No, she wasn’t a Russian prostitute. She was a fire-plug blonde from New York state with vocal cords sandpapered by years of smoke but also with excellent references as a caregiver. ​I was desperate. I’d already gone through two carefivers for my ex-husband, whom I’d been caring for since his stroke five months earlier. (Why?…

The drive to the acute rehab center from my house generally takes about 25 to 30 minutes, but it’s rush hour and I-77 is a clogged vein. I’m a city girl, used to traffic, yet I find myself gripping the wheel from the stress. The traffic thins, and I peel off on I-485, the eight-lane…