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carose59"Trust Me. I'm In A Lab Coat."*
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I talked to the second neurologist to see my mother. (I was there when the first one saw her.) I should have been getting her to her Coumadin clinic appointments. This might not have happened if I had done that. But is in no way the fault of the two sets of paramedics who didn't see any stroke symptoms—not even the ones who came after I called 911 and said, "I think she's having a stroke." Because they can't be expected to know everything. I, of course, can, because I'm not part of the Perfect Doctor Club.
And my mother has been telling people that the reason she hasn't been going to the doctor is that it's so hard to work around other people's schedules!!! I got her to admit (to me) that this is not, in fact, the case. We were supposed to go . . . somewhere last month. I took the day off work. She (predictably) cancelled at the last minute. But I was there, ready and waiting. Between her agoraphobia, her depression, her physical problems, and my depression and PTSD, we haven't been doing a good job getting her out of the house. I admit that. But just like with Pat, I don't know how you force an adult in her right mind to leave the house when she doesn't want to, or to allow strangers in when she doesn't want them there. I wish I was better at this stuff, and the ironic thing is, I'm just like her about this stuff.
The second neurologist also said that "there was probably some dementia before the stroke." He bases this on his years of knowing my mother and—no, wait. I don't know what he bases this on. Her making bad decisions? If people making bad decisions = dementia, we might as well throw out the word dementia, because everybody makes bad decisions. I've clearly made bad decisions here, am I demented? (I like "demented" better than "suffering from dementia." Call a fucking spade a spade.)
He seemed utterly disinterested in her vision problems—wouldn't even let me finish talking about them. Doctors tend to be classically pro-life: we want to keep people alive forever, but we don't give a shit what kind of life that is. Casually tells me she won't be living at home anymore, like that's no big deal. Asshole.
She's going into rehab this week, maybe. I'm fighting them on sending her to rehab until they figure out just what's causing the nausea she's been having. The last time we came to the ER, it was about that and they shuffled it off to the side in favor of some other problem she had. The woman's eighty-six; point to any part of her, you'll find some kind of problem. But I see no point having her transported to rehab, only to have her unable to do the rehab because of her nausea. I've fought with doctors and hospitals and rehab people before; I'm not afraid to get back in the ring. I'm the Tiger Daughter. I'm the one who forced the first rehab center to send her to the hospital when she was having intestinal blockage that could have killed her. I'm the one who went completely apeshit on the woman who claimed vital information wasn't in the chart—and who asked the doctor who defended her, "Are you telling me she can't read? Because if she can't, I think she needs a different line of work."
Don't mess with depressed people. Sometimes being angry is the best we feel, so if you piss us off, we will lean into it and enjoy the energy rush.
I want my mother back. I suspect that's only going to happen in very small pips** from now on. I have to remember that I'm her sword and I'm her shield; I fight the battles and I take the blows that she can't.
*Julian, SoulPancake
**You know how Hershey bars can be broken into neat little rectangles? Those rectangles are called pips.
-:- -:- -:- -:-
I talked to the second neurologist to see my mother. (I was there when the first one saw her.) I should have been getting her to her Coumadin clinic appointments. This might not have happened if I had done that. But is in no way the fault of the two sets of paramedics who didn't see any stroke symptoms—not even the ones who came after I called 911 and said, "I think she's having a stroke." Because they can't be expected to know everything. I, of course, can, because I'm not part of the Perfect Doctor Club.
And my mother has been telling people that the reason she hasn't been going to the doctor is that it's so hard to work around other people's schedules!!! I got her to admit (to me) that this is not, in fact, the case. We were supposed to go . . . somewhere last month. I took the day off work. She (predictably) cancelled at the last minute. But I was there, ready and waiting. Between her agoraphobia, her depression, her physical problems, and my depression and PTSD, we haven't been doing a good job getting her out of the house. I admit that. But just like with Pat, I don't know how you force an adult in her right mind to leave the house when she doesn't want to, or to allow strangers in when she doesn't want them there. I wish I was better at this stuff, and the ironic thing is, I'm just like her about this stuff.
The second neurologist also said that "there was probably some dementia before the stroke." He bases this on his years of knowing my mother and—no, wait. I don't know what he bases this on. Her making bad decisions? If people making bad decisions = dementia, we might as well throw out the word dementia, because everybody makes bad decisions. I've clearly made bad decisions here, am I demented? (I like "demented" better than "suffering from dementia." Call a fucking spade a spade.)
He seemed utterly disinterested in her vision problems—wouldn't even let me finish talking about them. Doctors tend to be classically pro-life: we want to keep people alive forever, but we don't give a shit what kind of life that is. Casually tells me she won't be living at home anymore, like that's no big deal. Asshole.
She's going into rehab this week, maybe. I'm fighting them on sending her to rehab until they figure out just what's causing the nausea she's been having. The last time we came to the ER, it was about that and they shuffled it off to the side in favor of some other problem she had. The woman's eighty-six; point to any part of her, you'll find some kind of problem. But I see no point having her transported to rehab, only to have her unable to do the rehab because of her nausea. I've fought with doctors and hospitals and rehab people before; I'm not afraid to get back in the ring. I'm the Tiger Daughter. I'm the one who forced the first rehab center to send her to the hospital when she was having intestinal blockage that could have killed her. I'm the one who went completely apeshit on the woman who claimed vital information wasn't in the chart—and who asked the doctor who defended her, "Are you telling me she can't read? Because if she can't, I think she needs a different line of work."
Don't mess with depressed people. Sometimes being angry is the best we feel, so if you piss us off, we will lean into it and enjoy the energy rush.
I want my mother back. I suspect that's only going to happen in very small pips** from now on. I have to remember that I'm her sword and I'm her shield; I fight the battles and I take the blows that she can't.
*Julian, SoulPancake
**You know how Hershey bars can be broken into neat little rectangles? Those rectangles are called pips.