So we put Hubs' grandma in a home. It's a small house run by a group of strange but kind Romanian women (grandma asked, "why did you send me to live with the Mexicans?") who call their wards "honey" and "sweetie." They pretty much barely speak English. But they're very kind!
Nonetheless, we are suffering serious guilt pangs since she is so hell bent against living with the Mexicans. We felt a little better yesterday as we were packing some of her things yesterday to bring to her new home and came across several notes she wrote to either herself or "them" -- the people who are "stealing" from her. A number of items have gone missing, including cottage cheese and underwear. In one note she writes that she dreamed she died. Very strange. But it makes us feel better about what we had to do.