You gotta love irony
Absolute Stress it was called. What a name for the drink I was sharing with our Girls' Gourmet group, but the vodka, dark rum, peach schnapps, orange and cranberry juice mixture sounded just right for our November dinner.
But the morning of that day began with the clatter of Pete's walker. I heard it as a newborn's mother hears things--something amiss despite the three closed doors and a white-noise machine separating us. The clock read 12:30. And when I crept into his room, there Pete was sprawled face down on the floor, his walker having careened in front of him. This time the task of getting him into bed was relatively simple: already flat on his belly, he had to first position himself on all fours. To do this he pushed up with his arms as I grabbed his belly and pulled up. Worked well this time. I didn't even have to afix the heavy cotton belt around his middle. Then he was able to turn and put his elbows up on his mattress (already raised to accommodate his needs). I grabbed the bathroom rug, its rubberized grip providing Pete some leverage for his feet to push, and then slipped his Nikes on him. Using his elbows and feet, he could now slide his belly onto the bed, pulling with his elbows and pushing with his shoes. Eventually he pulled most of his hips onto the bed and began to turn onto his back and onto the mattress, finally gripping the grab bar on the far side of the bed. Then little by little he scooted up so his head rested on his pillow. All this left him breathing heavily and me thrilled he hadn't been hurt and that no urine had spilled from his urinal.
Pete began urinating into a urinal next to his bed about 6 weeks previously when his legs began buckling on the way to the bathroom 15 feet from his bed. And too many times he'd been standing in front of the stool, waiting for his stream to hit the john in front of him. He'd stand and wait, and after teetering over one too many times, (despite the grab bar WIll had screwed in place for him) decided standing next to his bed slightly leaning back onto the mattress for support and urinating into a urinal was the best way to accomplish that task. Then if he teetered over, at least he had the mattress to catch him.
After fifteen minutes of hearing the clatter, I was able to retreat to my room and back to sleep, knowing Pete was safe and sound, at least for the next few minutes...
Finally 6:30 am and morning coffee. Though I knew my mom was recovery from a tumble in her apartment, I felt I could take the time to hit the Y and my challenging Monday class before checking in on her. I NEEDED that class, to sweat, groan, feel like I'd accomplished the impossible when the agony was over. And it did feel good.
After a shower and checking in a Pete (he was still sleeping--even at 10:30) I shopped at the market, picking up the final ingredients for the evening's aperitif before stopping in at Mom's apartment. I found her dressed, her feet propped up in front of her, quiet, but obviously in pain. Her vacant eyes told me the extent of the pain, and I hurt for her. Her tumble had done more damage than we'd thought. I fed her a few spoonfuls of the soup I'd brought and heated, but she explained she just wasn't hungry--didn't want much. Her memory clouded by pain, she had no recollection of when she might have taken her last Tylenol, though I suspected the nurse had given her some earlier in the morning. I chatted with her about my trip to Grand Marais and my class on chair caning and the crazy weather outside--the threat of rain, ice, snow all in one twelve-hour period.
Back home I found Pete had awakened, and with the promise of an egg salad sandwich, he got up, motored into the kitchen and ate. Quickly moving the dirty dishes to the counter, I grabbed my coat and jumped into Will's pickup to trek up to Faribault and the lumber yard. We needed to haul the 6 porch windows and door back to Albert Lea to eventually install, though the wintery weather might make that task a bit challenging.
As we drove north, the dry roadway became damp, the mist becoming more intense and the ceiling of clouds descended. By the time we reached Faribault, the temp had dropped noticeably and though we'd wanted to stop in my favorite El Tequila there for a beer, we decided driving home pronto was the best, given the weather's threat. Already cars and trucks coming from the North were snow-covered.
So home we drove, the little 1970s pickup's defrost having a tough time keeping up with the vapor forming on the windows. Unloading the windows was surprisingly easy and we stored them in their boxes in the very porch they were going to enclose.
In the kitchen we welcomed the beer and popcorn we felt we'd earned when Pete mentioned Mary Ann had called, worried about Mom. I thought, just one beer and a few minutes to relax before checking on her, but it was not to be. The phone rang with "Hazel" on the caller ID. "Hello," I answered. Nothing. Just a rustle, rustle. "Hello! Mom!" I tried again. The rustling sound was all I got.
So it was time to call Becky, the house-mother at Mom's senior apartment. Becky said she's check on mom and called back to say mom really needed to be taken to the hospital, her confusion, pain more than mom could bear. It was 4:45. Urgent care? ER? I wasn't sure where the best place to take her might be. And Girls' Gourmet. It began at 6. I was bringing the drinks. Absolute Stress--what an appropriate name! Before I left, I grabbed stew from the freezer for Pete's dinner. Then I boxed the ingredients' bottles, tossed in the recipe and was about to drop those at the hostess's house before zooming to mom's apartment, when Becky called again to say she felt the least painful way to get mom to the hospital was via ambulance. Good idea, I figured, given the weather now was freezing and windy and damp. The girls would have to mix up their own drinks, but maybe if all went well I could at least join them for dessert. I dropped the ingredients at the hostess's house, shared my regrets, and was off to the hospital.
Perhaps one (the ONLY one?) of the plusses about being seen frequently in the ER is that people recognize you. Jeremy (nurse #1) knew me from my trips there with Pete ("Oh yeah--you're the one who taught at USC") and Jonelle (nurse #2) was a former student whom I'd encounter at least yearly when bringing in either Mom or Pete. So our discussion regarding mom was easy--we understood each other's expertise of the health issues of the person in the gurney. All Mom's meds, allergies, etc. were at my fingertips on my ipad and I could tell Jeremy was impressed with my organization.
Diagnosis: UTI, O2 level low, potassium low, severe pain following a fall. Despite the fact the xrays again showed nothing broken, I asked that Mom be admitted so they could continue with diagnosing the cause of her pain and begin treating her UTI. The weather had turned icy--ambulances were bringing in accident victims from I35 crashes, and despite the fact we were told we might have to be placed in the hall so the ER room could accommodate these victims, we were thankfully wheeled into a room before that occurred.
Once in Room 260, mom seemed much more relaxed, but I guess that's what your IV filled with pain meds and antibiotics and do for you when you need them. The nurse again took an excruciatingly long time filling in mom's profile and info on her computer ("any recreational drug use?" she asked. "What's that?" mom replied). I had to smile. This woman who hours before had been so vacant was powering back. Responding to the nurse's question about being able to dress herself, etc., I responded quietly that we were going to ask for additional help with dressing and the dispensing of medication. "Additional help?" Mom said. "We are?" Nope, she wasn't missing a thing.
Finally I made my way down the steps to the first floor, the elevators not functioning as they were being repaired. The car was glazed with ice, the dessert with the girls long since devoured, and truthfully all I wanted was the warmth of my own place.
Eight-thirty at night. Gather garbage for Tuesday pickup. Wash lunch dishes, beer glasses. Put away the stew Pete had elected not to eat ("I'm getting sick of left-overs.")
"Absolute Stress." My friend Jane says she has the ingredients in her car to return to me. You can be sure I'm going to enjoy one or two those suckers tonight...
But the morning of that day began with the clatter of Pete's walker. I heard it as a newborn's mother hears things--something amiss despite the three closed doors and a white-noise machine separating us. The clock read 12:30. And when I crept into his room, there Pete was sprawled face down on the floor, his walker having careened in front of him. This time the task of getting him into bed was relatively simple: already flat on his belly, he had to first position himself on all fours. To do this he pushed up with his arms as I grabbed his belly and pulled up. Worked well this time. I didn't even have to afix the heavy cotton belt around his middle. Then he was able to turn and put his elbows up on his mattress (already raised to accommodate his needs). I grabbed the bathroom rug, its rubberized grip providing Pete some leverage for his feet to push, and then slipped his Nikes on him. Using his elbows and feet, he could now slide his belly onto the bed, pulling with his elbows and pushing with his shoes. Eventually he pulled most of his hips onto the bed and began to turn onto his back and onto the mattress, finally gripping the grab bar on the far side of the bed. Then little by little he scooted up so his head rested on his pillow. All this left him breathing heavily and me thrilled he hadn't been hurt and that no urine had spilled from his urinal.
Pete began urinating into a urinal next to his bed about 6 weeks previously when his legs began buckling on the way to the bathroom 15 feet from his bed. And too many times he'd been standing in front of the stool, waiting for his stream to hit the john in front of him. He'd stand and wait, and after teetering over one too many times, (despite the grab bar WIll had screwed in place for him) decided standing next to his bed slightly leaning back onto the mattress for support and urinating into a urinal was the best way to accomplish that task. Then if he teetered over, at least he had the mattress to catch him.
After fifteen minutes of hearing the clatter, I was able to retreat to my room and back to sleep, knowing Pete was safe and sound, at least for the next few minutes...
Finally 6:30 am and morning coffee. Though I knew my mom was recovery from a tumble in her apartment, I felt I could take the time to hit the Y and my challenging Monday class before checking in on her. I NEEDED that class, to sweat, groan, feel like I'd accomplished the impossible when the agony was over. And it did feel good.
After a shower and checking in a Pete (he was still sleeping--even at 10:30) I shopped at the market, picking up the final ingredients for the evening's aperitif before stopping in at Mom's apartment. I found her dressed, her feet propped up in front of her, quiet, but obviously in pain. Her vacant eyes told me the extent of the pain, and I hurt for her. Her tumble had done more damage than we'd thought. I fed her a few spoonfuls of the soup I'd brought and heated, but she explained she just wasn't hungry--didn't want much. Her memory clouded by pain, she had no recollection of when she might have taken her last Tylenol, though I suspected the nurse had given her some earlier in the morning. I chatted with her about my trip to Grand Marais and my class on chair caning and the crazy weather outside--the threat of rain, ice, snow all in one twelve-hour period.
Back home I found Pete had awakened, and with the promise of an egg salad sandwich, he got up, motored into the kitchen and ate. Quickly moving the dirty dishes to the counter, I grabbed my coat and jumped into Will's pickup to trek up to Faribault and the lumber yard. We needed to haul the 6 porch windows and door back to Albert Lea to eventually install, though the wintery weather might make that task a bit challenging.
As we drove north, the dry roadway became damp, the mist becoming more intense and the ceiling of clouds descended. By the time we reached Faribault, the temp had dropped noticeably and though we'd wanted to stop in my favorite El Tequila there for a beer, we decided driving home pronto was the best, given the weather's threat. Already cars and trucks coming from the North were snow-covered.
So home we drove, the little 1970s pickup's defrost having a tough time keeping up with the vapor forming on the windows. Unloading the windows was surprisingly easy and we stored them in their boxes in the very porch they were going to enclose.
In the kitchen we welcomed the beer and popcorn we felt we'd earned when Pete mentioned Mary Ann had called, worried about Mom. I thought, just one beer and a few minutes to relax before checking on her, but it was not to be. The phone rang with "Hazel" on the caller ID. "Hello," I answered. Nothing. Just a rustle, rustle. "Hello! Mom!" I tried again. The rustling sound was all I got.
So it was time to call Becky, the house-mother at Mom's senior apartment. Becky said she's check on mom and called back to say mom really needed to be taken to the hospital, her confusion, pain more than mom could bear. It was 4:45. Urgent care? ER? I wasn't sure where the best place to take her might be. And Girls' Gourmet. It began at 6. I was bringing the drinks. Absolute Stress--what an appropriate name! Before I left, I grabbed stew from the freezer for Pete's dinner. Then I boxed the ingredients' bottles, tossed in the recipe and was about to drop those at the hostess's house before zooming to mom's apartment, when Becky called again to say she felt the least painful way to get mom to the hospital was via ambulance. Good idea, I figured, given the weather now was freezing and windy and damp. The girls would have to mix up their own drinks, but maybe if all went well I could at least join them for dessert. I dropped the ingredients at the hostess's house, shared my regrets, and was off to the hospital.
Perhaps one (the ONLY one?) of the plusses about being seen frequently in the ER is that people recognize you. Jeremy (nurse #1) knew me from my trips there with Pete ("Oh yeah--you're the one who taught at USC") and Jonelle (nurse #2) was a former student whom I'd encounter at least yearly when bringing in either Mom or Pete. So our discussion regarding mom was easy--we understood each other's expertise of the health issues of the person in the gurney. All Mom's meds, allergies, etc. were at my fingertips on my ipad and I could tell Jeremy was impressed with my organization.
Diagnosis: UTI, O2 level low, potassium low, severe pain following a fall. Despite the fact the xrays again showed nothing broken, I asked that Mom be admitted so they could continue with diagnosing the cause of her pain and begin treating her UTI. The weather had turned icy--ambulances were bringing in accident victims from I35 crashes, and despite the fact we were told we might have to be placed in the hall so the ER room could accommodate these victims, we were thankfully wheeled into a room before that occurred.
Once in Room 260, mom seemed much more relaxed, but I guess that's what your IV filled with pain meds and antibiotics and do for you when you need them. The nurse again took an excruciatingly long time filling in mom's profile and info on her computer ("any recreational drug use?" she asked. "What's that?" mom replied). I had to smile. This woman who hours before had been so vacant was powering back. Responding to the nurse's question about being able to dress herself, etc., I responded quietly that we were going to ask for additional help with dressing and the dispensing of medication. "Additional help?" Mom said. "We are?" Nope, she wasn't missing a thing.
Finally I made my way down the steps to the first floor, the elevators not functioning as they were being repaired. The car was glazed with ice, the dessert with the girls long since devoured, and truthfully all I wanted was the warmth of my own place.
Eight-thirty at night. Gather garbage for Tuesday pickup. Wash lunch dishes, beer glasses. Put away the stew Pete had elected not to eat ("I'm getting sick of left-overs.")
"Absolute Stress." My friend Jane says she has the ingredients in her car to return to me. You can be sure I'm going to enjoy one or two those suckers tonight...
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