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.

You Test Me/I Test You

We've all had  them--one sort or another, right? Blood tests, mammograms, bone density scans. Recently, my mom has also had an electrocardiogram, a test of her carotid artery, and a test of her pacemaker. These tests are all fairly straightforward. Present the order from the doctor and done! The next thing you know you are home petting the cat and having a martini.

Except when you're marooned on planet ultrasound for 4 hours.

My mom had an ultrasound of her legs today. She was referred by the podiatrist who perceived some circulation issues. This is a good thing. But some information would have made it an even better thing. Forget that we showed up yesterday (because that's what the form said) and the ultrasound place had her on the calendar for today. Human error. I get that. What I object to is not informing the patient that this a long test. At least 45 minutes minus any waiting time. And that afterwards there will be a consultation with the vascular surgeon. And he's way behind. And the bathrooms are a mile down the hall, and the key is fucking impossible to work. And there should be a picnic lunch, goddamn-it, if you keep an old person in your office for over four hours. I asked for glasses of water. And a blanket because apparently global warming and how it relates to excessive use of fossil fuel is unknown to the medical profession. Not to mention that older people are often chilly--and who is likely to visit a vascular surgeon?  You know the answer.  The next words out of my mouth were going to be, "We'll take two pastramis on rye and be sure to include the pickles," but right about then the doctor walked in.

And he was a great guy, the doctor. Attentive. Not rushed. Answered what questions we could muster with our blood sugar in some cavern near the center of the earth. He apparently read my post yesterday--and looked at my mom when he spoke to her.

And probably my mom will have an in-office procedure to improve the circulation in one of her legs. We're gonna sleep on it.