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"  By Marina Budhos I hurried into the nursing home and embraced my mother-in-law, who was hunched in a wheelchair. She began to cry -- frail, wheezing sounds. I had never before heard her weep.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m so glad you&amp;#039;re here,&amp;quot; she whispered.  I had been on vacation in Paris with my husband and sons when Lisa fell and fractured her hip. At first she insisted there was no need for us to fly back -- her surgery had been a simple one, and she&amp;#039;d been transferred to a rehabilitation center. Over the next few days, though, we could not get clear answers on her care from her doctors. She complained bitterly of nighttime neglect, wrong pills, throwing up, diarrhea, and she feared her blood count was dangerously low. It quickly became clear that someone had to go back. And since my husband had pressing business in England, the duty fell on my shoulders alone.  At the nursing home, everyone shook their heads, whispering to me in hushed tones that my mother-in-law was &amp;quot;confused.&amp;quot; The nurses defensively showed their orderly medication records. Yet the more I pushed, the more I realized they were covering up their own hapless incompetence. The hesitancy I&amp;#039;d felt in stepping in as my mother-in-law&amp;#039;s protector evaporated. A deep fury rose up in me -- the same fury I feel when my children are imperiled. &amp;quot;Is this being a doctor?&amp;quot; I yelled. &amp;quot;Not returning calls for an 87-year-old woman whose next of kin is 4,000 miles away?&amp;quot;  To the nursing staff, I was no less fierce. &amp;quot;Stop blaming her! She&amp;#039;s here to recover!&amp;quot;  They slapped shut their books, retreated, heads bowed.  Inside, I glowed, exhilarated. &amp;quot;You told &amp;#039;em,&amp;quot; my mother-in-law smiled, a flash of health returning to her eyes.  The next day a staff meeting was suddenly called, and I firmly listed the problems. I could see that Lisa&amp;#039;s caregivers were intimidated by me, and I liked it. Later that day, her doctor phoned: As a result of my complaints, they had run a test and discovered that Lisa was dangerously anemic -- as she&amp;#039;d all along claimed. She was being rushed to the hospital for a transfusion. Turns out, too, they had given her wrong medications, which they discovered only after I roared. My conviction, my sense of purpose, grew even stronger -- I was the only one who could make sure this didn&amp;#039;t happen again. This time, I was in the emergency room, at Lisa&amp;#039;s side. &amp;quot;Go home,&amp;quot; she scolded, but I shook my head no. Here, in this tiny hospital corner, the curtain pulled around us, I knew I would not leave. I would stay, pound the nurse with questions, examine her chart with hawk eyes. This was no longer an obligation -- it was a role I relished. I had always known I could fight like a lioness for my children. But in stretching myself to defend and protect a frail mother who was not my own, I discovered a strength far deeper and more generous than I knew I had. And it felt right. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/life/friends-family/a4134/fighting-for-lisa/>