaining about costs: if her father “passed soon,” that was “fine,” and they shouldn’t go out of their way with care—“definitely keep that heat down.”
The courtroom fell silent.
Then they wheeled Pop in. It was one of his good days. When the judge asked who he wanted making medical decisions, he didn’t hesitate. “Anne,” he said. “She’s the one who comes.”
The judge transferred full medical authority to me.
