87-Year-Old Woman Fired Her Home Care Nurse And Hired A Tattooed Biker Instead

The 87-year-old woman’s family threatened to declare her incompetent after she fired her home care nurse and replaced her with a tattooed biker.

I live across the hall from her, and I observed the entire event from the window of my apartment. The reason she did it was something her kids didn’t know and only I knew.

Dorothy Mitchell is her name. For 43 years, Dorothy has resided in apartment 4B. In 2003, her spouse passed away. Perhaps twice a year, her three children, who reside in various states, come to visit.

She suffers from osteoporosis, advanced Parkinson’s disease, and the bone-aching loneliness that comes with loneliness.

Two years ago, I moved across from her. I work from home as a journalist, and I began to notice things. Every few weeks, a different nurse was assigned by the home care agency.

Dorothy would make an effort to speak with them and establish a friendship, but they would simply go about their business. Give her food. Give her a bath. Give her her prescription drugs. Then vanish.

Over the day, she began to leave her door open. Only a crack. Enough to allow her to hear a voice in the corridor. Enough that she didn’t feel totally isolated. When I went by, I would wave.

I would occasionally pause and talk. She told me about her late Korean War veteran husband, George. About her children being “too busy.” About how she was unable to get to the mailbox by herself after traveling the world.

It was a Tuesday in January when the cyclist arrived. I glanced out my peephole as soon as I heard Dorothy’s door open. He was there. He is possibly 6’4″, has a beard that reaches his chest, is tattooed, and is wearing a leather vest with patches. He had groceries bags in his hands.

Initially, I believed Dorothy was being robbed. I opened my door. “Pardon me, may I assist you?” He grinned as he turned. The smile that transformed his face entirely. “All I’m doing is assisting Miss Dorothy with her shopping. She gave me a call.

Dorothy’s voice was internal. Is it you, Michael? Enter, enter. Bring along my inquisitive neighbor as well.

Suspicious, I followed him inside. Dorothy was grinning as she sat in her recliner. I’m actually grinning. It had been months since I last saw her smile like that.

“This is Michael,” she stated proudly. “He’s my new assistant. Yesterday, I terminated the agency. After putting the items down, Michael began to unpack them. He was fully aware of where everything went.

He remarked, “Miss Dorothy prefers the crackers on the second shelf.” “And her tea bags in the stovetop canister.”

I turned to face Dorothy. “You dismissed the organization? Is your family aware? Her smile dimmed a bit. “I don’t have to tell my family everything I do. Even though they tried their hardest to arrange my funeral, I’m still alive.

After completing the groceries, Michael took a seat on the couch. This enormous, menacing man sat down with such care and gentleness. You must take your noontime prescription, Miss Dorothy. Do you want me to get them?

“Please, my love.” He proceeded to the kitchen. returned with a glass of water and a pill organizer. With such care, he handed them to her. She stroked his hand and swallowed her tablets. “Thank you, my love.”

I have to be aware. “How did you two get together?” Dorothy had a glitter in her eyes. “He attempted to take my handbag.” My mouth fell open. Michael chuckled. “Miss Dorothy, that’s not exactly what happened.”

“Near enough,” she remarked. “Tell her what happened.” Michael then informed me. Three weeks prior, he had been riding his motorcycle through our neighborhood.

Outside our building, I noticed Dorothy seated on the bench. She managed to get downstairs, but she was unable to get back up. The elevator wasn’t working.

Michael remarked, “She was just sitting there.” “In temperatures of fifteen degrees.” Without a coat. I stopped and inquired if she required assistance. She acknowledged, but she was short on cash to reimburse me. He grinned. “Therefore, I carried her up four floors.”

Dorothy cut me off. I also attempted to give him my purse when we arrived at my apartment. believed that was what he desired. I was carried upstairs by the man.

I figured he was doing it for financial gain. She became quiet. That’s what I’ve discovered. Everyone has a desire.

Michael went on. I informed her that I had no desire for money. Then, she questioned why I had assisted her. I stated that since I was there and she needed assistance.

He hesitated. She broke down in tears. claimed that no one had done anything for her in a decade without requesting payment or acknowledgment.

Dorothy remarked, “I invited him to stay for tea.” And he did. for two hours. We discussed everything. His motorcycling club. The carpenter he was. His daughter. My spouse. My life. Genuine dialogue. the sort that I hadn’t had since George’s passing.

“She asked me if I would return when I left,” Michael recalled. So I did. the following day. and the following day. She contacted me to assist her after firing her home care nurse after a week.

I was taken aback. However, the agency is a professional organization. They’re trained.” Dorothy’s face became stern. “They’re strangers who come into my home, treat me like a task on their checklist, and leave. I am treated like a person by Michael.

“I am not doing this for financial gain,” Michael hastily added. “I don’t come because Miss Dorothy insists on paying me. She makes me think of my grandmother, which is why I come.

While I was serving in Afghanistan, she passed away by herself in a nursing home. I was never able to bid them farewell. His voice broke. “If I could avoid it, I vowed never to leave another grandmother alone.”

I saw the evolution of their routine over the ensuing weeks. Every morning at nine o’clock, Michael arrived. He’d help Dorothy shower and dress.

Prepare her breakfast. For hours, they would sit and converse. regarding life. concerning loss. Regarding everything and nothing.

When the weather was nice, he would take her for walks. Take her literally. He would push her about the neighborhood in a wheelchair he had purchased with his own funds. To the park. To the library. To the café where she and George used to go.

People gazed. This big tattooed biker pushing a little old woman. A few appeared frightened. A few appeared repulsed. Dorothy adored it. She would say, “Let them stare.” “I have the city’s most fascinating caretaker.”

Michael began taking her to activities hosted by the motorcycle club. Gatherings, not rides, of course. barbecues. fundraisers for charities.

Dorothy became the grandmother of the club. She is referred to as Miss Dorothy by thirty motorcyclists, who vie to serve her the best desserts.

“I haven’t felt this alive in twenty years,” she once told me, her eyes welling with tears. Then her kids discovered it. Sarah, Dorothy’s daughter, gave me a call. demanded to be informed of the situation. For what reason was a “criminal” hanging around with her mother? Did he take anything from her? Taking advantage of her?

I was honest with Sarah. For the first time in years, her mother was content. Dorothy was eating more healthily. Increase your movement. I’m laughing. Existing. Sarah was unconcerned. She isn’t thinking straight. Her judgment is affected by Parkinson’s. We will put an end to this.

Two weeks later the family appeared. All three kids. Michael was present when they stormed into Dorothy’s flat. began to shout. accusing him of mistreating the elderly. financial abuse. manipulation.

Dorothy got out of her seat. really got to her feet, something she hardly ever accomplished these days. “Leave my house now.” Sarah attempted to grasp her mom’s hand. We’re attempting to keep you safe, Mom. This individual poses a threat.

“This man has been here every day for two months,” Dorothy exclaimed, her voice trembling with anger. Where have you been? Christmas? Thanksgiving? “My birthday?” She gestured to Michael. “He was present. He is constantly present. Would you dare to describe him as dangerous?

Robert, her son, came forward. “Look at him, Mom. The ink. The vest worn by gang members. He’s clearly taking advantage of you. Michael said nothing. did not stand up for himself. He simply lowered his head and stood there.

Dorothy approached Michael. took his hand. When I was freezing on a bench, this man helped me up four flights of stairs. When I am unable to bathe myself, he does it for me. I get my nourishment from him. Speak to me. makes me chuckle. Now she was crying. He handles me as like I’m important. How recently have any of you given me a sense of importance?

There was silence in the room. Sarah made another attempt. We’re going to ask the court to determine your competency, Mom. for your personal security.

Dorothy said, “Do it.” Let Michael be introduced to a judge. Show them what you are obviously unable to do. that instead of the parade of strangers you’ve been paying to keep me in storage until I die, I selected someone who genuinely cares about me.

Her kids went out. threatened to take legal action. informed Dorothy that she was erring. Michael sat down on the couch after waiting until they had left. His head was in his hands.

I don’t want to make trouble for your family, Miss Dorothy. Perhaps I should take a back seat. Dorothy walked slowly toward him. She touched his shoulder with her little hand. “I may have two years left, Michael. Less, perhaps. I’ve been cooped up in this apartment, treated like a burden, and lonely for the past ten years.

“You restored my life.” I have a purpose because of you. Happiness and friendship. What my kids think is irrelevant to me. What judges think doesn’t matter to me. I am aware of the truth. He was staring at her as she raised his chin. “I haven’t experienced anything better in twenty years than you. Don’t leave me, please.

Michael gave her a hug. This little woman is being hugged by this huge man. They were both crying. I had to look away. It was too intimate. Too uncooked.

The case went to court. The children of Dorothy applied for guardianship. that she lacked competence. Dorothy was interviewed in private by the judge. Michael was then interviewed. After that, I and three other neighbors were interviewed.

The judge decided in favor of Dorothy. thought she was quite capable. claimed that she had made a “conventional but well-reasoned” decision in her caretaker. The judge even pointed out that since Michael began assisting Dorothy, her mobility and mental health had improved, according to her medical records.

The judge stated, “Family isn’t always blood.” The folks who show up are what matter. And for the past four months, Mr. Michael has been present every day. That is more than the petitioners can claim.

Dorothy’s kids were enraged. They ceased making calls. ceased to visit. Terminate all communication. Dorothy was devastated, but not shocked. They desired both their inheritance and my money. I was never wanted by them.

Michael redoubled his dedication. began spending the night when Dorothy was experiencing severe episodes. To avoid loneliness, she slept on her couch. His brothers from the motorcycle club also worked shifts. Miss Dorothy was constantly being checked on.

An ambulance was waiting outside our building when I returned home six months after the court case. My heart fell. I bolted upstairs. Dorothy was down. Her hip was broken. Michael held her hand as they rode in the ambulance.

He assured the paramedics that he would not abandon her. “Her emergency contact is me. I’m accompanying her. Michael wouldn’t leave her side at the hospital.

He held her hand while they prepared her for surgery and then placed her under the knife. Six hours were spent waiting in the surgical wing. He was the first person she noticed when she woke up.

“Hello, my love,” she muttered. “You remained.” “Always,” he replied. Dorothy took a while to recuperate. Too slowly. She required 24-hour care. A skilled nursing facility was recommended by the hospital. “No,” Michael answered.

“She is returning home.” I’ll look after her. The physicians had doubts. It’s a job that never ends. Are you ready for that? Michael gave Dorothy a look. When her spouse was diagnosed with cancer, she cared for him for eight years. I never voiced any complaints. Never gave up. Eight weeks, eight months, or eight years is all I can handle. everything she requires.

He took up residence in her apartment. A cot should be placed in the living room. learned how to manage medications, perform physical therapy, and take care of wounds. Food was brought by his club brothers. contributed to the cleaning. filled in while Michael needed a nap.

On one occasion, Dorothy’s kids appeared. inquired as to if she was prepared to visit a facility. “Go,” she said. “This is where I have all the family I need.”

Eight months have passed since then. Dorothy is still alive. She is still in her flat. Michael and his motorcycle club are still taking care of him. She is now weaker. Parkinson’s disease is getting worse. She is content, though. People who care about her are all around her.

Michael ran to the pharmacy last week while Dorothy and I sat. She took hold of my hand. “I’m in need of your assistance. I want you to share this story with others once I pass away.

Inform them of Michael. Tell them how a motorcyclist with tattoos brought delight to an elderly woman in her final years. Inform them that kinship isn’t necessarily based on blood.

Remind them that sometimes the most lovable people are the ones who look the scariest. She gave my hand a squeeze. Remind them not to pass judgment. Because the only reason I’m dying with honor rather than alone is because of the man my kids labeled dangerous.

I assured her that I would. So here I am. Telling you. The age of Dorothy Mitchell is 87. She is dying. Additionally, she is receiving royal treatment from a motorcycle club.

Months have passed since her biological children last called. But there are bikers every day. Bring some flowers. Prepare food. Talk while seated. Make jokes. Play cards. Ensure Dorothy is aware of her love.

Michael left his profession as a carpenter to take full-time care of her. depends on funds to survive. doesn’t give a damn. He claims, “Miss Dorothy gave me purpose.” “Everything else is merely specifics.”

This is the aspect of bikers that most find most confusing. about actual motorcycle riders. They are not the criminals that the media portrays them as. They are brothers, fathers, and grandparents who adhere to a code that most people have forgotten.

Arrive. Defend the vulnerable. Keep your word. Never abandon someone. All of that is embodied by Michael. And Dorothy—may God bless her—saw the guy beneath the leather and the tattoos. When everyone else would have crossed the street to avoid him, she gave him a chance.

He also gifted her something even more valuable. He provided her with a family. He treated her with respect. In her latter years, he showed her love. Perhaps don’t pass judgment on a cyclist the next time you encounter them. Perhaps don’t make assumptions. Perhaps you recall Michael and Dorothy. And perhaps consider who the true threats are.

The ones that come in every day, the ones with tattoos? Or the suit-clad individuals who only appear to quarrel over inheritance?

I know the solution. Dorothy did the same.