10.9.22
Appointments with medical personnel seem to be my "dates" with both my husband and Mom. Our outings entail leaving the house/care center via van (either the care center's or ours) for an eye, back, dental, hip, lung--or whatever--appointment/consult. Each adventure requires time, planning, and coordination. For Pete it's verifying the portable ramp is in place, the van starts (yesterday I had to jump it), and the wheelchair and cushion accompany us and are accessible. For Mom, it's ensuring I'm actually aware of the appointment, coordinating an outfit she'd be proud of (I lay out her clothes the previous day), meeting Mom at the clinic so she's not simply dropped off, and then calling the van to fetch her after the appointment. The care center's van and driver are boons to both Mom and me; I'm grateful they're so caring and thoughtful when assisting her.
Yesterday we had three appointments--two for hubby, one for Mom. When the appointments pile up like that, I have to breathe deeply. I've recently realized I'm not really retired--I've simply switched careers, though I have to admit this caregiving career does have more flexibility at times.
Mom's appointment was after lunch at 1:15. Reason for seeing this doctor, her regular internist? Who knew...I'd been too preoccupied with other things to question the appointment's purpose, I guess. I simply acquiesced and met Mom at the clinic just before 1 pm. I found her a bit confused as her wheelchair was lowered from the van (she never remembers when she has an appointment, even though I prep her days in advance). She grasped an envelope containing the care center's record of recent weight, blood pressure, etc.
I whisked Mom into the lobby, through the hall, up the elevator to second floor, and then to the registration desk. The staff beckoned us and asked, "Date of birth?"
Instead of answering for Mom, I turned to her and said, "Birthdate?"
Pausing momentarily, Mom responded, "10.9.22," her eyes aware, clearly confident and engaged. No doubts there, I thought. She still remembers.
We didn't wait long for Nurse Chris to find us, but I had just enough time to peruse the info. in Mom's envelope. Blood pressure seemed fine, but weight--in the past few months it had gone from 98-100 pounds to 89-90. Hmmm. A 10% weight loss. Ten pounds I'd gladly give her.
Chris took us to an exam room, and we settled in. Jacket off, blood pressure taken, questions answered ("How are things going?" "Pretty good, I guess." "Any pain?" "Not that I'm aware of....")
I mentioned I was concerned about the weight loss, as well as that with the disposable underwear Mom was wearing, she was probably more prone to UTIs. "I can usually tell when Mom's got a UTI," I said. "She's a bit dingy." Hazel simply nodded in agreement.
The nurse laughed. "Man, if I'd said that about my mom," she admitted, "she wouldn't have liked that one bit. You just nodded, Hazel. Good for you."
Looking at me, she asked, "And are you going back to work after this appointment?" I told her I'd retired--in fact I was in my second year of retiring from teaching. We chatted briefly about my career in education, culminating a 39-year stint in the classroom with being asked to speak at graduation, an honor. I mentioned I'd brought Mom and introduced her to the students and crowd, because she'd been the valedictorian of that school 75 years hence.
Mom didn't react to this memory, but rather said, "You know, I don't remember that." She seemed sleepy and unattached to the conversation. The previous liveliness was waning.
Eventually the doctor saw us, announced that beginning in May, he'd be coming to the care center because he had a fair number of patients there (now that makes sense, I thought). We discussed weight loss (I'd check with dining room staff to see if Mom's not eating, but if she is, the doctor implied he wasn't terribly concerned, though we'd monitor the weight). And low and behold...he suggested we have a urine test to see if Mom had a UTI, though I hadn't asked for one. I guess I'd somehow conveyed its need.
The consult ended with the doctor saying, "I'll see you in a month, Hazel--out at the care center. You don't need to come to the clinic anymore. I'll see you there."
"You will?" Mom replied, having missed or forgotten the doctor's previous statement.
After retracing our steps back to the lobby, I asked the desk staff to call the care center's van for transport, and we waited the 15-20 minutes required for the van to reach the clinic. Mom was visibly sleepy and I suggested she nap when she returned to the apartment. I'd come later for coffee after she'd rested. Eventually the van arrived and Mom was shuttled back home.
Coffee time seemed to arrive too soon, and I had to quickly curtail my raking and clean up to see Mom. The staff was helping her when I arrived, and I waited outside her room until all was completed, whatever she'd needed.
"Well," I said, entering her room, "did you have a nice nap?"
"Had a nap and pooped," she said, startling me with her bluntness.
"I guess that means we're ready for coffee."
As we sipped our coffee and munched on a cookie, Mom suddenly admitted, "You know, it's really hard to not remember things." Her gaze was distant, nearly searching.
"Well, let's be thankful for the memories we have," I suggested. At least she knows me, recognizes my voice. And remembers her birthdate. A comforting thought to be sure.