I Can Only Imagine

Two Bolivar County Courthouses

As a transplant from the Mississippi Gulf Coast and the town of Ocean Springs, there was a great learning curve to learn about the history of the Delta. Growing up with my family farming the water, I have had to absorb a lot of new information to understand how different it was to farm the land. One thing that remains constant between these two agrarian cultures is that tradition reigns, heritage matters, and beauty is found in the simple, everyday things we experience in life.

The first time I saw the Courthouse in Rosedale, in 2011, my first question was, “ What’s going on with the 3x12’s holding up the North end of the building?”

Well, it’s good to know that the building will be salvaged but is it worth the taxpayer monies it will require to do so? How can I, an outsider, be so brazen to ask such a question? The fact remains there a two Bolivar County seats and the people of Bolivar County continue to desire it be so, regardless of the cost.

Sometimes is seems that names can change with the wind. So it has been with the Bolivar County Mississippi Courthouses and towns in which they inhabit. The Mississippi legislature officially established Bolivar County in 1836 and it was named for the American Liberator, Simon Bolivar. The Courthouses have stood in several locations and the towns where they were erected have changed names, as well. Mr. Simon must have been quite a man for the County to keep the same name since its inception. That has not always been the case with towns in Mississippi. And if you look at an 1891 county map, it is quite different than the county map of today.

The first county seat was in the town of Bolivar. The location changed several times before 1841, when, at a cost of $545, the building eventually found a resting place in Rosedale between 1872-1873. Originally named Floreyville for the carpetbagger official. The name was changed to Rosedale in 1876. Of the 10,471 residents in 1860, the large majority of the pre-civil war populace was slaves. Irrespective of race or societal position, it’s not easy to escape the Delta or the slow paced life that it lends itself to. Regardless, some say the reason there are two county seats is that it took a days travel to get from one end of the county to the other.

J.R. Moehringer made this statement in 2006:

“It’s not easy to escape the Delta. People have been writing for 100 years about how hard it is to escape, especially this part of the Delta, where the crushing poverty and the heart storms and the ghost towns get hold of you and won’t let you go.”

Regardless, the Delta tradition goes on. Hot, lazy summers for the those who may seek shade under a tree, offer no solace for the farmer trying to make sure his crop is watered and getting ready for harvest. Even when the second brick Courthouse stood during the Civil War, there was no shade offered when the Federals decided to burn it to the ground in 1862. The remains were later covered by water seeping from the banks of the mighty Mississippi. Mississippians have a reputation for “rolling their pants legs up” in order to re-build. It doesn’t matter if if’s a hurricane or a flood; they just “get it done” just as they did then and continue to do to this day when catastrophe strikes. Thus, another Courthouse was erected in the wake of man-made circumstances and natural disaster.

J. C. Burrus recorded the following for an article he wrote for the Bolivar County Democrat, February 23, 1923:

"Our first courthouse was at Bolivar Landing, a small room built of lumber brought by contract on flatboats, and there was a question as to whether or not this lumber should be delivered on top of the bank; this was settled by suit in favor of the county. The next courthouse was a single room built near the residence of Judge McGuire, opposite Napoleon, Arkansas. Judge McGuire furnished food and sleeping quarters for those who attended court. I remember being in this miniature courthouse on one occasion. My father, who, I think, was at the time a member of the Board of Police, now called Supervisors, owing to my importunity took me behind him. 

The road, such as it was, followed the river around what is known as Indian Point, a distance of eighteen miles. I remember yet how tired my little legs were. The benches in the courthouse were cypress puncheons, or slabs with holes bored and wooden pegs for legs; The next courthouse was erected at a place one half mile north of this on the river I think in 1856) and a thriving village immediately grew up, which was called Prentiss, and here the first regular jail was built. Prentiss was burned during the war and court was held at. Beulah until 1872, when a courthouse was erected at the place it now stands, in the town of Rosedale (first called Floreyville for a carpetbagger official). All county business was transacted there until the establishment of two judicial districts."

This article is not meant to be exhaustive in any way. My goal in writing is to raise awareness of Bolivar County historical information, in this case about the existence of two county seats. I hope this article is factual but rich in both history and the verbal stories passed down through the generations. We have two county seats, one in Rosedale and one in Cleveland. That has been a fact for over a hundred years and it is not going to change anytime soon. Next time you visit either Courthouse, be aware that the people of Bolivar County continue to have a voice in government and that is the American way. We live in a place rich in history, which allows the people to speak.

By:

Sarah Beaugez

Another Angel Unaware

I broke my own cardinal rule this week; never expect anything from anyone. If I do, I set myself up for complete, absolute, and abject disappointment. It really doesn’t matter why I had a bad week, the fact remains that I did. It happens to all of us. However, I am usually able to not let it get to me so much. Regardless I did…

After a long week in Texas, thinking that I was going to begin a new contract job but was unable to due to other people's inept work ethic, I headed back to the Mississippi Coast this morning. While in Houston, I stayed with my best friend from Ocean Springs High School. She had just found out that she was in remission from breast cancer. 

Wow. 

And I was complaining about not being able to find a hotel room in Galveston.

I usually don’t have to look very far to find redemption in what might have seemed to be a lost week. One of my other friends was driving across I-10 about an hour ahead of me and called to say I needed to make a detour. She told me to take the Crowley, Louisiana exit. I did.

Completely lost in my thoughts of worry and frustration, I talked on the phone and listened to “my” music all the way from Houston. I decided to get out and go to the bathroom at Burger King, before I headed north on Louisiana Highway 13.

It was lunchtime and the place was hopping. As I opened the door the only thing I saw was a man in his late fifties standing with a broom in his hand, sweeping. He looked at me, smiled and said, “Hi,” in a very cheery and genuine sort of way. I said hello and asked how he was doing? He said, “I’m great!” It crossed my mind that he seemed way too happy to be standing at the door with a broom during lunch on Saturday, but then, I was lost in my haste to get back on the road.

I decided to order a hamburger and did. After I paid and got my drink, I stood back a bit and took out my phone, which is becoming a very nasty habit. Before I engaged with my hand-held piece of technology, I happened to glance up and there he was sweeping again. And smiling.

Stopping for a second, I asked, “What’s your name?” about the time I noticed his nametag, which simply said, “Mr. Joe.” I said, “Oh it’s so nice to meet you Mr. Joe. My name is Sarah.” We shook hands. I then asked him how long he’d been working at Burger King, to which he replied with pride, “Twenty-one years.”

Marveling, inside and out, I said, “Oh? Wow. That’s a long time! Do you like your job?” He said, “I love my job!” He had a thick Cajun accent and I had some difficulty understanding what he said next. I then asked, “Why do you like your job so much Mr. Joe?”

After patiently repeating himself a couple of times for me, I understood him to say this: “Oh I get to see people come in here with their families, sit down, and enjoy themselves!” 

By now, I had teared up and my world had stopped. I saw and heard nothing else. 

I then said, “Mr. Joe, are you telling me that you enjoy your job because you like to watch other people be happy?” He simply said, “Oh yes,” with the biggest grin on his face.

Ok. Now I’m crying in the middle of the Burger King in Crowley, Louisiana, in the middle of the day. Mr. Joe reached over and gave me an awkward hug. He then said, “Don’t worry. God is going to take care of you.” 

If he didn’t have my attention before then, he had it now.

Looking up and drying my eyes, I told him that he was an angel; that I needed to slow down and pay attention; that I needed to see what was really important and not be in such a hurry, and that he had reminded me as to the importance of those things.

He then smiled and said, “Thank you.” I said, “No sir, thank you!”

You see, I allowed my expectations on people who I did not know to ruin my week. I expected them to deliver on their word, and when they did not, I allowed their actions to manipulate my feelings. Mr. Joe reminded me, with his child-like manner, that I was missing the point. I wasn’t really paying attention to what was truly important. He had expected nothing of me. It seemed he never did. He simply enjoys watching others be happy.

How convicted I was in that single moment that I am not the center of the universe regardless of how bad things might seem to be. I was convicted, that for all I claim to live in the moment, I was a hypocrite in that flicker of time.

Mr. Joe reminded me how much I, too, enjoy seeing others be happy.

©sarah_beaugez_anotherAngelUnaware_2017

Purple Hull Peas and New Friends

Such a simple picture with richness in color and meaning: purple hull peas with a rogue leaf soaking in a plastic turquoise bucket of water to keep them from drying out in the heat of a summer day deep in the Alabama Black Belt.

You can see the rich colors but why would I say rich in meaning? Because when I was a little girl, shelling peas meant sitting on the front porch with my sister, Leigh, my mother, visiting with my cousins, my grandmother, and my Aunts, Billie and Bettie. It took hours and during that time there was much laughter and great conversation. I haven’t thought about that memory until today, at least for a very long time. It makes me smile to do so.

Pam McPherson is a new friend. She and her husband, Troy, own, operate, and live on Circle M Ranch, with their four children, Madalyn, Morgan, Kate, Mack, and Uncle Sonny, a cousin who adopts everybody, including me. They all work together farming cattle, along with growing and cutting hay to feed the bovines. Madalyn, age twenty, is working full time with her dad, but Pam says it takes all of them to keep things going.

Pam was standing in the carport saying goodbye to another friend when I drove up. She has an electric pea shelling machine, which I’d never seen. When I related the above memory of shelling peas, she related to me that one summer, when their peas didn’t yield quite so much, the kids all wanted to hand shell the peas and watch television. She said it took all day and said never again, all the while laughing at the memory of the same.

At some point, Troy drove up in his truck with a couple of bags of ice and Madalyn drove down the long driveway in the John Deere, headed from the hay field to the barn. Kate and Mack walked out of the house, politely shaking my hand when we met, then headed to feed one their several dogs. Uncle Sonny drove up in his old pickup, smiling and excited to see me. We met last week in a local restaurant where Terry and I were eating lunch.

After a few minutes, we moseyed into the house, where I also met Morgan, who was cleaning the kitchen. I’d already eaten lunch. However, Pam had not and while I visited with Uncle Sonny, who sat at the opposite end of the table, she casually fixed herself a salad and sat down to me right on the bench that ran parallel to a long pine table she said Troy had given her for Christmas one year. Mack sat to my left, Kate to his, on the other long bench.

For the next hour-and-a-half, we just visited. Morgan shared a picture she’d taken with her phone while on the tractor last week. It was of a horse running in a field of freshly cut hay with an angry sky as a backdrop, all framed by a semi-circle of trees. It was a perfect shot! Mack told me about the boat trip that he, Pam, and Troy, had taken down a local river. He told me he liked to fish. Kate talked about her upcoming part in a local production of “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” and asked if I’d like to go? Excitedly I said, “Yes! That’s one of my all-time favorite movies!”

All-in-all it was one of the most enjoyable couple of hours I’ve spent with new folks in a long time. Pam home schools her children, although she is educated and trained as a nurse. She and Troy started “The Cowboy Church” about three years ago, saying that it was what they believed God would have them do. In all of that time, no one was on their phone. It was about relationship and getting to know each other.

As I went to get into my car, Pam said, "Kate go get a couple of bags of peas out of the freezer and put them in a WalMart bag. Troy had already made a special trip back to the house and gave me a "Beef. It's what for dinner;" tag to put on my car.

Sharing; it's what it's all about.

The richness of the colors embedded in those purple hull peas was matched only by the richness of the moment.

How refreshing.

©sarah_beaugez-purpleHullPeasAndNewFriends_2017

On the Color Black, Jesus, and a Box of Crayons

If you've read many of my musings, you know I'm all about color.


Rich, lush color must be acknowledged and appreciated in order to know what it's like to live and breathe in color, using the entire box of crayons, even if they are broken.


It hasn't been so many years ago that I emerged from a period of time lived in a black hole only to find that my voice could still sing; that I could still feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. If it had not been for that very-real emersion into the color black, simply defined as, "the absence of all color," I might not have learned how to absorb and inhale the unlimited colors in the crayon box to which I'd had access all along. You know like Dorothy in the "Wizard of Oz" and the ruby red slippers on her feet. She only had to realize it was within her power to go home if she clicked her heels together three times, saying, "There's no place like home."


My life's journey, although atypical of most, has not been so different from yours.


Our lives have been fraught with challenges, some of which resulted in victory, others have offered, what might have appeared to be, glaring failure and blackness. It has been in those black times I learned to appreciate the next crayon I chose to take out of the box even if it was broken.


You see when I was seven-years-old, I gave my heart to Jesus. It was at that point I recognized myself to be a sinner in need of a Savior. And in my child-like mind, I was able to believe that Jesus was the Savior who came to take away the sin of the world. He came to take away my sin and give me life, which included an unlimited source of crayons with which I could color the same.


Jesus isn't a concept or an idea. He is the son of God, one-third of the trinity, and sits at the right hand of the thrown of God himself, making intercession on my behalf.


I have no need to write more. He has been my portion and continues to fill my soul.


I just wanted to make sure that should have never heard the gospel, you just did. It is your choice to accept it for for yourself.


Oh, and remember: Although colors may seem to fade, they continue to remain rich in contrast to black.


"So, my brothers, whom I love and long for, stand firm in the Lord."


"Now to Him who is able to do exceeding, abundantly above and beyond all that I can ask or think be glory and honor forever and ever. Amen."

Copyright by Sarah Beaugez

2017

All rights reserved

Katrina Pieces

In August 2005, Hurricane Katrina, the most powerful storm to ever hit North America, slammed into the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Somewhere between the 180 MPH sustained winds and in some places, over a 30-foot storm surge, she left remnants, pieces of what used to be. Homes that had stood over a century and oak trees that had stood longer, had literally been swept into the Gulf of Mexico. Empty slabs and steps leading nowhere, became the norm along the sixty-mile stretch of manmade beach. It looked as though a giant blowtorch had been used to desecrate all that had been in Katrina’s path.

The mighty oaks that had withstood many other hurricanes were stripped of all foliage and stood naked up and down that long stretch of beach. Many of those were deemed dead. However artists who used chain saws as their paintbrush, formed the once-ugly trunks into various shapes and sizes of sea-life such as dolphins and seahorses. The tree-trunk artwork served as inspiration to the traumatized people left in the wake of that terrible storm. South Mississippians had been completely caught off-guard, and along with the landscape, had been forever changed.

Located in the heart of downtown Ocean Springs, just one of the communities impacted by the storm, is a small business known as the TatoNut Shop, which was originally the Spud Nut Shop. David Mohler, one of seven sons, began working in the donut shop long before entering kindergarten, as did his brothers. He learned his work ethic, the kind of work ethic that built America, from his father.

Once he graduated from Ocean Springs High School, David bought out his father and brothers and began making donuts everyday. A few year’s later, a pretty young girl named Teresa, ten years David’s junior, began working in the donut shop. She and David fell in love and married shortly after she graduated. Within a few years, they became the proud parents of two beautiful girls; Katelyn born first, then Sophia.

On Sunday morning, August 28, 2005, Hurricane Katrina filled the entire Gulf of Mexico. When confirmation was received that she would have the greatest impact on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, the Mohlers, like so many other Coastians, fled to the safety of the Florida panhandle to ride out the storm. Once the unrelenting winds, which blew upwards of eighteen hours, and the storm surge, finally subsided, those who had left their homes and businesses began to find out how much damage had been done. Communication of any kind was difficult as power outages were widespread and even cell phone towers had been downed.

However, when the Mohlers finally made contact with friends and family who knew about their home and business, they were told they had almost been left untouched by the storm. This was shocking news because it seemed the entirety of the Coast had been not just scathed, but much had been utterly destroyed. When the Mohler family-of-four, made it back to Ocean Springs, David took out his camera to video the destruction of his hometown.

David remembers riding down the once-familiar streets, now almost unrecognizable due to the destruction of wind and water. Out of reverence for all that was lost, he put away his camera. With tears in his eyes, he recounted his feelings about capturing the kind of devastation left in the wake of Katrina. Teresa remembers Katelyn and Sophia on the floorboard of the backseat, even as little girls, unable to take in the wasteland that was once familiar. David recalls feeling guilty that his home, business, and family were unscathed. Teresa recounts a single haunting question. “What will be our Katrina?”

In the aftermath of the storm and destruction of not just the landscape, but also a way of life, hometown folks begged David and Teresa to re-open the donut shop. Locals wanted to believe that something could still be normal and familiar; that something could be counted on. And so they did.

However, it was difficult to have the necessary supplies delivered in order to make donuts due to the massive transportation deficit from the east to Mobile, the west to New Orleans, and the north to Jackson. They were forced to have flour delivered via Fed-Ex from Birmingham. This created a newfound need to use everything to maximum capability.

One of the donuts made at TatoNut is known as a Persian. It’s round and, some might say, resembles a cinnamon roll. David cuts out each and every donut made, including the Persian. When he realized that he was throwing away the irregular pieces of dough cut away from the roundness of the Persians, he one day exclaimed, “Here, throw this is the fryer. Somebody will eat it.” Thus was born Katrina pieces.

Sitting on the counter of the donut shop is a short explanation of a Katrina Piece: Donut debris, aftermath of donut making, ugly, but still tasty. Even after supply lines had been re-opened, folks continued to ask for Katrina pieces. They remain a mainstay in the case today.

David and Teresa continued working the long, hard hours required to run a donut shop. In order to take a vacation, they shut down their business a few weeks out of the year, never missing an opportunity for family time. After all, Katelyn and Sophia were growing up. They made it a priority to be together as often as possible. At least once a year, the Mohlers loaded up and went to Disneyworld, something they all enjoyed doing.

Late in the summer of 2009, seven-year-old Sophia began having problems with her sight. She seemed to be clumsy, running into things, and had to turn her head to the side in order to see what was in front of her. Very concerned, David and Teresa took Sophia to the doctor. Immediately an MRI was ordered. That evening, the radiologist, who was also a life-long resident of Ocean Springs, went to the Mohler home, with the news that Sophia had a terminal brain tumor. Devastation, the kind that wiped away the idea of what the Mohlers thought life ought to be, should have been, filled the more-than-worried parents. However, they remained hopeful in spite of the grim prognosis.

MD Anderson and the Ronald McDonald House in Houston, Texas, became the Mohler’s home away from home. They had to close their business, not knowing when or if they would ever re-open. They lived through the horror, the nightmare, of watching their beautiful young daughter, suffer through chemo, radiation, and the side effects of the many drugs, trying to maintain Sophia’s life. They witnessed Katelyn’s grief watching her little sister and best friend slowly lose her ability to live the zealous life she wished to live. David and Teresa learned to live each day with the hope found in that day, leaning on the God who they both trusted, although having no understanding the purpose of the suffering they witnessed.

The Mohler family had the entire community of Ocean Springs wrap its arms around a family in pain, raising money to help with medical costs; a grateful community that had been on the receiving end after Katrina, was provided plenty of opportunity to give back. Even folks outside of the local area hearing of the Mohlers situation wanted to give. Some gave money, others their time, all offered their prayers.

Just a little more than a year after the initial diagnosis, Sophia lost her batter with cancer, Katelyn lost her sister, and David and Teresa lost their daughter. Sophia was eight years old. There are no words. Grief hangs on my pen. 

Just when I think all is lost in the story, David and Teresa pick it up and carry on with the hope that only those who have a deep and abiding faith in the Creator can have. In their loss, David and Teresa find redemption, something of beauty and worth, through giving to others. David seeks out the homeless, if only one, with food and offering of helping him find shelter. Teresa has continued to pour her life into Katelyn, who has just graduated from high school.

I have personally stood in the back of the donut shop more than a few times and watched David and Teresa work side by side. It is as though I observe a dance, one that cannot be taught; a dance that comes with pain and loss and looking for ways to give back some of the love they received from the life of Sophia. 

Yes. David and Teresa have taken the leftovers, the ugliness of grief, to make something that is more than just palatable. They quietly live out what their Katrina pieces represent: taking what might appear to be the leftovers and allowing them to be more than fulfilling. They allow their loss to become another’s gain.

©Copyright_sarah_beaugez_katrinaPieces_2016

David and Theresa Mohler

https://www.facebook.com/TheTatonutDonutShop/

The Lost Cities and Rotting Bones

 His flesh and his bones rotted while he lay in the corner of the nursing home.

Alone.

It wasn’t the first time I had seen this particular picture. However it was the first time I was capable of following the outcome. And it wasn’t the first time I that I lost my job because I chose to do the right thing.

In the last ten years, I’ve worked in forty-four nursing homes spread across five states. I feel as if I’m attempting to find my way out of the catacombs, forever looking for light and air. I don’t feel like that because of the patients, for they are what make it bearable to work in a skilled nursing facility.

No. I feel like I’m forever in a lost city made up of people who were once vibrant and vital to life and living, but are now fed a steady diet of Little House on the Prairie and Bonanza re-runs all day everyday. They are told what they can do; when they can and cannot get in and out of bed or eat meals, get a bath, or even when or if they can go to the bathroom or have their diaper changed. And most are told that they will go to therapy a certain amount of time each day, at least as long Medicare A or B, or Medicaid monies hold out. In other words, besides breathing or having private thoughts, they no longer have any control over their lives.

In my very humble and personal opinion, once we passed a law that allowed for innocent babies to be killed in utero because they were inconvenient, it has become very acceptable to “put away” our elderly in places where they go to die.

It’s like the frog in the pot of boiling water. At what point did the frog go from being warm to uncomfortably warm to miserable to pain to feeling nothing? We live in a society of many who feel nothing, even those who are put in place to ensure that elder abuse and neglect don’t happen, or if it does, there are ways to help them.

I am here to tell you that there is no help for at least one patient, whose story is told below, and at least two other patients that I have reported have severe problems with wounds, one in another facility. I’ve was told, “No. We aren’t going to address any patients in another facility other than the single incident.” Period. End of discussion.

I am nauseated to report the following story.

I found the bed askew when I pulled the curtain away from his bed. Someone had pushed it out of its tidy place and hadn’t bothered to put it back. He lay surrounded by more than a half-a-dozen pillows. Some had been placed in an attempt to take the pressure off of his back, particularly his buttocks; others were under and between his legs. There was a nasal cannula in place delivering the vital O2 required to keep him breathing.

The bedside table was filthy with dried food. It took more than a couple of attempts to roll the rusty wheels away from the edge of the bed in order to reach the patient, also surrounded by raised bedrails on either side. When asked how he felt, the patient responded, “My right leg hurts a little.” I then begin pulling away a single pillow at a time, although it was very obvious he was most uncomfortable.

His legs were drawn towards his chest the way his hands were curled towards his heart. In my mind’s eye, I suppose at this stage of life, it was his heart, or what was in it, that mattered. Although his eyes were already dead, he was gracious and spoke kindly.

The CNA told me that the wound had gotten bad because the patient didn’t want to “get out of the recliner” in order to get into bed because he said “he couldn’t breathe” while on his back.

The CNA serving as the wound care nurse (CMS rules and regulations require that a wound care nurse be an RN), rolled the patient on his side in order to change the bandage on the Stage IV wound. I had been asked to evaluate the wound, a wound that only three months prior had been the size of my little finger. I had also been told that no other physical therapist had been willing to look at his wound, or any wound, which is really interesting after reading the corporation’s definition of Physical Therapy per their website:

“Physical Therapy focuses on problems with loss of movement, strength, motion, balance, and skin breakdown to accelerate recovery, prevent impairments, and minimize wounds and contractures. Our therapists work aggressively on healing advanced state decubitus ulcers (bed sores) utilizing state-of-the-art wound care protocols and pressure relief techniques to restore skin integrity.”

The bandage itself was about 10” x 10” which covered a wound that was approximately 3.5” in diameter, covered by a piece of grey foam that had been folded over itself several times.

The CNA brought with her hydrogen peroxide and saline to clean the wound. I stood beside the CNA as she removed the entire bandage and I smelled the wound before I could see it. Once I could see, I believed the foul odor to be feces only to realize that the grayish-green substance was oozing from the wound itself.

The patient was literally rotting.

When I asked the CNA how long the wound had not been getting better, she replied, “I’ve been documenting it getting worse for at least 60 days.” The patient was on hospice and had only been in the nursing home for three months.

The wound was far past anything I could do to help.

Without touching the wound, I documented the following:

“This wound is out of my scope of practice. The patient needs to be referred to MD for further assessment and possible indications for surgical debridement, IV antibiotics, and hyperbaric therapy.”

Unknown to me until weeks later, the patient was transferred out of the nursing home within six hours. They took the patient (under the cover of darkness) across state lines, performed radical surgery that included, but was not limited to, removal of the sacrum (tailbone), a colostomy, along with surgical debridement of two other wounds.

I visited this patient on three occasions. The first time he was receiving blood, not because of a low hematocrit (per his nurse) but because he was “leaking blood from ‘somewhere.’” I personally witnessed consistent blood pressure readings of 90-something over 50-something and lower. Prior to the second visit I was informed that his blood pressure had dropped into the 70-something over forty-something range during the night. The third visit I saw a family member while the patient received hyperbaric treatment. The fourth visit in five days was the day the patient expired.

The patient was cremated and buried before the State/Local representative for elder abuse began investigations on a report that I made ten days prior.

The point of writing and publishing such a story as this?

It's not just the elderly at risk. We are all only a bad accident or severe stroke away from being in a position where we cannot care for ourselves and/or there are no caregivers who can. and we all know someone who is in a nursing home or under the care of an entity like hospice, home health, or are in some type of rehab program. The sickening thing about this particular situation is that over fifteen corporations are somehow in "bed together" and are profiting from the neglect and abuse noted above.

I have contacted over two dozen entities in the Alabama and Mississippi state governments in an attempt to help right the wrongs done to the patient who is already dead by helping those that I am aware need help today, and I’m sure others who I don’t know about. I’ve been informed that there are no pictures and not enough documentation to support that any wrong has happened.

Whether or not there is documentation to not support the above or that it disappeared just like his body did with cremation, does not warrant the lack of investigation regarding the ones who are still alive and dying slow deaths due to severe wounds that come from neglect.

Write your senators and congressman in Mississippi and Alabama, along with the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and the government offices listed below. Please beg them to do something about this situation. It could be your loved one. 

It could be you.

http://www.alabamaageline.gov/elder-abuse

Governor of Alabama, Robert Bentley's, Montgomery office: 334-242-7100 

Governor's Chief of Staff, John Bargineer: 334-242-7100

Office of the Governor, Stacy Lewis, email: stacey.lewis@governor.alabama.gov

Alabama Governmental Affairs, Henry Davis, email: henry.davis@medicaid.alabama.gov or phone number: 334-242-5005

Alabama Department of Senior Services, Nell Morrison: 334-242-5743

Alabama Ombudsman, Virginia Bell: 334-242-5753 or 334-328-4121 or email: virginia.bell@adss.alabama.gov

Commissioner of Medicaid, Stephanie Azar: 334-242-7100 or email: stephanie.azar@medicaid.alabama.gov

Mississippi Governor, Phil Bryant's, office: 601-359-3150

Mississippi: Elder Abuse, Nursing Home Neglect, Senior Exploitation: 800-852-8341

Mississippi Elder Abuse: 800-222-8000

Mississippi Medicaid Fraud Investigation: 800-852-8341 

Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services: 800-447-8477