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carose59"Can't You At Least Let Me Not-Die In Peace?"*
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My mother had the stroke in late October, on a Friday. She called me early-early in the morning, before I left for work, because she'd fallen and needed help getting up. The falling had taken place sometime in the night, but she didn't want to bother me, and besides, she had a blanket. I cannot even words no. Nope.
So I went over and helped her up. She seemed OKish. The only really disturbing thing was that she insisted that two dissimilar books were the same because they were the same color. But I thought maybe lying on the floor all night had her disoriented. She went to sleep. I went to the hardware store.
She said the reason she's fallen was her wheelchair slipped. I tried it, and the wheels were slipping on the hardwood floor, so I thought a mat of some kind would be good. I bought one, then went to the dollar store because I had a better idea: a bath mat. It was a better idea, but too small.
She fell again later in the day, and I left work to go help her up. That time I called 911. They checked her out, assured me she hadn't had a stroke, didn't see anything wrong with her, and left. I went back to work.
I went over that evening to see how she was. Fine, she was fine. Only she told me my father was asleep in the other room. In case you're new around here, my father has been dead since 2003. I said, "My father's dead."
"That's true," my mother agreed. But he was still asleep in the other room.
I left again. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure I even needed to do anything, but I was unsettled.
Around ten that night, I went over and lurked around outside my mother's house. I wanted to see how she was without going inside. I just needed to know before I went to bed.
It was hard to tell anything through the window, so I went inside. She seemed OK, told me she was going to the bathroom, then wheeled herself into the hall where she seemed to get lost. I went to help, and she insisted on getting out of her wheelchair before she was in the bathroom, and she couldn't stand up. I got her back in the chair, kind of, and was trying to get her settled more firmly while she argued with me and tried to wheel herself—somewhere. At one point I was supporting all her weight because she'd stood up again, but couldn't stand. I got hysterical and called 911 again.
They ran her through all the tests again. They agreed something was wrong, but she hadn't had a stroke. They agreed—not too enthusiastically—that she should go to the hospital She didn't agree at all. I pointed out that she couldn't stand up. I told her, "I know you want to die at home, but you're not dying right now, so you can go to the hospital, come home, and die later."
She went to the hospital.
I beat the ambulance there and waited in the waiting room. When I went back to see my mother, one of the medical staff asked who I was. I said I was her daughter.
My mother said, "That's not my daughter."
At first I thought she was joking, but no. I was not her daughter. She seemed amused by it all, and kept asking me questions (which of course I knew the answers to). I even volunteered information. None of it seemed to upset her, and the medical staff kept trying to convince her I was her daughter. Nope.
Finally it got to be about one in the morning. I was exhausted. I started to leave, but was stopped and asked for my phone number, in case they decided to release her.
I'm sorry, what?
Oh, yes, they would call if they decided to release her. Because even though there was no chance of them finding out what was wrong with her before morning, they might release her. I said that she didn't know who I was, so releasing her to me seemed like a bad idea.
The nurse seemed uncomfortable, but didn't actually agree with me.
I gave her my number.
She asked if they should call if they decided to admit her.
"NO! I'm going home to bed, and if I don't hear from you, I'll assume she's still here!"
When I got home, I called the crisis hotline and told a very nice woman what had happened. She agreed that releasing my mother when she didn't recognize me was a very bad idea, and that if they tried it, I should insist on a 5150, which would at least get her held for a seventy-two hour evaluation.
I went to bed.
*Cole Turner
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My mother had the stroke in late October, on a Friday. She called me early-early in the morning, before I left for work, because she'd fallen and needed help getting up. The falling had taken place sometime in the night, but she didn't want to bother me, and besides, she had a blanket. I cannot even words no. Nope.
So I went over and helped her up. She seemed OKish. The only really disturbing thing was that she insisted that two dissimilar books were the same because they were the same color. But I thought maybe lying on the floor all night had her disoriented. She went to sleep. I went to the hardware store.
She said the reason she's fallen was her wheelchair slipped. I tried it, and the wheels were slipping on the hardwood floor, so I thought a mat of some kind would be good. I bought one, then went to the dollar store because I had a better idea: a bath mat. It was a better idea, but too small.
She fell again later in the day, and I left work to go help her up. That time I called 911. They checked her out, assured me she hadn't had a stroke, didn't see anything wrong with her, and left. I went back to work.
I went over that evening to see how she was. Fine, she was fine. Only she told me my father was asleep in the other room. In case you're new around here, my father has been dead since 2003. I said, "My father's dead."
"That's true," my mother agreed. But he was still asleep in the other room.
I left again. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure I even needed to do anything, but I was unsettled.
Around ten that night, I went over and lurked around outside my mother's house. I wanted to see how she was without going inside. I just needed to know before I went to bed.
It was hard to tell anything through the window, so I went inside. She seemed OK, told me she was going to the bathroom, then wheeled herself into the hall where she seemed to get lost. I went to help, and she insisted on getting out of her wheelchair before she was in the bathroom, and she couldn't stand up. I got her back in the chair, kind of, and was trying to get her settled more firmly while she argued with me and tried to wheel herself—somewhere. At one point I was supporting all her weight because she'd stood up again, but couldn't stand. I got hysterical and called 911 again.
They ran her through all the tests again. They agreed something was wrong, but she hadn't had a stroke. They agreed—not too enthusiastically—that she should go to the hospital She didn't agree at all. I pointed out that she couldn't stand up. I told her, "I know you want to die at home, but you're not dying right now, so you can go to the hospital, come home, and die later."
She went to the hospital.
I beat the ambulance there and waited in the waiting room. When I went back to see my mother, one of the medical staff asked who I was. I said I was her daughter.
My mother said, "That's not my daughter."
At first I thought she was joking, but no. I was not her daughter. She seemed amused by it all, and kept asking me questions (which of course I knew the answers to). I even volunteered information. None of it seemed to upset her, and the medical staff kept trying to convince her I was her daughter. Nope.
Finally it got to be about one in the morning. I was exhausted. I started to leave, but was stopped and asked for my phone number, in case they decided to release her.
I'm sorry, what?
Oh, yes, they would call if they decided to release her. Because even though there was no chance of them finding out what was wrong with her before morning, they might release her. I said that she didn't know who I was, so releasing her to me seemed like a bad idea.
The nurse seemed uncomfortable, but didn't actually agree with me.
I gave her my number.
She asked if they should call if they decided to admit her.
"NO! I'm going home to bed, and if I don't hear from you, I'll assume she's still here!"
When I got home, I called the crisis hotline and told a very nice woman what had happened. She agreed that releasing my mother when she didn't recognize me was a very bad idea, and that if they tried it, I should insist on a 5150, which would at least get her held for a seventy-two hour evaluation.
I went to bed.
*Cole Turner