September 26, 2026
My mom died a little over two months ago.
I’ve written about the grief. I’ve written about how quiet the house is. I’ve written about burying myself in my business because sometimes sorting inventory, photographing crystals, making jewelry, and finding literally anything to do with my hands is easier than sitting still long enough to think about the fact that my mom is dead.
I’ve written about the anger, too.
But I haven’t publicly explained exactly where so much of that anger comes from.
I’m ready now.
My mom, Maria, went into Advocate Lutheran General Hospital on June 18, 2026.
She died there on July 20.
Thirty-two days.
After obtaining thousands of pages of her medical records, going through them, speaking with a medical malpractice attorney, and trying to piece together what the hell happened during those 32 days, I have officially filed a complaint with the Illinois Department of Public Health regarding her care.
I also left the hospital a public review.
And now I’m telling the whole story here.
I’m not writing this because I can prove that one doctor, one medication, or one decision caused my mother’s death. I can’t.
I’m writing this because I still have a whole lot of fucking questions.
And I’m angry.
I Knew Something Was Wrong
On July 1, my mom was lethargic and largely unresponsive for most of the day.
I wasn’t at the hospital because I was sick, but her caregiver was there. She called me. She FaceTimed me. I saw my mother, and I kept asking why she wasn’t responding.
This wasn’t me seeing an Alzheimer’s patient confused about where she was and panicking because I didn’t understand dementia.
I knew my mother’s Alzheimer’s. I knew her baseline. I knew what hospital delirium looked like for her.
I knew my fucking mother.
During a conversation about plans for her discharge, I specifically questioned why she wasn’t responding. I was told it was most likely hospital delirium.
Later that night, her oxygen saturation dropped to 85 percent and a rapid response was called. Her medical record describes her as lethargic, unable to respond to questions, and having shallow breathing. She was placed on BiPAP.
Nobody called me.
I found out because I called the hospital myself to check on her.
By the next morning, she was still severely lethargic. That’s when they did brain imaging.
The CT showed suspected evolving infarcts.
The MRI confirmed it.
My mother had suffered an acute ischemic stroke involving her right temporal and frontal lobes.
I don’t know exactly when that stroke happened, and I’m not going to pretend I do. I also don’t know whether recognizing it earlier would have changed anything.
What I do know is that while I was asking why my mother was barely responding, her condition was being attributed to delirium and discharge was being discussed.
I want to know whether that dramatic change in her responsiveness should have triggered a neurological investigation sooner.
And I want to know how much her Alzheimer’s diagnosis influenced the assumption that what everyone was seeing was simply dementia or delirium.
People with Alzheimer’s still have strokes. They still have heart attacks. They still get pneumonia. They still have medical emergencies.
They are still fucking people.
Then Came the Swallowing and Breathing Problems
After the stroke, swallowing became another major concern.
My mom developed significant dysphagia and was considered at high risk for aspiration. I specifically raised concerns about the timing of a video swallow study because I knew how lethargic she could be in the morning after her nighttime medications. I wanted her evaluated when she had the best chance of actually participating.
The study was done around 9:30 in the morning anyway.
The report itself says she was lethargic, required maximal verbal and tactile stimulation, was tachypneic, and that the examination was limited by her condition. It ultimately showed moderate to severe oropharyngeal dysphagia requiring non-oral feeding.
Her hospitalization also included aspiration pneumonia.
Then there were the respiratory problems.
Hypoxia. Hypercapnia. Pleural effusions. Repeated episodes of respiratory distress. BiPAP. Discussions about whether she needed the ICU.
And depending on whom I spoke to, I seemed to get a different explanation for why my mother was deteriorating.
I kept advocating for BiPAP because I watched it help her.
The medical records show just how confusing this became. One assessment said she was such a significant aspiration risk that BiPAP should not be started on the regular floor unless she was transferred to the ICU for close monitoring. Critical care, meanwhile, determined that she did not need an ICU transfer for continuous BiPAP because they did not believe her encephalopathy was being caused by the degree of hypercapnia they were seeing.
Maybe there are medically reasonable explanations for those different recommendations.
But as her daughter standing beside her bed, trying to figure out what the hell was happening to my mother, it was exhausting and terrifying.
And Then a Doctor Said Something I Will Never Forget
I knew my mom was sick.
I knew she could die.
I wasn’t demanding that anyone promise me that my 82-year-old mother with Alzheimer’s, heart problems, respiratory problems, and a recent stroke was going to bounce out of that hospital and live another 20 years.
I wanted her given a chance.
And one doctor told me:
“Your mom is going to die. You’re going to see I’m right, and in like two weeks you’ll tell me so.”
Yes.
That is what I remember being said to me while my mother was lying in a hospital bed.
Doctors have to deliver terrible news. I understand that. Tell me she’s critically ill. Tell me you don’t think she’s going to recover. Tell me what you’re seeing medically. Tell me when you believe treatment is causing more suffering than benefit.
I can handle the truth.
What I cannot accept is speaking to a terrified daughter as though her mother’s death is a prediction you’re waiting to be proven right about.
My mother did die.
I never went back and told him he was right.
I wouldn’t have anyway.
My mother’s death wasn’t a fucking prediction to win.
July 20
I left the hospital at around 8:30 that night.
My mom wasn’t well, but I understood her to be stable.
At around 10:30 p.m., I called to check on her and understood that she was stable and receiving treatment for atrial fibrillation.
I’ve since reviewed the medication records.
A 10 mg dose of propranolol was documented as administered at 10:32 p.m.
At 11:14 p.m., a rapid response was called when my mother’s heart rate suddenly dropped into the 10s to 20s.
She initially still had a pulse.
The critical-care note says she had palpable carotid and femoral pulses when atropine was administered. She didn’t respond. Her pulses subsequently disappeared.
At 11:17 p.m., my mother was pronounced dead.
Forty-two minutes after the documented propranolol administration.
Three minutes from the rapid response to her recorded time of death.
I want to be very clear about why I’m including that timeline.
I am not saying propranolol caused my mother’s death.
Temporal proximity does not prove causation, and I am not a cardiologist.
I am saying that I want to know what happened.
I want to know what her heart rate, rhythm, and blood pressure were before and after that medication. I want to know when the bradycardia began. I want to know whether the cardiac medications she was receiving played any role. I want to know whether her previously documented sinus pause was relevant.
Those are medical questions that deserve medical answers.
DNR Does Not Mean “Do Nothing”
My mom was DNR.
I supported her DNR.
I’m not angry that nobody performed CPR after her heart stopped. That wasn’t what she wanted.
But her actual order was Selective Treatment/DNR.
Her chart documented no CPR in cardiac arrest and no pre-arrest intubation. It also permitted certain treatments before cardiac arrest, including antiarrhythmics, cardioversion, and vasopressors.
During the final event, a medical code was initially called when her heart rate dropped into the 10s to 20s. It was cancelled because she was DNR/DNI, and care continued as a rapid response. She still had a pulse at that point, and atropine was administered.
Then she lost her pulse.
I’m not claiming the hospital violated her DNR order.
I’m asking whether her entire Selective Treatment/DNR order was appropriately interpreted during those final minutes, particularly while she was profoundly bradycardic but still had a pulse.
DNR meant my mother did not want CPR if her heart stopped.
It did not mean she stopped being worthy of treatment while she was still alive.
So I Filed a Complaint
I didn’t immediately run to the internet screaming malpractice.
I got the records.
Thousands of pages.
I went through them.
I consulted a medical malpractice attorney.
Ultimately, I was told there wasn’t enough evidence to prove negligence to the standard necessary to pursue a malpractice case.
But a lawsuit and a regulatory investigation are not the same thing.
And I still had questions.
So I filed a formal complaint with the Illinois Department of Public Health asking for an independent review of her care.
I asked them to look at the delayed recognition of her stroke, communication with me during significant changes in her condition, swallowing and aspiration concerns, respiratory management, BiPAP and ICU decisions, the events immediately preceding her death, and the interpretation of her Selective Treatment/DNR order.
Maybe they’ll determine that everything was medically appropriate.
Maybe they’ll find problems.
I genuinely don’t know.
That’s why I filed the complaint.
I want someone independent of the hospital to look at what happened.
Her Name Was Maria
My mother was 82.
She had Alzheimer’s.
She had heart problems. She suffered a significant stroke. By the end of that hospitalization, she was incredibly medically complicated.
I knew my mother wasn’t going to live forever.
I never expected anyone to perform a miracle.
What I expected was vigilance.
Communication.
Compassion.
I expected to be called when a rapid response was happening.
I expected the people caring for her to listen when those who knew her said something was wrong.
And I expected Alzheimer’s not to become an easy explanation for every change in her mental status.
Because Alzheimer’s didn’t make her less human.
Age didn’t make her disposable.
A DNR didn’t mean she wasn’t worth treating.
Her name was Maria.
She loved blue.
She was a wife. A mother. A person who was deeply loved.
And I knew her.
That’s the part that still makes me so fucking angry.
I knew when something wasn’t right with my mom.
I said something wasn’t right.
And now she’s gone.
For two months I’ve carried the grief of losing her alongside all of these unanswered questions. I’ve worried that if I spoke publicly about my anger, I’d simply be dismissed as a grieving daughter looking for someone to blame.
I’m not looking to manufacture a villain.
I don’t need to exaggerate what happened.
The truth is complicated enough.
I don’t know whether different decisions would have changed the ultimate outcome.
I do know that I deserve answers.
The complaint has now been filed. The public review has been posted. The state can decide what, if anything, the records show should have been done differently.
But this part belongs to me.
This is what I witnessed.
This is what I lived through.
This was my mom.
I walked into that hospital with my mother. After more than a month of fighting and advocating for her, I left without her. I would not entrust someone I love to this hospital again.
And I’m not staying quiet about what happened to my mother anymore.