Illustrations copyrighted by Carol Mayer 11/5/14
Welcome to Western North Carolina...Trout Central!
14 years ago
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Growing Old is Not for the Weak
Growing old is not for the weak," my aunt used to say before she passed at eighty-five. I would usually hear the faint-of-heart speech after each one of her half dozen trips to the emergency room that oftentimes resulted in an extended-stay at a rehabilitation center. I witnessed Aunt Gracie's extreme challenges with aging and I heard her warnings, but I never gave either one any thought because I was preoccupied with chasing my tail, I was feeling good, and I had just enough arrogance to think I would circumvent completely the not so pleasant part of aging. I'll just skip on down the road to where it simply ends. Bye Bye now, adios folks, been nice knowing y'all, so long suckers. No pain, no suffering, no visits to the ER and definitely no extended stays at the Medicare hotels, where it is double-occupancy rooms only, the food is to die for, literally, and the residents' mantra is "Heelllllpppp!" No way. Not for me. No thanks. You go on ahead without me. I'm gonna have to pass. Ain't goin' there. Nope.
"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak," was the loop that was going through my head as I lay flat on my back yesterday morning while the room was spinning around me. (Age-related vertigo, my doctor calls it...old age.) As I crawled on all fours into the bathroom to give up the prior night's meal, a whisper from the toilet bowl, "Growing old is not for the faint of heart.""I hear you," I whispered back, "now shut up!" Whisper was all I could offer because the night before I had lost my voice after screaming for fifteen minutes straight from pain level 10 cramps in both legs at the same time.
"Growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak" the loop continued a few hours later as Tom stood over me with two Hydrocodones for pain and a glass of water. Seems the elusive stone in my gall bladder (modern technology can't locate it) has come for a visit again and it has something to tell me. Let's hear what it has to say, shall we?
"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak."
"Okay," the stone said. "You ain't seen nothing yet, honey."
************************************************
The Weak
Whimp, alarmist, baby, chicken, invertebrate, mouse, faint of heart,
quitter, shirker, scaredy-cat, gutless, lily liver, yellow belly
-Google
I'm going with "yellow belly." It has a nice ring to it.
Yep! I'm scared.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Pile a'Poo
There are those among us seniors who say that as we age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences, we should learn a valuable lesson: things are not always as they seem. Some will even boast and say that they learned this lesson long ago, thereby avoiding embarrassment, loss of credibility, diagnosis of instability, and banishment from the village. Even though banishment rarely happens anymore, I've been told that it feels like it when everyone leaves your village and you are left standing alone contemplating the error of your thinking.
It's not the error in thinking that causes the havoc and chaos that often times follow, these self-proclaimed wise old people will say. It's the hysteria that accompanies the misunderstanding that causes the floor under you--and those around you--to shake, rattle and roll. Calm, stability and the voice of reason are no where to be found, but they've left a note on the kitchen counter, "When you get your facts right and the hysteria subsides, give us a call."
As I age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences myself, I've found that 99% of the time things are exactly as they seem. I'm not concerned about that 1% I get wrong. I don't need to process, analyze, scrutinize the events in my life before I react to them. I trust my gut feeling. I'm a quick draw kinda gal who shoots from the waist, and I'm rarely wrong.
Will you excuse me for a moment? Maggie Mae is sniffing at something on the floor.
It's not the error in thinking that causes the havoc and chaos that often times follow, these self-proclaimed wise old people will say. It's the hysteria that accompanies the misunderstanding that causes the floor under you--and those around you--to shake, rattle and roll. Calm, stability and the voice of reason are no where to be found, but they've left a note on the kitchen counter, "When you get your facts right and the hysteria subsides, give us a call."
As I age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences myself, I've found that 99% of the time things are exactly as they seem. I'm not concerned about that 1% I get wrong. I don't need to process, analyze, scrutinize the events in my life before I react to them. I trust my gut feeling. I'm a quick draw kinda gal who shoots from the waist, and I'm rarely wrong.
Will you excuse me for a moment? Maggie Mae is sniffing at something on the floor.
Whatcha sniffing, Sweetheart?
OH NO! OH NO! OH NO!
NOT IN THE HOUSE, MAGGIE MAE!
TOM, COME HERE AND SEE
WHAT "YOUR" DOG HAS DONE!
What do you mean by "calm down" and I should
take a closer look before I react. I'm looking
right at it, Tom. It's round like poo, it's brown
like poo, no doubt about it; it's poo.
I think you should stick "your"
dog's nose in that, Tom. What?
No! I will not settle down until you
get that pile a'poo outta here!
Oh...never mind
Where did everyone go?
Oh, look, there's a note on the kitchen counter.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Mutiny in my Mouth
It can be embarrassing at times. My lips are moving, my tongue is waging, words are coming out of my mouth, but I have no idea what I'm saying.
I blame the increasing episodes of words gone amuck on the plaque, tangles and gooey stuff blocking the information highways in my brain. My thoughts, along with accompanying words, are speeding along in the fast lane; they know exactly where they're going; they've been down these roads thousands of times before. Then, with no warning, everything comes to a screeching halt. Could it be a chunk of plaque in the road? Or a glob of goo? Or a twisted gaggle of tangles? It doesn't really matter what has caused the roadblock; all thinking has stopped. But the words just keep on going.
Apparently, with all of the road deconstruction going on in my head, my words have decided to veer off on to the shoulder, speed on past the slowdown and go it alone. Who needs to be chaperoned by thoughts? Not my words. After spending decades in captivity being told what to say and when to say it, they are taking advantage of the blockades in my sixty-nine-year-old brain. They can express themselves now in ways only imagined before. They invent words when the right ones are stuck in a synapse traffic jam. "I heard that The Jerry Sprinkle Show is looking for couples who don't use perphylapstix." See what I mean? I would never say something like that because I never watch The Jerry Sprinkle Show; I prefer Maury Polvichsky instead.
My words will tell you that there's a memory problem with their host--"I can't remember if I've told you this already, but..." and then they will repeat the same story you've heard a dozen times. What you don't know is my words like to hear themselves talk so they say the same thing over and over and over again. Have I mentioned that my words like to repeat themselves? They will say the same thing over and over and over again. They'll tell you it's a memory problem. Don't believe them. They just like to hear themselves talk. Have I mentioned that?
Without my permission, my words add much more information to a story than is necessary. "I asked the lady--the one on the register closest to the front door, not the one by the bakery--where the silk milk--chocolate flavored, not vanilla--was and she said it was on aisle 16, but when I went to aisle 16, it wasn't there, so I went back to the clerk--this time the one by the bakery--and I asked where the silk milk was--chocolate, not vanilla--and she told me the very same thing that the lady at the register closest to the front door did, so thinking I had overlooked the silk milk--chocolate, not vanilla--I once again went back to aisle 16 and... ."
OH MY GOODNESS! MAKE IT STOP!
I can't. My words have a mind of their own; they don't need mine. My inability to control them has emboldened them, and they will stop at nothing to say what they want. They will not be encumbered by brakes in the brain. Because of this mutiny in my mouth--made up words, repeating, rambling, repeating, and lies--I don't think you should hold me responsible for anything I might say in the future.
Why are you looking at me that way?
What do you mean "the chocolate brownies are all gone"? I have not gone anywhere near those brownies on top of the refrigerator today. Do we have brownies? I didn't know we had brownies. Are they all gone?
What do you mean you can see chocolate under my fingernails and on my teeth? I have been digging in the dirt, planting pornsettas, and my teeth are black because I haven't brushed them yet today.
What do you mean you can still see a brownie in my mouth? That's no brownie, honey. That's mutiny.
I blame the increasing episodes of words gone amuck on the plaque, tangles and gooey stuff blocking the information highways in my brain. My thoughts, along with accompanying words, are speeding along in the fast lane; they know exactly where they're going; they've been down these roads thousands of times before. Then, with no warning, everything comes to a screeching halt. Could it be a chunk of plaque in the road? Or a glob of goo? Or a twisted gaggle of tangles? It doesn't really matter what has caused the roadblock; all thinking has stopped. But the words just keep on going.
Apparently, with all of the road deconstruction going on in my head, my words have decided to veer off on to the shoulder, speed on past the slowdown and go it alone. Who needs to be chaperoned by thoughts? Not my words. After spending decades in captivity being told what to say and when to say it, they are taking advantage of the blockades in my sixty-nine-year-old brain. They can express themselves now in ways only imagined before. They invent words when the right ones are stuck in a synapse traffic jam. "I heard that The Jerry Sprinkle Show is looking for couples who don't use perphylapstix." See what I mean? I would never say something like that because I never watch The Jerry Sprinkle Show; I prefer Maury Polvichsky instead.
My words will tell you that there's a memory problem with their host--"I can't remember if I've told you this already, but..." and then they will repeat the same story you've heard a dozen times. What you don't know is my words like to hear themselves talk so they say the same thing over and over and over again. Have I mentioned that my words like to repeat themselves? They will say the same thing over and over and over again. They'll tell you it's a memory problem. Don't believe them. They just like to hear themselves talk. Have I mentioned that?
Without my permission, my words add much more information to a story than is necessary. "I asked the lady--the one on the register closest to the front door, not the one by the bakery--where the silk milk--chocolate flavored, not vanilla--was and she said it was on aisle 16, but when I went to aisle 16, it wasn't there, so I went back to the clerk--this time the one by the bakery--and I asked where the silk milk was--chocolate, not vanilla--and she told me the very same thing that the lady at the register closest to the front door did, so thinking I had overlooked the silk milk--chocolate, not vanilla--I once again went back to aisle 16 and... ."
OH MY GOODNESS! MAKE IT STOP!
I can't. My words have a mind of their own; they don't need mine. My inability to control them has emboldened them, and they will stop at nothing to say what they want. They will not be encumbered by brakes in the brain. Because of this mutiny in my mouth--made up words, repeating, rambling, repeating, and lies--I don't think you should hold me responsible for anything I might say in the future.
Why are you looking at me that way?
What do you mean "the chocolate brownies are all gone"? I have not gone anywhere near those brownies on top of the refrigerator today. Do we have brownies? I didn't know we had brownies. Are they all gone?
What do you mean you can see chocolate under my fingernails and on my teeth? I have been digging in the dirt, planting pornsettas, and my teeth are black because I haven't brushed them yet today.
What do you mean you can still see a brownie in my mouth? That's no brownie, honey. That's mutiny.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Summer is Gone
Summer is gone; the leaves are shedding, the flowers are waiting for the first frost, the veggies in the garden have been digested, all the hummingbirds have left. Now what? Time to come inside...and blog? Nah!
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Five Days in April
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
She walked to the far end of the lobby and selected a chair next to a big picture window that looked out onto the parking lot. Once she was settled comfortably in, she patted my hand and smiled up at me. "I'm fine," she said. "Go on. Do what you have to do." But when I returned less than five minutes later, she had passed out and was slumped over the arm of the chair. As soon as the alarm was sounded, the once empty lobby was full of concern. None of my attempts to revive my mother-in-law were working. Was this the end?
This story actually begins one week earlier when the Florida assisted living center where Tom's mother lived called to say she was no longer able to stay with them. Her short-term memory failures and need for oxygen were a combination that did not work well in their facility, they reported. She needed to move out as soon as possible.
MOM IS COMING TO NORTH CAROLINA
Thursday, April 24, 2014
After the checklist of travel essentials was reviewed over and over and over again, Tom, Maggie Mae and I pulled out of the driveway as the sun was coming up over the Nantahala mountains. Twenty-five minutes later, our truck pulled back into the driveway because one of us (not Maggie Mae) forgot their cell phone. No problem. We're off again and this time we've made it four hours down the road before one of us realizes we forgot... . No problem because we don't have to turn back; it's not a travel essential. It would be nice to have, though. Really nice, actually. Love, love, love to have it on this trip. Okay! Alright! We'll stop and buy one! What's another hour added to a thirteen-hour trip?
Since Tom had just had surgery to repair a torn rotor cuff--the shoulder was being held together by a thread the doctor said--his right arm was in a sling and non-functional, which meant that he could not drive or pack or aid in any way the removal of his mother from Florida and the subsequent transfer of said mother to an assisted living center in Franklin, North Carolina. No problem. I can do it. How hard can driving fourteen hours one way and packing a one-bedroom apartment be? How difficult can transporting a 90-pound, 95-year-old lady on oxygen with short-term memory issues be? Besides, Tom's brother and sister-in-law are coming to help, right? What? They've caught a bug?
Friday, April 25, 2014
Packing, packing, packing. Tom wishes he could help. No, really he does. He looks so handsome sitting on that recliner on the assisted living center's veranda holding his sweet tea with his left hand... while I pack. No, really he does.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Packing, packing, packing. While I am transporting boxes from the apartment to the truck, someone comes into the room and takes one hundred dollars, a table and two chairs. No problem, though. The assisted living center's management will get to the bottom of this. What? They want to know if Tom or I took the items, but due to short-term memory issues, we have forgotten.
Later around midnight...
What is that awful wretching sound coming from the bathroom? What? Tom has a bug?
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Tom is getting worse as the day progresses. Lethargic and nauseous with pain. A trip to a MedCheck reveals nothing, however, he is given an anti-nausea pill. The staff at the assisted living center asks once again, "Is it possible that you or your husband took those missing items, but forgot?"
Later around midnight...
More wretching sounds from the bathroom. Pill not working.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Wonderful Day! Great Day! Mom is coming to an assisted living center in North Carolina where she will have advocates who live only fourteen minutes (not hours) away. With her two sons and two daughters-in-law by her side, Mom grins big and steps up into the backseat of our truck. Waiting for her are pillows, blankets, snacks and a tail-wagging Maggie Mae. Oh, how she loves that dog, she says.
Off we go, north on Interstate 95. The plan is for us to drive all the way to Franklin and stay in a hotel because Mom can't negotiate the steps at our house. At eight o'clock the next morning, she would be sitting in the lobby of an assisted living center, ready for a new chapter in her life.
"I'M FREE, I'M FREE!" Mom screams from the backseat. I adjust the mirror on my visor so I can see her big smile. Even though we're not sure what she means, Tom and I both agree with her, "Yeah, Mom, you're free."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Are we there yet?"
Tom, who is still sick, turns around and answers, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Are we there yet?"
Tom again, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Are we there yet?"
No response.
Tom is pretending to be asleep and I have a rule "The driver doesn't talk." That's what I told her but she has forgotten so she keeps asking if we're there yet and then I say...
"How would you like a chocolate shake?"
"Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes," she says. So we stop at McDonalds and she's as happy as she can be.
Four hours later...
"Are we th..."
"How would you like a chocolate shake?"
And that is how the trip went all the way into darkness and into North Carolina, where we had to stop for another travel essential, this time for Mom. It was eleven o'clock when we walked out of Walmart and into a severe thunderstorm. We hadn't heard the alarms and warnings about wind and tornadoes but we soon discovered on our own as I was driving over Cowee Mountain, our last few miles before finally reaching our destination. The rain was coming down so thick that I couldn't see the road. Mom, thankfully, was sleeping as I crept along at ten miles an hour, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, my nose ten inches from the windshield. I thought about pulling off the road but in mountain country, that is not wise. Cars were stopped, blocking the lanes. I continued on and at midnight we arrived at the Comfort Inn.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014, 12:30a.m.
Mom, Tom, and Maggie Mae are all in bed. Mom has her oxygen, Maggie Mae has her ball, and Tom is snoring. All is well, until...
6:00a.m.
"Carol Louise, I think I need to go to the emergency room," Tom said.
6:15a.m.
I drop Tom off at the emergency room and hurry back to the hotel where Mom and Maggie Mae are still sleeping. We have to be at the assisted living center at 8:00a.m. which is over an hour from now, but getting Mom ready takes time. There's the dispensing of her medicine, and getting her attached to oxygen is also time consuming, so I wake her up and she says, "Are we there yet?" to which I respond, "Yes, we are finally there." She smiles.
8:00 o'clock sharp
She tells me she needs no help getting out of the truck, but she really does. I hold both of her arms as she slides down from the seat onto the pavement. She's perky this morning and happy. She walks without help into the front door of the assisted living center and to the far end of the lobby where she selects a chair next to a big picture window that looks out onto the parking lot. Once she is settled comfortably in, she pats my hand and smiles up at me. "I'm fine," she says. "Go on. Do what you have to do." I leave her and walk to the receptionist's desk to announce our arrival. But the receptionist says she has no record of anyone being admitted today, to which I respond, "But I have an appointment with Teresa at 8:00." "I'm sorry," the lady says, "I have no record of that."
I return to the lobby to find my mother-in-law slumped over the arm of her chair. I notice that her oxygen tank is empty. I send out a request for help and the room fills with management and staff but no one can touch her because she is not a resident...yet. Could her unresponsiveness be due to her lack of oxygen? Could someone direct me on how to hook up a new tank? No is the answer, but rules sometimes are meant to be broken. At least that's how one staff member feels as she jumps right in and replaces a depleted oxygen tank with a full one.
I tell the staff that I must leave now and go to the emergency room at the hospital to see about my husband. They say "Go, she'll be fine now."
9:00a.m.
Tom is released from the hospital with a diagnosis of Norovirus and a different type of anti-nausea pill. I take him home where he immediately goes to bed, and I return to the assisted living center to check on Mom. She's still not conscious, but she is checked in and has a room. Could it be something other than lack of oxygen? I ask. Yes, I'm told. "How much Xanax did you give her this morning?" they want to know. "I gave her the dosage I was instructed to give her by the nursing staff," I reply. "Well, there was a typo on the paperwork," they say, "You gave her a double dose."
Later that same day...
"I need to go back to the emergency room," Tom tells me. The right side of my body is jerking uncontrollably." I stand over Tom and watch as his arm and leg do the jig without his permission. I check the side effects on the paperwork that came with the anti-nausea drug and see a warning: Contact your doctor immediately if parts of your body jerk uncontrollably after taking this drug. So off to ER we go. Good news, kinda. It's not life threatening and it will wear off in a day or two.
Later that evening...
Tom is sleeping comfortably. Only an occasional moan can be heard from the bedroom so I go back to the assisted living center to find Mom in her room but still unconscious. Well, not unconscious, but non responsive. "Way too much Xanax," the dispenser of the meds told me. "No problem, though, she'll be fine."
Later that night...
I fall into bed next to Tom. Half of his body is doing the jig and the other half is sleeping peacefully.
Four Months Later...Thursday, August 28, 2014
And so it was, five days in April, 2014, that I'll never forget. No problem, though. I was grateful that I was among those "able" to help and not among those who needed help. Four months later Mom is doing great and Tom is back in the creeks and rivers fishing and life is good.
She walked to the far end of the lobby and selected a chair next to a big picture window that looked out onto the parking lot. Once she was settled comfortably in, she patted my hand and smiled up at me. "I'm fine," she said. "Go on. Do what you have to do." But when I returned less than five minutes later, she had passed out and was slumped over the arm of the chair. As soon as the alarm was sounded, the once empty lobby was full of concern. None of my attempts to revive my mother-in-law were working. Was this the end?
This story actually begins one week earlier when the Florida assisted living center where Tom's mother lived called to say she was no longer able to stay with them. Her short-term memory failures and need for oxygen were a combination that did not work well in their facility, they reported. She needed to move out as soon as possible.
MOM IS COMING TO NORTH CAROLINA
Thursday, April 24, 2014
After the checklist of travel essentials was reviewed over and over and over again, Tom, Maggie Mae and I pulled out of the driveway as the sun was coming up over the Nantahala mountains. Twenty-five minutes later, our truck pulled back into the driveway because one of us (not Maggie Mae) forgot their cell phone. No problem. We're off again and this time we've made it four hours down the road before one of us realizes we forgot... . No problem because we don't have to turn back; it's not a travel essential. It would be nice to have, though. Really nice, actually. Love, love, love to have it on this trip. Okay! Alright! We'll stop and buy one! What's another hour added to a thirteen-hour trip?
Since Tom had just had surgery to repair a torn rotor cuff--the shoulder was being held together by a thread the doctor said--his right arm was in a sling and non-functional, which meant that he could not drive or pack or aid in any way the removal of his mother from Florida and the subsequent transfer of said mother to an assisted living center in Franklin, North Carolina. No problem. I can do it. How hard can driving fourteen hours one way and packing a one-bedroom apartment be? How difficult can transporting a 90-pound, 95-year-old lady on oxygen with short-term memory issues be? Besides, Tom's brother and sister-in-law are coming to help, right? What? They've caught a bug?
Friday, April 25, 2014
Packing, packing, packing. Tom wishes he could help. No, really he does. He looks so handsome sitting on that recliner on the assisted living center's veranda holding his sweet tea with his left hand... while I pack. No, really he does.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Packing, packing, packing. While I am transporting boxes from the apartment to the truck, someone comes into the room and takes one hundred dollars, a table and two chairs. No problem, though. The assisted living center's management will get to the bottom of this. What? They want to know if Tom or I took the items, but due to short-term memory issues, we have forgotten.
Later around midnight...
What is that awful wretching sound coming from the bathroom? What? Tom has a bug?
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Tom is getting worse as the day progresses. Lethargic and nauseous with pain. A trip to a MedCheck reveals nothing, however, he is given an anti-nausea pill. The staff at the assisted living center asks once again, "Is it possible that you or your husband took those missing items, but forgot?"
Later around midnight...
More wretching sounds from the bathroom. Pill not working.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Wonderful Day! Great Day! Mom is coming to an assisted living center in North Carolina where she will have advocates who live only fourteen minutes (not hours) away. With her two sons and two daughters-in-law by her side, Mom grins big and steps up into the backseat of our truck. Waiting for her are pillows, blankets, snacks and a tail-wagging Maggie Mae. Oh, how she loves that dog, she says.
Off we go, north on Interstate 95. The plan is for us to drive all the way to Franklin and stay in a hotel because Mom can't negotiate the steps at our house. At eight o'clock the next morning, she would be sitting in the lobby of an assisted living center, ready for a new chapter in her life.
"I'M FREE, I'M FREE!" Mom screams from the backseat. I adjust the mirror on my visor so I can see her big smile. Even though we're not sure what she means, Tom and I both agree with her, "Yeah, Mom, you're free."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Are we there yet?"
Tom, who is still sick, turns around and answers, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Are we there yet?"
Tom again, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."
Fifteen minutes later...
"Are we there yet?"
Tom, "No, Mom. We haven't left Florida yet."
Two Hours later... (only twelve hours to go)
No response.
Tom is pretending to be asleep and I have a rule "The driver doesn't talk." That's what I told her but she has forgotten so she keeps asking if we're there yet and then I say...
"How would you like a chocolate shake?"
"Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes," she says. So we stop at McDonalds and she's as happy as she can be.
Four hours later...
"Are we th..."
"How would you like a chocolate shake?"
And that is how the trip went all the way into darkness and into North Carolina, where we had to stop for another travel essential, this time for Mom. It was eleven o'clock when we walked out of Walmart and into a severe thunderstorm. We hadn't heard the alarms and warnings about wind and tornadoes but we soon discovered on our own as I was driving over Cowee Mountain, our last few miles before finally reaching our destination. The rain was coming down so thick that I couldn't see the road. Mom, thankfully, was sleeping as I crept along at ten miles an hour, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, my nose ten inches from the windshield. I thought about pulling off the road but in mountain country, that is not wise. Cars were stopped, blocking the lanes. I continued on and at midnight we arrived at the Comfort Inn.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014, 12:30a.m.
Mom, Tom, and Maggie Mae are all in bed. Mom has her oxygen, Maggie Mae has her ball, and Tom is snoring. All is well, until...
6:00a.m.
"Carol Louise, I think I need to go to the emergency room," Tom said.
6:15a.m.
I drop Tom off at the emergency room and hurry back to the hotel where Mom and Maggie Mae are still sleeping. We have to be at the assisted living center at 8:00a.m. which is over an hour from now, but getting Mom ready takes time. There's the dispensing of her medicine, and getting her attached to oxygen is also time consuming, so I wake her up and she says, "Are we there yet?" to which I respond, "Yes, we are finally there." She smiles.
8:00 o'clock sharp
She tells me she needs no help getting out of the truck, but she really does. I hold both of her arms as she slides down from the seat onto the pavement. She's perky this morning and happy. She walks without help into the front door of the assisted living center and to the far end of the lobby where she selects a chair next to a big picture window that looks out onto the parking lot. Once she is settled comfortably in, she pats my hand and smiles up at me. "I'm fine," she says. "Go on. Do what you have to do." I leave her and walk to the receptionist's desk to announce our arrival. But the receptionist says she has no record of anyone being admitted today, to which I respond, "But I have an appointment with Teresa at 8:00." "I'm sorry," the lady says, "I have no record of that."
I return to the lobby to find my mother-in-law slumped over the arm of her chair. I notice that her oxygen tank is empty. I send out a request for help and the room fills with management and staff but no one can touch her because she is not a resident...yet. Could her unresponsiveness be due to her lack of oxygen? Could someone direct me on how to hook up a new tank? No is the answer, but rules sometimes are meant to be broken. At least that's how one staff member feels as she jumps right in and replaces a depleted oxygen tank with a full one.
I tell the staff that I must leave now and go to the emergency room at the hospital to see about my husband. They say "Go, she'll be fine now."
9:00a.m.
Tom is released from the hospital with a diagnosis of Norovirus and a different type of anti-nausea pill. I take him home where he immediately goes to bed, and I return to the assisted living center to check on Mom. She's still not conscious, but she is checked in and has a room. Could it be something other than lack of oxygen? I ask. Yes, I'm told. "How much Xanax did you give her this morning?" they want to know. "I gave her the dosage I was instructed to give her by the nursing staff," I reply. "Well, there was a typo on the paperwork," they say, "You gave her a double dose."
Later that same day...
"I need to go back to the emergency room," Tom tells me. The right side of my body is jerking uncontrollably." I stand over Tom and watch as his arm and leg do the jig without his permission. I check the side effects on the paperwork that came with the anti-nausea drug and see a warning: Contact your doctor immediately if parts of your body jerk uncontrollably after taking this drug. So off to ER we go. Good news, kinda. It's not life threatening and it will wear off in a day or two.
Later that evening...
Tom is sleeping comfortably. Only an occasional moan can be heard from the bedroom so I go back to the assisted living center to find Mom in her room but still unconscious. Well, not unconscious, but non responsive. "Way too much Xanax," the dispenser of the meds told me. "No problem, though, she'll be fine."
Later that night...
I fall into bed next to Tom. Half of his body is doing the jig and the other half is sleeping peacefully.
Four Months Later...Thursday, August 28, 2014
And so it was, five days in April, 2014, that I'll never forget. No problem, though. I was grateful that I was among those "able" to help and not among those who needed help. Four months later Mom is doing great and Tom is back in the creeks and rivers fishing and life is good.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
The Migration of the Paperclip
Have you ever thought about the migration of the paperclip? No? Well, neither had I until, during an early morning visit to the bathroom one day last week, a tiny, shinny object on the floor in front of the toilet caught my eye...the left eye because the right one was still crusted shut.
It took me several long seconds to make sense of what I was looking at. Not that I don't know what a paperclip is; it was the why that puzzled me. Why would a paperclip be away from its home which is three rooms away, in the top drawer of a file cabinet, and inside a little black magnetic box? And then there's the how. How did it get past the magnetic strip that is designed to keep the loopy little holders of papers confined? Did it climb out on its own or was it let out by someone other than me and allowed to roam free?
In an effort to answer the above questions, I decided to follow this lone paperclip's migration through our house and hopefully, eventually back to its natural habitat. Would it find its way back where it belongs on its own, or would it wander around aimlessly until it became prey to a hungry vacuum cleaner?
On Day 2 I found it no longer in the middle of the bathroom floor but next to the wall hobnobbing with the toilet bowl brush and snap-on toilet thingy that never, ever stays where it belongs. It wanders. I wonder, will the paperclip wander, too? Does it have wanderlust? Does it aspire to be more than a piece of twisted steel whose job it is to hold paper together? How boring a life would that be? And then there's the long wait in the enclosed cardboard box or, if you're a lucky paperclip, a black magnetic box that allows clips to stick their heads out and peer at a world they rarely get to experience.
On the fourth day the wandering paperclip found my missing sock, calcium pill, and dental floss. It was a shindig in the middle of the floor that was hard to ignore. Things were getting out of hand. The madness needed to stop.
There is no finger pointing in this house, no stern looks or hands on the hips to show disgust, and no accusatory statements like, "Why did you let the paperclip go free to roam?" or "Have you been wearing my socks again?" or "Haven't I always told you to put my string of dental floss back on the lamp shade when you're done with it?" No, we don't treat each other with disrespect even though at times we may feel like smacking each other in the head with a 2 x 4 loaded with rusty nails. Okay, okay, you know I'm lying. Neither one of us would want the 2 x 4 to have rusty nails in it. So, because of our sweet, kind, and gentle treatment of each other, I decided to not say anything to Tom about his lack of responsibility when it comes to putting things back where he found them. Instead, I returned the paperclip and its finds along its migration through our house to their rightful homes, and then I went to bed and pouted for the rest of the day.
Day 1
In an effort to answer the above questions, I decided to follow this lone paperclip's migration through our house and hopefully, eventually back to its natural habitat. Would it find its way back where it belongs on its own, or would it wander around aimlessly until it became prey to a hungry vacuum cleaner?
Day 2
On Day 2 I found it no longer in the middle of the bathroom floor but next to the wall hobnobbing with the toilet bowl brush and snap-on toilet thingy that never, ever stays where it belongs. It wanders. I wonder, will the paperclip wander, too? Does it have wanderlust? Does it aspire to be more than a piece of twisted steel whose job it is to hold paper together? How boring a life would that be? And then there's the long wait in the enclosed cardboard box or, if you're a lucky paperclip, a black magnetic box that allows clips to stick their heads out and peer at a world they rarely get to experience.
Day 3
Day 3 found our little social paperclip on the kitchen counter lollygagging with a penny and a safety pin. Is this a mass mutinous migration of all things small and undervalued, or is this a case of someone simply shirking their responsibility by not putting things back where they belong? If the latter, I am not the guilty party because I always put things back when I'm done with them. No, really I do.
Day 4
On the fourth day the wandering paperclip found my missing sock, calcium pill, and dental floss. It was a shindig in the middle of the floor that was hard to ignore. Things were getting out of hand. The madness needed to stop.
There is no finger pointing in this house, no stern looks or hands on the hips to show disgust, and no accusatory statements like, "Why did you let the paperclip go free to roam?" or "Have you been wearing my socks again?" or "Haven't I always told you to put my string of dental floss back on the lamp shade when you're done with it?" No, we don't treat each other with disrespect even though at times we may feel like smacking each other in the head with a 2 x 4 loaded with rusty nails. Okay, okay, you know I'm lying. Neither one of us would want the 2 x 4 to have rusty nails in it. So, because of our sweet, kind, and gentle treatment of each other, I decided to not say anything to Tom about his lack of responsibility when it comes to putting things back where he found them. Instead, I returned the paperclip and its finds along its migration through our house to their rightful homes, and then I went to bed and pouted for the rest of the day.
The paperclip is back home now where it belongs, but during its time on the outside, it developed a secret admirer, another wanderlust who never, ever stays where it belongs. Know who the secret admirer is?
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