So many of you have already voted for me to be the guest Keynote Speaker at the National Caregivers’ Conference in Chicago in November. But in case you are not a Facebook Friend or I don’t have your email. I’m posting the link here in hopes that you will mosey over to this website, scroll to the bottom on the left where the names of all the finalists are and click on my name and then click the vote button! You can certainly look at my video, but it’s not necessary. Just need your vote. Thanks for your support, I will do my best to make you proud of me, my blessed readers! Tomorrow, I promise you another hilarious story!
I was having dinner with a friend last night who lives far away from me. She was telling me about her parents and caregiving. I was flattered that this very busy, corporate woman had obviously taken the time to read several of my blog posts because she was very familiar with my ups and downs as a caregiver, attorney, and speaker.
The joy of this is that she was willing to share with me her hilarious story of taking her parents to a seminar on joint replacement since her mom was about to have knee replacement surgery.
As the nurse practitioner was speeding through extensive PowerPoint slides, my friend was furiously writing down notes to be able to deal with possible side effects, rehabilitation, medication and the personality changes that we all deal with when our elders have surgery…like, “I hate you because I don’t want to go to therapy and this hurts, and I haven’t gone to the bathroom for days on this pain medication.”
Meanwhile, her parents are chit-chatting with other future replacement recipients and asking their daughter to grab a brownie or two from the nice snack table that the hospital has put out to lure people to this presentation.
My take-away from this:
Just because you’re caregiving at home, don’t think lots of other people aren’t doing it from work, from afar, or from their mobile phones.
Caregivers love laughing at each other’s stories. We even know it’s funny while it’s happening, even though we may not be laughing until days, months or weeks later.
You never know who might benefit from your caregiving plight. My Nana was right: Misery loves Company. I feel certain Nana didn’t make that up. It sounds like something Shakespeare probably said. My five siblings and I must’ve made Nana pretty miserable ’cause we sure heard that a lot.
As I suspected, Brownies solve everything.
Thanks to my friend for sharing. I love hearing all your hilarious tales. Never be afraid to be It helps. I promise.
I thought I would return for a moment to my caregiver roots and relay a story told to me by my Mom, yesterday.
My beautiful mother has been having some vision issues lately. She had cataract surgery a few years ago and has been seeing quite nicely, even without her glasses, since then. Recently, she noticed that her eyes were watering more than usual, and since she was happy about everything in her life (and why wouldn’t she be with a daughter like me), she was pretty sure she wasn’t crying for no good reason.
She went to the eye doctor. After a thorough examination, the doctor declared my mother to have “dry eye” syndrome and also interference with her vision from droopy eye lids.
Now some people would be kind of excited about the prospect of a doctor declaring you a victim of droopy eye lids. No one wants to look like a basset hound, not even a basset hound, I’m pretty sure.
See, if a doctor will state that it is medically necessary for you to have eyelid surgery for better vision or to correct the flow of your tears, you can have plastic surgery on your eyes and your medical insurance will pay for it! My friend, Lisa, who actually noticed her drooping eye problem affecting her vision has been fighting with physicians for months now to get it fixed.
My mother was then referred to an eye surgeon to look into correcting the cataract surgery as well as the droopy eye lids.
This is how the conversation went down:
Doctor: What seems to be the problem?
Mom: My vision has begun to get cloudy on the edges and I really can’t see well.
Doctor: Well, you know, with aging we just have to accept that things aren’t perfect.
See how pretty she is!
Mom (a bright woman who is indeed aware that she is 87 years old): I certainly know that by now. But I was told that sometimes with cataract surgery fluid can get behind the lens and it needs to be repaired with a laser.
Doctor: Well I don’t see that with you. I think you just need to wash your eyes real well with soap and water.
Mom looks at him like he’s a lunatic.
Doctor: Warm water, just use warm water.
Mom: I was sent to you by my eye doctor, and she saw that the cataract might have fluid behind it, so I wonder why there’s a difference?
Doctor: Well, I suppose I could do another test just to make sure.
Mom: Yes, let’s do that.
Cue Jeopardy theme song as Mom has test and waits to be called back into the doctor’s office
Doctor (with a chuckle): Well, well, well, I was certainly wrong about that!
Mom: What does that mean?
Doctor: You definitely are a candidate for the laser surgery, in fact in both eyes. But I would have to do one eye first, let it heal and then do the other eye. It’s kind of a pain to have to come back.
Mom: I’ll let you know.
Mom to me after relaying this conversation:
“First of all, (here she bursts into laughter), I don’t think I’m going to wash my eyes out with soap and water. And he didn’t even correct himself or say, “Oh I didn’t mean that!”. Second, so what if I have to come back two or three times? What else am I doing? I’m 87 years old. I would like to see!
Yesterday, my sister took her back to her eye doctor to get a new referral.
I wonder why people think age equals stupidity? I also wonder where that doctor got his medical degree and if he was last in his class. Nobody ever puts that on their wall, do they?
Saturday was my birthday. I wanted wine and song. My daughter called from Ireland to wish me a grand year, and suggested I check the internet machine for our local beloved troubadour to see where he was playing. Miraculously, he was playing at a WINERY from 2:00 to 5:00 in the afternoon. In twenty minutes, my husband and I were at a wine tasting bar listening to great music. Serendipity rocks.
For 10 bucks we could taste all 17 wines on the menu. A designated driver was named (not me) and I, the birthday girl went for it. Now, Pennsylvania wines are usually quite awful, especially if you love wine. So we were pleasantly surprised when we enjoyed the flavor of some of these wines. The vintner was very proud. The chatter continued on in a lively and humorous fashion. We were all having fun. It turns out that my husband and the vitner graduated from the same high school in the same year. They actually know each other, but the intervening 2 score years (nice way of preserving their dignity) changed their remembrance of one another.
Okay, so I’m tipsy, singing, meeting new people, drinking some not half-bad wine, and my phone jangles. Well, it’s my birthday, so people have been contacting me all day. I pick it up with a big ass wine smile and say:
“Hello!”
“Hello, is this Cathy?”
“Yep, it sure is…who is this?”
“This is the cardiologist from the hospital. I want to discuss your brother-in-law’s condition.”
Uh-oh.
Can I tell you, that it was the most lucid and coherent conversation I have ever had with a physician.
I answered all his questions, gave him a supremely detailed medical history, discussed current medication, the possibility of new medication, the long term effects of those new meds, and what the physician would require in the future in terms of follow up and testing. All while standing outside in a snowbank because of the music and raucous crowd in the winery.
I asked every freaking question that came to mind, I questioned the doctor’s thought process concerning my brother-in-law’s medical history and future. I was rocking that conversation like I just graduated from medical school.
Sometimes a girl has just gotta’ dance. Whilst deep in the Rumba, the dance of love, according to our ballroom dance instructor, I actually turned off my cell phone. I take this ballroom dancing seriously, since I read it is the number one hobby that can stave off dementia. Plus, my husband can’t believe I have found an activity we can do together where children, siblings, parents, caregivees, nurses, insurance companies and doctors can’t get in touch with me.
After 90 minutes of “slow……..quick, quick” and wine and cookies (okay, there are other perks to ballroom dancing), my husband and I are happily re-connected, refreshed and ready to go home.
As we leave the dance floor and enter the parking lot, it’s snowing like a blizzard out there on November 13th. This should have been my first clue of disaster.
Fine. I’m refreshed, I can deal with the first frostbite of the year. Then I checked my phone.
Two calls from my brother-in-law. Two messages and a few other missed calls and texts from his caregivers. Uh oh.
The good news is my brother-in-law called. At least I know he can dial his new phone. He insisted I bought a completely useless phone that he couldn’t operate. So there’s that.
I cringed for the bad news as I listened to the messages:
Message 1:
“Cathy, this is ‘L’, nobody got me out of bed for dinner, and no one delivered my meal either.”
Message 2:
“Cathy, it’s an hour later. Don’t know if you got my first message. I didn’t get dinner. Wish someone would have warned me that I wasn’t getting dinner tonight. I guess I’ll be ok.”
It’s now 90 minutes after the second message…the exact amount of time it takes to learn the dance of love with 6 variations. I call him back. No answer. Either he has passed out from hunger, someone came to his rescue, or he gave up and went to sleep.
I text the last caregiver who I know was with him to give him his night meds. No response. I make an executive decision to let it go until morning. Based on his overall weight and eating habits, I’m pretty certain missing one meal won’t end his time here on earth.
The next morning on my way to his facility, I called his caregivers. I wasn’t planning on taking this side trip to see him, but I wanted to reassure him that I received his phone messages and was taking care of business. They assured me that someone had set up his meal for dinner. I’m not so sure. My brother-in-law doesn’t have dementia. He just generally only thinks about things he cares about and leaves the rest to me.
When I get to his room, after breakfast, (I wanted him to be fed and in a good mood………I learned a thing or two from having toddlers), I asked him if he ever got dinner last night.
“You called me twice last night to say no one brought you dinner, remember? Did you have dinner or not?”
He looks at me like I have the head of Medusa, or am speaking in Italian.
“I don’t remember calling you or if I got dinner, but I just had breakfast, so what’s the big deal?
I just Rumba my way out of the room………….slow….quick, quick…..slow….quick, quick.
My mother-in-law, Marie, thought I was as cool as Bruce Springsteen. A few years ago, in one of her long stints at the hospital, the social worker arrived in her room and quickly began her assessment of the situation.
“Marie,” she demanded, “do you know what day it is?”
“No,” Marie truthfully answered. Marie was in her 90’s and loving her assisted living facility. Every day came and went like it was Tuesday or Saturday, or who-the-hell-cares day.
“Well,” the highly trained professional asked, “do you know who the President is?”
Okey dokey….now I jumped in.
“Is this really necessary?” I wondered while looking the social worker straight in the eye.
“Well, I need to know if she’s oriented to space and time.”
You’re not oriented to space or time if you’re thinking an elderly woman from a facility is keeping up with current events.
“Ask her questions she knows the answer to, if you’re trying to find out if she’s in any way conscious.”
“Well, okay.” She turned to my mother-in-law and pointed to some of the other people who were visiting in the room.
“Who is that, Marie?”
“That’s my son, Ted.” Correct.
“And who is that lady next to him?”
“That’s his wife, Judi.” Also correct.
Then pointing to me: “And who is that lady there?”
“Her?” And Marie pointed to me as well.
“Yes, that lady?”
“Oh, that’s the Boss!”
Boom!
I have become legendary. Last week in my brother-in-law’s room the social worker came in to ask some questions.
“What day is it?”
“Truthfully,” he said, “I don’t give a shit.” Score 1 for the ill and infirm.
“And who is this with you today?” she asked him, pointing in my direction.
“Oh her? Yeah, watch out for her, that’s the Boss!”
