Family fights for abused handicapped woman

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After more than a year, the state concluded its investigation. Russell Carlini, chief of the Special Response Unit, wrote that investigators documented two cases of neglect and one of abuse during Perfelia’s 2003 stay:

May 16: The first time Perfelia fell, a staff member said her bedroom was checked only twice during the night. She should have been checked every 30 minutes.

July 26: Staff should have immediately sought treatment for Perfelia’s facial bruising and the lump on her head.

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July 9: An unnamed staff member physically abused Perfelia by dragging her down the stairs during a fire drill. Other employees had witnessed it, but their reports were not forwarded to health officials.

Perfelia’s family knew nothing about the fire drill incident, they said.

But Carlini’s investigation summary contradicted itself.

Despite noting that Perfelia should have received immediate medical attention for the bump and bruising on her face, Carlini wrote that she had “no sign of injury to her face and no evidence to corroborate the allegation,” that someone had punched her.

Investigators recommended disciplinary action, employee training and enforcement of staffing requirements.

And that, apparently, is the end of it, according to Perfelia’s family. Rossi-Rosen continues her letter campaign, but says she has heard nothing since November.

A law enforcement investigation was inconclusive.

'Who's my honey bunch?'
Late last year, Perfelia moved into Aunt Lena’s room at a nursing home just 10 minutes from where Sal Luizza sells cars at a Honda dealership.

He stopped at least once a day to check on his mother and his cousin. “Per-Per,” he called to Perfelia, using her nickname. “Per-Per, open your eyes. You’ve been sleeping all day.”

Sal leaned over her chair and pried open her eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Come on,” he said. “Who’s my honey bunch?” He planted big kisses on her cheek.

Perfelia’s brown eyes rolled, then focused. “Sal boy,” she said, which is what she calls her cousin. Her voice is slurred, wrapped in cotton from drugs she is given to keep her calm.

Across from Perfelia’s hospital bed, separated by a curtain, was her aunt’s side of the small room.

Lena’s bad health forced her family to make yet another hard decision. They had a meeting and told Lena that it was too dangerous for her to live alone anymore. They had already tried in-home care.

“You know what she’d do?” Sal said, grinning and pointing to his mother. “She’d tell the girl, ‘Here, honey, go get me some Chinese.’ Or she’d give her money and send her out to buy lottery tickets.”

Lena rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “So, what’s your point?”

Eventually, the family got Perfelia placed here, too. But in late January, Lena’s heart began to act up. In the wee hours of a Sunday morning, her heart and her lungs gave up and she died of congestive heart failure. Now her side of the room is empty.

Perfelia is alone again. She has lived longer than most people with Down syndrome, a genetic disorder manifested by mental retardation.

At her Aunt Lena’s wake, she understood that something was very wrong.

“What’s going on?” she kept asking. When her cousin Michelle Luizza pushed her wheelchair to the front of the room and tried to get Perfelia to say goodbye to the body in the casket, Perfelia balked. “No,” she said, turning her head and refusing to look.

“She was with it all day,” said Rossi-Rosen. “She knew what was going on. And she knows that Lena isn’t in the room anymore.”

Rossi-Rosen’s voice breaks. “I can’t even think about it,” she says. “I don’t let myself think about it.”

Will Perfelia remain at the nursing home?

Her cousin sighs. “Yes,” Rossi-Rosen replies. “She’ll stay there.”

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