Free Deadly Dosage by Cheryl Richards Page B

mystified her. “I didn’t know it had flowers on it?” she
said, chewing on her green painted fingernails.
    I ignored her to save time.
“So Mabel, did you want the twenty-five dollars from your account?”
         “Well, I better only take fifteen. If we need
more, I’ll be back.”
         “Okay. Just a minute.” I quickly walked back to
my office, pulled open my bottom drawer, and withdrew the cash box. I unlocked
it with a key I kept in my center drawer, and pulled out two fives and five
singles. I relocked it, replaced the box and key, slapped both drawers closed,
and took the receipt book back to the receptionist desk.
         I wrote out a receipt and had Mabel sign it. Then
I handed over the $15 dollars in cash. “Hope you win?” I said cheerfully.
         She nodded, folded the money in her hand, and
retreated down the hall in her beaded moccasins. Hopefully she didn’t lose the
money on her way back to her room. But I guess Edna would just have to pay her
back.

 
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
13
     
     
    At 3:00, I started watching the clock. I needed a
break so I thought I’d take a cruise down the Medicare wing and check on Mr.
Schroeder. Lloyd’s father was out of the room, probably having a shower.
         I went to his bedside. “Hi, Mr. Schroeder,” I
said, “are you feeling better today?”
         “Much. I had a big glass of milk and Carol
brought me some butter cookies,” he said. He offered me a cookie but I
declined. Carol Hansen treated the residents with respect and kindness; she
enjoyed her job as an RN and occasionally did duties others would leave for the
nurse aides.
         “That’s good to hear. When did you start feeling
ill?” It was an inappropriate question coming from a bookkeeper. However, I was
worried about him and most elderly people talked about their aches and pains
without encouragement.
         “I always seem to get a painful burning sensation
in my stomach soon after I drink my juice. My daughter, Amy, told me it was
probably an ulcer and that the juice had nothing to do with it. She told me
Carol insists I drink it for my diabetes. She thinks I’ll die if I don’t, so I
humor her.” 
         Carol wasn’t the type of nurse to have a family
member administer medication, even in the form of juice. If she hadn’t left at
3:00, I’d question her but it would have to wait until morning.
         “I’ll check with Carol, okay?” I told him. I did
not recall diabetes being one of his diagnostic codes. He seemed relieved and
ate another cookie. He offered me a cookie again and this time I accepted just
as his daughter entered the room.
         She stormed into the room and took the cookie out
of my hand. “What do you think you’re doing?”
         “I gave it to her,” Mr. Schroeder said angrily.
         “She can buy her own food,” she protested. With
that, she popped the cookie into her mouth.
         “Amy!” Mr. Schroeder said with humiliation.
         She rudely pushed me away from his bed and tossed
her huge, patchwork styled handbag on his bed. From its contents, she withdrew
a bottle of what looked to be orange juice.
         “Here’s your medicine Dad,” she said shoving the
bottle toward him.
         “Amy, I just had milk. I’m not thirsty,” he said.
I felt my presence brought him strength. He was not kowtowing to her.
         “Drink it!” she practically screamed at him.
         “Excuse me,” I said. “Did a dietary aide give you
that juice?”
         She squinted her eyes and frowned, elongating her
bulldog jowls. “Why don’t you go bill someone?”
         I wanted to slap her face. “Mr. Schroeder is on a
strict diet. You shouldn’t give him fluids unless his nurse okays it.”
         “Sunny, is that your name honey?” She put her
hands on her hips. “Leave, before I get the administrator. I could probably sue
you for tampering with a resident’s