Inexplicably. But genuinely.
So peculiar.
Such an unusual way to start the day, for me. I felt like a child who'd been given twenty dollars to spend as he wanted and then sent alone into KB Toys, and I wanted to have something else to do with the day, something other than simply going to work. But I didn't, so I took my odd morning glow with me to the office, and did my usual office type things. Not with any extraordinary amount of vigor, mind you. But I was just...content. The kind of state that you want to bottle and keep for later. Maybe sprinkle some on your salad at lunch.
I was glad to have my gladness! And I needed it mid-morning, when the first choice for my mother's post-surgical assisted living arrangements fell through due to four of the facilities' paying residents having the bad grace to all return from their hospital stays on the same day, each in need of a bed. The admissions coordinator at the facility had told us that might happen: paying full-time residents have priority over any Medicare-funded guests. There's another facility in town with open beds, but it's of lesser reputation, which increases my level of concern, due to my mother's particular needs regarding general mobility and assistance. This might mean that I don't get to relax quite as much as I'd planned to over the next four weeks. There's still the possibility of getting into our first choice--a bed is opening up there on Tuesday--but getting that bed will require the intervention of my mother's General Physician. It seems that despite patients supposedly having the right to choose which facility they enter, such places apparently don't like to "poach" patients from each other once they've been admitted. This doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense to me--if the level of care doesn't meet with my requirements, I don't give much of a damn about what effect my desire to go somewhere else has on the relationships between skilled nursing staffs or whether it's a breach of institutional etiquette. But that's how it works.
My mother has a good medical team around her, and a favorable result is by no means assured, but I know that her GP will do his best to get her a bed in the place she wants to be. It's a testament to who my mother is, I think, that she has so many people around her who are willing to extend themselves to make sure that she gets the care she needs.
Which, once more, brings to mind all of the many millions of Americans who don't have such support, who are simply fed into the medical industrial complex and are completely at its mercy. After my mother dislocated her artificial hip picking up the cat (not a particularly fat cat, mind you, just an unfortunate seating angle combined with weakened hip musculature), I happened to be in the room while a hapless technician attempted to rig a horizontal lifting sling to place her on a table for an X-ray. There, on the lifting sling itself, was a clear piece of iconography depicting the exact way that the technician was rigging the sling...surrounded by a red circle with a fat red slash through it. After pointing this out more than once, I finally had to say: "Look, this clearly says not to do what you're doing, so stop doing it. Why don't you go find someone to help you out, here?" Had I not been in that room, the end result would have been my mother being dumped onto the floor and landing on her dislocated hip. The fact that her hip was still dislocated and undiagnosed 24 hours after her admission to the hospital was the result of the ER physician's apparent unfamiliarity with the basic concept of referred pain, and is part of another story. The point of this story is that I've seen enough mistakes made by experts and competent people to know that most patients and their family members put far too much faith in the impressively-degreed and white-coated gatekeepers of our medical establishments.
The way through this unfortunate reality is not found in belligerence, it is found in vigilance and the refusal to equate expertise with infallibility. I have learned to make myself part of the team that forms around my mother with every hospitalization, many of whom she knows on a first-name basis due to the frequency of their encounters. I say "please," and "thank you very much," and I mean it when I do. I remember that nurses and medical technicians are generally hard-working people who are responsible for more patients than just my mother, and that they are usually where much of the real power to provide proper care resides. When things go wrong, I know that the Nuclear Option does not consist of anything other than a steady voice, unwavering eye contact, and a very clear statement of two things: what I need, and when I need it. This I learned last year, when I showed up for a visit following my mother's allergic reaction to her routine IVIG infusion and found her propped up in bed, unconscious, her vomit-stained gown half-off, with a wheezing BiPAP strapped to her face. I need to speak to a doctor. And I need to speak to that doctor immediately. The haste with which the charge nurse picked up the phone was gratifying.
I don't anticipate anything like that this time around, but then I never do. It doesn't make much sense to anticipate things going wrong, because when they do, they always seem to do so in some novel way that I never would have thought of. There are just so many ways, large and small, in which my mother's body can betray her that it seems best to just pay attention to what's actually happening rather than attempt to prepare for what might happen.
And, if I happen to wake up smiling one morning, I keep that for myself, as a gift.
So peculiar.
Such an unusual way to start the day, for me. I felt like a child who'd been given twenty dollars to spend as he wanted and then sent alone into KB Toys, and I wanted to have something else to do with the day, something other than simply going to work. But I didn't, so I took my odd morning glow with me to the office, and did my usual office type things. Not with any extraordinary amount of vigor, mind you. But I was just...content. The kind of state that you want to bottle and keep for later. Maybe sprinkle some on your salad at lunch.
I was glad to have my gladness! And I needed it mid-morning, when the first choice for my mother's post-surgical assisted living arrangements fell through due to four of the facilities' paying residents having the bad grace to all return from their hospital stays on the same day, each in need of a bed. The admissions coordinator at the facility had told us that might happen: paying full-time residents have priority over any Medicare-funded guests. There's another facility in town with open beds, but it's of lesser reputation, which increases my level of concern, due to my mother's particular needs regarding general mobility and assistance. This might mean that I don't get to relax quite as much as I'd planned to over the next four weeks. There's still the possibility of getting into our first choice--a bed is opening up there on Tuesday--but getting that bed will require the intervention of my mother's General Physician. It seems that despite patients supposedly having the right to choose which facility they enter, such places apparently don't like to "poach" patients from each other once they've been admitted. This doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense to me--if the level of care doesn't meet with my requirements, I don't give much of a damn about what effect my desire to go somewhere else has on the relationships between skilled nursing staffs or whether it's a breach of institutional etiquette. But that's how it works.
My mother has a good medical team around her, and a favorable result is by no means assured, but I know that her GP will do his best to get her a bed in the place she wants to be. It's a testament to who my mother is, I think, that she has so many people around her who are willing to extend themselves to make sure that she gets the care she needs.
Which, once more, brings to mind all of the many millions of Americans who don't have such support, who are simply fed into the medical industrial complex and are completely at its mercy. After my mother dislocated her artificial hip picking up the cat (not a particularly fat cat, mind you, just an unfortunate seating angle combined with weakened hip musculature), I happened to be in the room while a hapless technician attempted to rig a horizontal lifting sling to place her on a table for an X-ray. There, on the lifting sling itself, was a clear piece of iconography depicting the exact way that the technician was rigging the sling...surrounded by a red circle with a fat red slash through it. After pointing this out more than once, I finally had to say: "Look, this clearly says not to do what you're doing, so stop doing it. Why don't you go find someone to help you out, here?" Had I not been in that room, the end result would have been my mother being dumped onto the floor and landing on her dislocated hip. The fact that her hip was still dislocated and undiagnosed 24 hours after her admission to the hospital was the result of the ER physician's apparent unfamiliarity with the basic concept of referred pain, and is part of another story. The point of this story is that I've seen enough mistakes made by experts and competent people to know that most patients and their family members put far too much faith in the impressively-degreed and white-coated gatekeepers of our medical establishments.
The way through this unfortunate reality is not found in belligerence, it is found in vigilance and the refusal to equate expertise with infallibility. I have learned to make myself part of the team that forms around my mother with every hospitalization, many of whom she knows on a first-name basis due to the frequency of their encounters. I say "please," and "thank you very much," and I mean it when I do. I remember that nurses and medical technicians are generally hard-working people who are responsible for more patients than just my mother, and that they are usually where much of the real power to provide proper care resides. When things go wrong, I know that the Nuclear Option does not consist of anything other than a steady voice, unwavering eye contact, and a very clear statement of two things: what I need, and when I need it. This I learned last year, when I showed up for a visit following my mother's allergic reaction to her routine IVIG infusion and found her propped up in bed, unconscious, her vomit-stained gown half-off, with a wheezing BiPAP strapped to her face. I need to speak to a doctor. And I need to speak to that doctor immediately. The haste with which the charge nurse picked up the phone was gratifying.
I don't anticipate anything like that this time around, but then I never do. It doesn't make much sense to anticipate things going wrong, because when they do, they always seem to do so in some novel way that I never would have thought of. There are just so many ways, large and small, in which my mother's body can betray her that it seems best to just pay attention to what's actually happening rather than attempt to prepare for what might happen.
And, if I happen to wake up smiling one morning, I keep that for myself, as a gift.
Sorry to hear about your mother. I too believe the medical community works hard and the nurses and techs do their best. That being said, I am horrified by the number of people who think a white coat is the last and best word. I am a terrible patient because I ask questions, refuse treatment and complain. I am also a terrific patient because I do those things. I do them for my kids and my husband as well. I am polite about it, but firm in my resolve. In the end, most nurses and doctors appreciate it when you stop them from poisoning or otherwise harming your loved ones.
Your mother is fortunate to have you there as an advocate, acting out of love and compassion, asking questions and stopping procedures before they go terribly wrong.
You can't save those smiles for later, but you can enjoy them when they happen. So, enjoy!