Opinion by Karen Tumulty: Disease took my brother. Our health-care system added to his ordeal.
That meant he was already covered by Medicare and a supplemental policy eight months later, when another, even greater medical calamity struck: In early September 2017, Pat suddenly lost control of his car and crashed it. He was taken to an emergency room, where a scan revealed a baseball-size brain tumor. Surgery and a biopsy produced a diagnosis of Stage 4 glioblastoma; his doctors told me he could expect no more than a year to live.
The Patriot Heights staff was indulgent of — and more than a little amused by — his quirks and his routines; how he wanted four packets of honey with his coffee, his juice with and not before his meal, a serving of exactly eight grapes. Pat loved his Wednesday morning Bible study group, where he always volunteered to read aloud the epistle of the week, especially the ones by the apostle Paul, known for their comfort and righteousness.
After many trips to the hospital and several stints in nursing care, he was able to return to his apartment but required 24-hour caregivers — something he was able to afford thanks to a modest inheritance from my parents and a bit of savings of his own. But he lost the ability to walk and began suffering small seizures, which required frequent trips to the emergency room.