My Son Drugged Me And Committed Me To A Nursing Home To Steal My $850k House. He Told Everyone I Had Dementia, But I Am An Aerospace Engineer And I Remember Everything. How Do I Take Him Down?
A Disorienting Awakening
I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine staring at a ceiling I didn’t recognize. The walls were pale green. There was a smell, antiseptic mixed with something else, something institutional.
A woman in scrubs walked past the doorway without looking in.
“Excuse me,”
I called out.
My voice came out rough like I hadn’t used it in days. She stopped, backed up, and smiled that professional smile.
“Oh, Mr. Patterson, you’re awake.”
“How are you feeling?”
She said.
“Where am I?”
I asked.
“Riverside Extended Care Facility.”
“You’ve been here three days now.”
She answered.
Three days. I sat up slowly testing my body. Everything worked with no pain, no weakness, and no confusion.
“There’s been some mistake.”
“I don’t need to be here.”
I said.
“Your son Marcus signed all the paperwork.”
“He said you’d be confused at first.”
She replied.
She patted my arm.
“It’s normal to feel disoriented.”
The woman added.
But I wasn’t disoriented. I was 65 years old, not 95. I’d had a dizzy spell two weeks ago, or was it three weeks, and my son had insisted I see a doctor.
The doctor said my blood pressure was slightly elevated, gave me a prescription, and sent me home.
The Fabricated Episode
That was the last clear memory I had.
“I need to call my son,”
I said.
“Of course.”
“Let me get you a phone.”
The nurse replied.
When Marcus answered, he sounded rushed.
“Dad, I’m in a meeting.”
He said.
“Why am I in a nursing home?”
I asked.
There was silence.
“Then we talked about this.”
“You had another episode.”
“The doctor said you needed round-the-clock monitoring.”
He answered.
“What episode, Marcus?”
“I feel fine.”
“I want to go home.”
I responded.
“Dad, you’re not fine.”
“You fell.”
“You were confused.”
Marcus replied.
There was more silence.
“Look, we’ll talk about this later.”
“I have to go.”
He said and hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand, a flip phone, not my smartphone. When I asked the nurse about my belongings, she brought me a small plastic bag.
Inside was my wallet, my watch, and my wedding ring. There was no phone, no keys, and no glasses.
“Where’s my phone?”
I asked.
“Marcus took it.”
The nurse answered.
“He said, ‘You kept calling people and getting confused, worrying your neighbors.’”
The nurse said.
That was a lie. I wasn’t confused. I was a retired aerospace engineer.
I designed guidance systems for satellites. My mind was sharp. Something was very wrong.
Over the next two days, I played along. I took the medications they gave me, which I realized later were mild sedatives meant to keep residents compliant. I attended the group activities and I smiled at the staff.
And I observed. The facility wasn’t terrible. It was clean and adequately staffed, but it was for people who needed full-time care.
It was for people in wheelchairs, people with advanced dementia, and people at the end of their lives. I didn’t belong here.
On the third day, my neighbor Helen came to visit. She was 70, sharp as a tack, and she looked furious.
“Richard, what on earth is going on?”
“Marcus came by last week with a moving truck.”
“He said you’d had a stroke and were going to live with him now.”
“Now I find out you’re here.”
She said.
“Moving truck?”
I asked.
“They cleared out your house, furniture, everything.”
“Richard, I tried to call you, but Marcus said you couldn’t have visitors yet.”
Helen answered.
My house. The house I’d built with my own hands in 1985 right after my wife Sandra died. The house where I’d raised Marcus as a single father.
The house that held 40 years of memories.
“Helen, I need your help.”
“Can you bring me a pen and paper?”
“And don’t tell Marcus you visited.”
I asked.
She understood immediately.
“I’ll be back this evening.”
She promised.
