My experience at USC Arcadia Hospital left me profoundly disappointed in its communication,…read morecompassion, and accountability during my loved one's final weeks and after her death. When I needed support, I repeatedly encountered insensitivity, rigid enforcement of policy, and assurances that led nowhere.
In mid-May, my loved one suffered a catastrophic hemorrhagic stroke. Based on a sales receipt, I estimated that it occurred between 1:30 and 1:50 p.m. She was discovered unconscious around 3:30 p.m. and arrived at the emergency department around 4 p.m. A ventricular drainage procedure described as an emergency was performed around 10 p.m.--approximately six hours after arrival and more than eight hours after the estimated stroke onset.
I recognize that neurosurgical decisions can be complex. But why did a procedure described as an emergency take place six hours after she arrived? When was the hemorrhage identified, what did the scans show, and when was drainage deemed necessary? I did not receive a clear explanation of that timeline or the decisions behind it.
After the procedure, the neurosurgeon had already left, so I asked the attending registered nurse how it had gone. He told me, "There was blood all over the brain," then adamantly declared that "she's NOT going to make a meaningful recovery."
I needed a thoughtful explanation of the procedure's outcome and what it meant for her condition. Instead, I received a graphic description followed by an emphatic, devastating prognosis. Difficult medical realities can be communicated honestly without abandoning sensitivity.
During nearly daily ICU visits, I also experienced exceptionally poor bedside manner from a neurosurgeon and a neurologist. Compassion and meaningful communication were too often missing when they mattered most.
Care and attitudes improved considerably after her transfer to hospice, and I want to acknowledge that. I set up sleeping pads and a sleeping bag in her room so I could remain beside her for long hours, day and night.
Our dog, Cody, complicated those efforts. His severe separation anxiety and reactivity made conventional boarding or pet-sitting impractical. I cared for him myself, sleeping with him in my SUV for part of the night and checking on him regularly during the day. When outdoor parking became exposed to direct sun, I approached staff about temporarily parking in the covered employee structure. Even there, Cody barked when left alone.
On the day she died, I tried leaving Cody in an air-conditioned, pet-friendly motel room. Around 1 p.m., the manager called about his incessant barking. I retrieved him, returned to the hospital's shaded employee parking structure, and hurried back to her bedside.
Around 3:30 p.m., while checking on Cody, a security officer told me that barking complaints meant I had to remove my vehicle from the structure. I explained that the uncovered lot was unsafe for him in the sun. Most importantly, I explained that my loved one was nearing death and might pass away that afternoon. I desperately wanted to be with her.
The officer said he was enforcing hospital policy and that I had to leave. With no workable alternative for keeping Cody safe, I drove home. Approximately two hours later, her mother called: she had passed away.
After weeks of almost constant attendance, sleepless nights, and makeshift accommodations, I was absent when she died. I had specifically explained to security that this was precisely what I feared.
I understand that barking can disturb others and that hospitals need rules. But where was the discretion, compassion, or effort to find a practical solution during a dying patient's final hours?
The following morning, I called hospice about the belongings I had left in her room, including very expensive ultralight backpacking gear: two Therm-a-Rest sleeping pads and an ultralight goose-down sleeping bag. A staff member assured me everything would be gathered, secured, and available for pickup. I relied on that assurance.
Subsequent calls led me to security, where calls went unanswered and I left numerous messages. Another hospice staff member appeared unaware of my earlier conversations. Patient Experience said they would investigate, but I had to follow up myself to learn that my possessions had not been located.
With their agreement, I emailed an itemized list and replacement-cost documentation. No acknowledgment. No meaningful follow-up. After another call, I eventually received an email stating that hospital policy disclaimed responsibility for belongings left in patient rooms.
An explicit assurance that my expensive property would be secured ended with missing belongings and a policy disclaimer. That is not meaningful accountability.
I am also adding photographs of the ICU guest patio, where families should be able to find some respite. The plants are dead, dry, and crispy. To me, that visible neglect reflects the lack of care and attention I experienced elsewhere.
