Report from Pillville: Life is Sweet

I am seldom out of my mother's sight when she goes to the doctor. I am the translator (interpreting what she "hears" with her nearly deaf ears) and the rememberer of what she forgets (although she remembers plenty.) Today I took her to get a CT scan, searching for the cause of her recent 12-pound weight loss, and a mammogram. When it was her turn, a curly-haired man in blue scrubs came for her with a wheel chair, and told me he could handle everything. He spoke loudly and looked into both her eyes and my eyes, so I gladly let him wheel her away.

"I take care of my mom too," the pretty blonde sitting next to me said. Both her wrists were trussed up in those braces people who have some kind of repetitive motion injury have to wear.  We talked about everything two women can talk about in ten or fifteen minutes. Men. Childbirth. Aged parents. Death. Illness. Injury. Children. Joy. Depression. Self-reliance. Technology. Love. When they called her name, she turned fully towards me and we grabbed one another's arms and held on for a moment. My strength into her. Hers into me.

 In a sappy version of this story, I'd remember the name that was called and go up to the receptionist before I left to see if I might leave a note for her so we could maybe get together again, and the receptionist would tell me they didn't see any patients by that name today. Something mystical for mysterious would happen then, and we'd all find out that she was really an angel or something like that. But she was real.

When one stumbles into encounters like these, there's not much to be done except savor the gratitude.

So my mom endured a long afternoon--mostly of waiting. She sleeps more these days than ever before, but hardly needs a pain pill. She sleeps late and often naps before dinner. Anytime a person comments on her age or asks her how she is, she says she's able to be up and around, or that she takes it one day at a time, or that she's fine except for the aches and pains that come with being old. It was not always thus. When she first moved in, there were a million things she had to have, never quite content. Every day seemed to bring a new errand for me. Now it seems that as long as I have gin, vermouth, half and half, and coffee, and yogurt in the house, all else can be done without.

Today we stopped for fro-yo at one of those places with a dozen serve yourself flavors and the full range of toppings from balsamic vinegar to old fashioned candies; from boba to hot fudge. Last time time she had the butter pecan. This time the sea salt caramel pretzel. She remarks over and over how delicious it is.

Fro-yo every time we're out. That's my new plan.

If I fall, I might not get up

The good things about today:

I woke up feeling great.
There was time for coffee before I took the man who loves me to the train station.
My mother's doctor had an opening for the follow-up appointment recommended by the ER doc.
I walked on the beach while I worked out the details of that appointment.
I found lots of beach glass while walking and talking.
The doctor's office had a wheelchair.
The blue heron came to the boat dock this evening.

The not-so-good things:

I took the man who loves me to the train station.
My mom is still feeling unwell.
One of her antibiotics made her nauseated and we had to drive to the Dr.'s office with a dishpan in her lap.
She left the doctor's office for a 2nd doctor's office in a wheelchair.
She still needed the wheelchair to get back to the car.
She has new antibiotics and an anti-nausea drug.
She's had a little dinner and some Gatorade.

So there you have it. The scorecard for today. It looks pretty even. But it doesn't feel that way.

Report from Pillville: The Gastroenterologist, the Scan,the Blood Test, and the New Medication

"My God, you're handsome!" my mom said a couple of minutes into the appointment with her latest doctor--a gastroenterologist. Nothing wrong with her eyes. Seriously, this doctor needs a TV show. Or perhaps a trip to Bollywood. Now I understand why the nurse comes in first and takes the patient's heart rate and blood pressure before the doctor appears.

And here's the best part of it. After I told him she doesn't hear well, and she could communicate much better if he looked at her, he did. Every syllable. He listened to her complaints. He asked a lot of questions and listened some more. He studied her list of medications, then rearranged the scheduling of those a bit so he could work in a new med that might help her.

He also ordered blood work and a scan in addition to the other lab tests she's already had. The scan was today, and I'm always amazed by what a trouper my mom is. Chalky drinks, IVs, loud machines--no problem.

And when we got home, she received a shot of vitamin M--the best medicine of all. In fact all the residents of Margaritaville have been suffering from a severe vitamin M deficiency. We're all feeling better by the minute.

photo notes: The picture at the top of this post is an Indian movie star--not the gastroenterologist. The picture at the bottom of the post is, however, the real and true M.

Report from Pillville: The neurologist, the geriatric specialist, the ENT

The neurologist loves to talk. Is it his way of gauging how well my mom is listening and comprehending? His way of connecting with me as my mom's advocate? "You're doing great," he told my mom more than once. "You're lucky," he told me. "Good genes." And we heard about how he lost his house, burned to the ground in 2003 in one of southern California's epic fires. I told him about my divorce and how I hated to live alone, and how it's good that my mother is now living with me. We talked about cats, and losing everything and how we like living in our new houses with their boat docks even though we don't want boats. "Get that kayak," he told me. "Good exercise." To my mom he said, "Come back in six months."

I've worried for months that no one is connecting the dots. Neurologist, cardiologist, pulmonologist, primary care, vascular surgeon, podiatrist. A laundry list of medications, and still there are niggling  problems that have not been addressed. This is the guy, I thought. A board certified geriatric specialist. His office jammed with teetering stacks of files, his cheeks so chubby that is eyes appeared crowded, too, an annoying front desk receptionist calling everyone "Honey." Is he looking at us....or not? He studied the list of medications. Expressed no concerns. Sent us next door to the ENT who happened to have an opening.

Maybe the coughing fits are a result of 70 years of smoking, the ENT said. Maybe allergies, but there's nothing seriously wrong, he assured. Try menthol throat lozenges. Try Claritin.

Five hours. Three doctors. A drive home along the ocean, the sky giving up its last bit of red. It was 6:00 when we got home. An hour past martini time. I diced and sliced my way into dinner. Cabbage, onions, apples sauteed in butter and wine. Roasted carrots. The last of the sausage procured for the Thanksgiving stuffing, biding its time in the freezer  waiting for a winter night like this one.

The wind is blowing here in Margaritaville. Water rippling. Christmas lights twinkling. My mom's oxygen machine breathing like a benevolent Darth Vader. Me, staring out at the glistening black water.

Elderly Woman Literally Buried by Avalanche of Paper

After completing the following rant. This is what I will drink.

My mom has been to seven different doctors since she arrived here in Margaritaville. She's had her pacemaker tested. She's had a bone density scan, an electrocardiogram and a test of her carotid artery. Tomorrow she'll have an ultrasound of her legs, and it was filling out the paperwork in advance of this upcoming appointment that has pushed me over the edge. Eleven pages to fill out. Much of it redundant. All of it completely redundant when you consider that each doctor's office has required the same information over and over again. Why? Couldn't there be a universal form that one fills out with the primary care physician? Couldn't a copy of that form be given to the patient and then carried to the next doctor and the next, etc, etc? What if the patient had a flash drive? Oh, wow. How long have flash drives been around? For fucking ever. So why oh why are the elderly being abused with reams and reams of paper? A lot of these folks already wear glasses, hearing aids, false teeth, and are strung with a  "I've fallen and can't get up button." What if they also had a cool little bracelet or key fob or necklace with a fucking flash drive that contained all of the relevant medical information?

In addition to my own pre-printed list of my mom's meds (there are 14 including the supplements) that I give to the doctor's offices to copy, I have now created a pre-printed list of her surgeries (9) and her diseases and conditions (14). AND, HEY, DOCTOR'S OFFICES OUT THERE, IT WOULD BE FUCKING FABULOUS IF THERE WAS A COVER SHEET WITH THIS SIMPLE QUESTION: Is the patient hard of hearing? Letting the doctor and staff know that right off the bat could be an immense help, dontcha think? And then maybe there could be some fabulous continuing education classes on how to talk to a hard-of-hearing person. Or maybe doctors and their staff could follow this one little rule. LOOK AT THE HARD-OF-HEARING PATIENT WHEN YOU SPEAK TO THEM. Look. At. Them.

That is all.