No end after the end July 20, 2010

My grandmother passed on April 30; not a day goes by that I don’t get something in the mail that has to be dealt with in one way or another.  I’ve received Explanations of Benefits (EoBs) from her insurance company for the majority of her last 10 days of medical — hmm — I was going to type “care” there, but she didn’t really receive a lot of medical care, so I’m not sure how to categorize it.  Anyway, the various providers have billed the insurance company, and they in turn have sent money to those providers.  In some cases, they’ve sent co-pay checks in Gramma’s name, which I can’t do anything with.  That means I have to call the insurance company, key in all the numbers, wait on hold for anywhere from 3 to 30 minutes,  tell the person who answers all the numbers I’ve already keyed in, explain the situation to that person, wait some more while he or she makes sure I’m allowed to talk to him or her about the account, wait again while they look up the copy of the death certificate that I have now sent to them three times, and then make the request that they void the check and send it directly to the provider.  There’s no way, apparently, in this day of the computer, for them to make a note of any of this, so I have to do it every time a check comes.

Additionally, there was no estate; because her monthly annuity wasn’t sufficient for her expenses, we had been paying for everything for several years.  As she is no longer with us, I don’t feel any obligation to continue to pay all the co-pays; right, wrong, or indifferent, I feel like the providers didn’t do much for her at the end, causing me to spend her last days fighting with them, and therefore, I don’t want to send them any more money than they’ve already gotten from the insurance companies.  This means that when a bill comes, I call the provider and explain that she has passed and that there is no estate.  The provider then sends a final notice letting me know that the bill is going to collections.  Then the collection company sends a collection notice, and I call and let them know the situation.  They always request a copy of the death certificate, which I dutifully send.  This just goes on and on.

In addition to two new EoBs, today’s mail included a letter and pamphlet (“Taking the time You Need to Grieve Your Loss”) from hospice, letting me know that I am not alone and that hospice is here to offer me “support and understanding to help comfort you during this time.” The letter goes on to say that if I am feeling “alone and misunderstood,” I should not hesitate to call them because they will “help you find resources to meet your needs, help you to understand your grieving process, or just talk.”  They are here for me “now and in the future.”  How about that?  I wonder if they can help me with all the financial issues.

The other piece of mail was a thank you note from the funeral home.  I’m not kidding.  I guess I can understand thanking me for choosing them over another funeral home but frankly, we just went with the one hospice recommended.  They should thank hospice.  The part of the note that gets me is, “If there is ever [underlined] anything else we can do for you, please let me know at any time; we are always here to help!”  Seriously?  There’s only one reason I can think of to ever need the help of a funeral home, and I don’t want to be in the way of needing that particular brand of assistance.

I know that eventually all of this will end, but it sure seems like a long road getting there.

Poetry meets life April 26, 2010

Today I am convinced my grandmother is dying. I may be wrong; she may recuperate this time and regain some of the mobility she had a week ago, but today I am not convinced. The medical people who tell me that what she is experiencing is normal are not in the room with me with her for the hours on end that she begs me to help her, that she asks why she’s here (and she doesn’t mean why is she in the hospital; she knows why — every time we ask why she’s in the hospital, the answer is the same: “I broke my damn hip.”), that she whispers, “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”

Today I am at work because I need to be at work to listen to the poetry recitations my students have been working hard on for the past month; they’ve chosen poems and created portfolios about them and memorized them, and five or six of them stand at the front of the class each day and share their poems.  Today one of the poems almost made me cry:

Dying

by Robert Pinsky

Nothing to be said about it, and everything–

The change of changes, closer or further away:

The golden retriever next door, Gussie, is dead,

Like Sandy, the cocker spaniel from three doors down

Who died when I was small; and every day

Things that were in my memory fade and die.

Phrases die out:  first, everyone forgets

What doornails are; then after certain decades

As a dead metaphor, “dead as a doornail” flickers

And fades away.  But someone I know is dying –

And though one might say glibly, “everyone is,”

The different pace makes the difference absolute.

The tiny invisible spores in the air we breathe,

That settle harmlessly on our drinking water

And on our skin, happen to come together

With certain conditions on the forest floor,

Or even a shady corner of the lawn –

And overnight the fleshy, pale stalks gather,

The colorless growth without a leaf or flower;

And around the stalks, the summer grass keeps growing

With steady pressure, like the insistent whiskers

That grow between shaves on a face, the nails

Growing and dying from the toes and fingers

At their own humble pace, oblivious

As the nerveless moths , that live their night or two –

Though like a moth a bright soul keeps on beating,

Bored and impatient in the monster’s mouth.

Pinsky is right that “the different pace makes the difference absolute.”  We are all dying, no doubt about it, but now that I believe she’s really dying, it is different.  It is easy to be glib and say that “everyone is” dying, but once someone is in her 90s, every setback is the beginning of the end.  The average life span in the U.S. is 80.8 (or therabouts–depending on how much you trust Wikipedia), and she’s 93.  That’s pretty old.  She’s the oldest person I know, though she’s not  the oldest person I’ve ever known; her mother lived to 95 or 96.  She’s also been sick and hurt before, but there’s a difference this time. I don’t know if I can explain the difference, but I can certainly feel the difference.

I’ve been answering “Why am I here?” for several days now.  She’s here because we still have much to learn from her. She’s teaching us patience and humility and compassion.  She’s showing me how strong I can be.  When I stroke her forehead or rub her shoulders, sing to her or tell her stories, I’m getting as much out of that as she is.  She’s helping Jessica and me to stand shoulder to shoulder and talk to the nurses and doctors about what she needs.   Whether it happens from this accident or it happens from something else later down the line, “the change of changes” is upon us, and it’s just a matter of time.

The sky is falling! January 22, 2010

Ever since Gramma got out of the hospital, she’s been having trouble making it to the bathroom in time. I’m not sure if it’s because she had a catheter in the hospital or what; I do know that she wasn’t having too much trouble before going into the hospital, and now the floodgates, so to speak, have been opened.

She fought it, but she finally decided she probably did need some Depends “just in case”–but she wasn’t going to actually WEAR them; she was just going to keep them in case she ever felt like she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Then I guess she was going to run to the bathroom and put on a Depends before she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Remember, please, that this is the same woman who, when she can’t get the seat belt fastened will “just hold it” across her chest “in case there’s an accident.” Anyway, I buy the Depends, and she saves them for an emergency. In the meantime, she’s putting on two or three pairs of underwear with Poise pads in them “just in case.” Is this making any sense to you?  Yeah, me neither.
So she’s going through about 10 Poise pad/underwear combos a day, but the Depends are in the cabinet. Then she self-diagnoses “a problem” and decides to drink cranberry juice to solve it. This, of course, causes her to have to pee even more, but that’s beside the point.
She continues to tell us all is well, or at least “it’s getting better”; I know, however, that something is amiss because I put Poise pads in 20 pair of underwear on January 6, had to buy 18 new pair of underwear and wash another 18 and put Poise pads in them on January 10, and then fix 20 more pair on January 18. She kept trying to tell me that there wasn’t a problem–they just forgot to do her laundry. Uh…I did the laundry on January 10, remember?
She is still telling us she won’t wear the Depends and isn’t wearing the Depends because she’s getting the problem under control with the cranberry juice.
Fast forward to today, January 21:  I stop by for a quick visit to find her pacing and almost incoherent(well, more incoherent than usual), ranting about being out of Depends.  About the time I get that out of her, Jess comes running in because Gramma has called her crying about not having any underwear (which confuses Jess, who knows about the 50+pair of underwear I’ve fixed recently).

So there we are, Gramma pacing and nearly out of her mind (well, you know, more than usual).  “Have you been having problems making it to the bathroom?” one of us asks.

“No,” she says, “but I’ve been to the bathroom 4-5 times today and I always wear a Depends to bed, so I needed to have one for when I got out of the shower today.”   We don’t quite get the urgency here, pardon the pun, since it’s 4:00 and nowhere near bedtime, but we play along.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were almost out of Depends when you were almost out of Depends?  Why have you been telling us you weren’t wearing the Depends?”

“What?” she says because now we’ve apparently confused her.

“You are going to the doctor tomorrow.  We’ve been asking you if you were having problems, and you’ve been telling us it’s under control.  How can we tell the doctor what’s going on if you keep lying to us?”

“Don’t use that word,” she says.  “I’m not lying.  I don’t know what I said.”

“I don’t understand why you needed a Depends so urgently when you have more than 40 pair of underwear in your drawer all fixed for you.  I don’t understand why you are so upset about not having any Depends.”

“I have a Depends on right now,” she says.  “I had to get ready for bed.”

“It’s 4:00 in the afternoon.  Why are you getting ready for bed now?  And why did you get Jess all worried if you have a Depends on?  I’m sorry, but I”m not seeing the emergency.  Where’d you get the Depends if you’re out?”

“I borrowed one from a neighbor,” she says, “and I have to give it back.”

Lord.  “Okay, well, Jess is going to run to Walgreens and get you another package of Depends.  I can’t remember what size you need.  Do you still have the package from the ones you ran out of?”

“Package?  No.  I think I threw it away when I ran out of Depends.”

Jess then decides to look at the label of the ones she has on to see if that will shed any light.  She finds that the old bat is actually wearing underwear.  “Gramma, you don’t have a Depends on.  You’re wearing underwear.  What is the deal?”

“I have a Depends on under my pants just in case.  You know I’ve made it to the bathroom 4-5 times today.”

And here we go again.  God grant me patience, and hurry!

Gramma, a bedside commode, and an imaginary window December 11, 2009

So there we are, in the emergency room again.  The ER doc recognized us from last time, so that was a plus.  I’m not sure how far back to go with this story, so I’ll just start with the phone call from Jess at work telling me that she was at the ER with Gramma and I needed to get there as quickly as possible.  Chest pains.  I was on my lunch break, so I got the phone call, and I got my coat on, and then I remembered that I had to post grades, so I sat down to do that, and then I talked to my teaching partner about what to do in class, and then I started digging in my coat pocket when I remembered that I didn’t have a car today because Kerry had taken it in for its three-month check-up.  So there stood my teaching partner offering me his car to drive.  Good idea, but wait.  It’s a stick shift and I can’t drive a stick shift.  Now what?  Phone a friend?  No answer.  Phone another friend, who luckily is not working today and can come get me.  (Thanks, Pat!)

Cut to the emergency room, and Jess is standing outside the room with the chaplain, crying.  What would you think?  Turns out that Gramma had just not been able to make it to the bathroom, so they were changing the sheets and getting her into a Depends (don’t tell her I told you that; she would die of embarrassment if she weren’t going to live forever to see if she really can push me over the edge.  I’m sure when she goes, she’s going to haunt me.).  So they’ve ruled out a heart attack, and now they’re pretty sure it’s pneumonia.  She’s still having pain, but it’s really in her side, sort of under her breast, and by the way, her big toe hurts, too.  If you only knew how often we hear about her damn big toe and how many times we’ve had her to the doc and the ER about it, you’d be more sympathetic.  We do not want to hear about her big toe.  Ever.

They are giving her narcotics for the pain, but it’s not working, and she’s crying, and we’re trying to get more pain killers, and her oxygen is low, and they don’t want to give her too much medication because that messes with the respiratory system, and her respiratory system is screwed up enough as it is.

Then it happens.  She has to go to the bathroom.  No, no, we say, you just went.  Yes, yes, she says, I have to go.  We know what that means; she has to go RIGHT NOW.  So there’s the nurse, Gordon, and she thinks he is the greatest nurse she’s ever seen, and he asks her if she wants a catheter, and we’re saying yes, yes, we want the catheter, and she’s saying no, no, I don’t want a catheter. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want it and I don’t need it.  It takes the three of us working together to get her out of bed and onto the bedside commode, and she’s not helping because she doesn’t like to put her feet on the floor, but you have socks on, it’s okay to put your feet on the floor, please put your feet on the floor.  Yes, we know it’s slippery, so once you are sitting, we will change your socks to some hospital socks with the pads on the bottom so it won’t be so slippery, but please put your feet on the floor so we can get you on the commode so you can pee.

Yes, you’re on the commode.  Yes, we’re certain.  Go.  Do we need to run some water?  It’s okay, go ahead.  You’re on.  And if you’re not, we’ll just cross that bridge when we come to it.  It won’t be the end of the world.  Pee.  Go.  We’re right here.  We won’t leave.  Go ahead.  Oh, the Depends aren’t all the way down.  We’ll help you.  Now, there, are they out of the way?   Good.  Go.  Go.  Pee, dammit.

No, no, don’t get up yet.  We have to get the nurse.  Quit squirming, you’re going to squirm yourself off the commode and end up on the floor.  The nurse will be here in a minute.  Quit squirming, you’re going to fall off the commode.

Then she’s managed to squirm off, and we’re propping her up and we pull up the Depends and we try to get her back in the bed, but the Depends are down again, and our four arms and our two backs and our four legs are trying to make sure she doesn’t fall, and we try to pull the Depends up again, and she’s stiff like a baby throwing a tantrum, and she won’t bend at the hips and sit on the bed and she’s yelling help, help, we’re falling out the window, and Jess and I are laughing and crying and Jess is saying Gramma, please put your feet on the floor, and I’m saying Gramma, please bend and sit on the bed, and she’s yelling help, help, we’re falling out the window, Trish, don’t let me fall out the window and we’ve almost decided, without talking about it, to lower her to the floor until the nurse can come and help us, and then suddenly there are three nurses and two paramedics and the doctor in the room, and she’s back in bed, and we’re shaking and crying and trying not to laugh because it’s not appropriate.

Are you okay?  What happened?  Do you need a drink?

Yes, I need a drink, do you have tequila in an IV?

Help, help, she says, I’m going to vomit, so I’m holding the bucket, and Jess is mopping up with a paper towel, and the nurse is putting anti-nausea meds in the IV, and now I’m going to vomit because I’m holding the bucket, but I don’t because I have to keep it together.

That was close, she says, we almost fell out the window.

We’re in the emergency room on the first floor.   There is no window.

Well, that was close.  Will I have to move all of my stuff from my old room to the new room?

No, you’re just going to a hospital room for a few days, and then you’ll go back to your room, your place.  We don’t need to move all your stuff out.

I can’t believe we almost fell out the window.

We can’t believe it, either.

Cut to room 123, and now she’s telling the nurse about the close call in the emergency room.  She has a catheter in, and we keep assuring her she can just go, go, don’t worry about the bed, don’t worry about it, just go.  See, you’re going, it’s fine, that’s what the catheter is for.  (She would absolutely kill me if she knew I was telling you this.)

We order dinner, and the nurse is asking questions.  I’m going, she says.  Do you see the light? I ask.  No, I’m going, I’m going, is it okay?  Oh, yes, it’s okay.  I promise.  That’s what the catheter is for.

The saga continues November 16, 2009

Since October 21, Gramma has been to the doctor’s office three times and spent six days in the hospital due to some sort of infection in her foot.  It still hasn’t cleared up, so she is scheduled to see an infection specialist (who knew?) this Wednesday as well as go to the podiatrist to take care of an ingrown toenail. 

The docs at the hospital decided it was and then wasn’t and then was a tissue infection, meaning it wasn’t then was then wasn’t affecting the bone in any way.  Glad that’s cleared up.  The infection, however, isn’t cleared up, so the instructions when we left the hospital were to continue with antibiotics and keep the foot elevated when she wasn’t ambulating.  Why they just can’t say “not walking” is beyond me, but whatever.

So Jessica goes over today to visit, and guess what she finds?  Gramma up and washing dishes.  With her foot on a shoe box.

 

What a week–and it hasn’t even been a full seven days September 1, 2009

So.

Last Wednesday afternoon, just as I was getting ready for Parent Orientation, I called home to check my messages, and there were two, both from Crossroads (Gramma’s assisted living facility).  That’s NEVER good.  They never call to tell me she participated nicely in exercise class or made a wonderful piece of fingerpainting art or played well with others.  The first call was that she was complaining of weakness in her legs and couldn’t walk with the walker so was using the wheelchair.  The second call was that she’d fallen, but she was okay…just weak in her legs, not walking, and wanting to go to the doctor.

I managed to call the doctor before the office closed (miracle #1) and get an appointment for the following morning.  Luckily I work with some very understanding people, so I went to work and got my things together for the day, made arrangments for people to cover my classes, and went to pick her up.  I called ahead and asked the assisted living facility staff to please make sure she was ready to go by 9:00–in the wheelchair with her oxygen tank full and dressed if possible, though that part wasn’t absolutely necessary.  I know how she can be.

So I get there at 9:00.  No Gramma downstairs waiting for me.  She’s upstairs, dressed, but not planning to go anywhere in the wheelchair.  Here’s how the conversation went:

Me:  Let’s go.  We’re going to be late if we don’t leave.  I thought you were going to be ready.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?  I’m not going.  This was not my idea.  You came up with this.

Me:  Huh?

Her:  What?

Me:  Are you nuts?  You can’t walk.  Your legs are weak.  We need to go to the doctor.  Let’s get going.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?  I’m not going.  This was not my idea.  You came up with this.

Me (trying to regroup):  WE ARE GOING TO THE DOCTOR, AND WE ARE LEAVING RIGHT NOW.  LET’S PUT THE LEG RESTS ON YOUR WHEELCHAIR AND SEE IF WE CAN MAKE THE APPOINTMENT ON TIME.  DO NOT TELL ME THIS WAS MY IDEA AND DO NOT TELL ME YOU’RE NOT GOING IN THE WHEELCHAIR.

Her:  I’m not going in the wheelchair.  I’ll use the walker.

Me:  Can you walk?

Her:  No.

Me:  Ummm….then I think we have to take the wheelchair.  There’s no choice here, Gramma, you have to go in the wheelchair.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?….

Me:  JUST GO ALONG FOR THE RIDE, DAMMIT, AND DO NOT ASK ME AGAIN WHERE AND WHY WE’RE GOING, AND DON’T TELL ME THIS IS ALL MY IDEA BECAUSE I’D RATHER GO TO THE DENTIST FOR A ROOT CANAL THAN TAKE YOU TO THE DOCTOR TODAY.

I have to explain at this point that I also had a doctor’s appointment on this day and since I was having bloodwork done, I had been fasting since dinner the night before.  And patience is not and has never been my virtue, even when I’m not fasting.

I also need to explain that I was driving my convertible, and the wheelchair is about 1/2 inch too big to fit in my trunk, which means that in order to transport the wheelchair, I have to put the top down and manhandle the wheelchair into the backseat, without scratching the interior, and then hold it out of the way while the top goes back up.  Got that picture?

I get her out of her room and down to the car, and I have to pretty much lift her from the wheelchair into the car, then I have to go through the whole put the top town, load the wheelchair, put the top back up rigamarole before we can be on our way.  So I get the top back up, and she’s holding her hands over her ears and squenching her face up, which causes me to ask, “What in the hell are you doing?”  Of course…she’s trying to protect her ears from all the wind that will be blowing in them because she thinks the top is still down.  Which causes me to ask, “Have you lost your mind?”  I have to convince her that the top is up and there will be no wind in her ears, and then we are on our way to the doctor’s office.

Parking at the doctor’s office, you have to understand, is a pain in the neck.  The lot is across the street from the actual office, so there’s no handicapped parking anyway–that’s apparently someplace that I don’t know about, and I don’t have time to look for it now anyway.  Besides, I’m just going to do the whole top-down-wrestle-the-wheelchair-out-top-up thing anyway, then I’m going to push her across the street (after I’ve looked both ways to make sure a semi-truck is coming) to the doctor’s office.  Right?

The best laid plans and all that.

I get the wheelchair out and I get the top back up, and she’s still in the front seat.  Remember that I’m not in a handicapped space, so I don’t have a lot of room on either side of me, so I’m actually behind my car getting the elevated leg rests out of the trunk and onto the wheelchair.  It’s taking me longer than I expected because the things are a pain in the neck to get on and off on a good day when I’m not starving to death and highly irritated.  So I get the things on backwards and then have to start over.  Finally they’re on, but here comes a man walking up to asking if the woman in the front seat is my mother.  She’s waving and gesturing frantically, and he thinks I’ve kidnapped her or something (do I now look crazy?).  I manage to get around the wheelchair (which has been blocking my view of her) and to the door to open it to see why she’s waving frantically (let’s face it, it’s not like it took more than 2-3 minutes to mess with the wheelchair–I wasn’t out of her sight more than 5 minutes, tops), and she looks at the man and says, “I need help.  Can you help me get to the doctor?”

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10….nope, that didn’t help.  Perhaps if I count to ten again, I won’t throttle her.

I convince the man that I’ve got it under control, she’s not in any immediate danger, and we’re on our way, at last to the doctor.  He leaves, and I tell her to not even talk to me until we’re actually in the presence of the doctor and not to talk to anyone else either because she’s on thin ice.

Of course when we get into the doctor’s office, Gramma can’t remember why we’re there, so I explain the whole story.  The doctor rules out a stroke, tests the strength in Gramma’s legs, takes blood and urine (that wasn’t easy, either, but there’s another bathroom story coming up that’s funnier), and says it’s all very strange (!) and she doesn’t know what to think.  She’ll order physical therapy, and in the meantime, I should see if I can get Gramma into the pain clinic where she’s gone for shots when she has back problems.  Maybe it’s that.  Just to be sure, we should go over to the hospital and get an x-ray to make sure nothing has changed in her spine since the last x-ray.

Since the hospital is in the building next to the doctor’s office, I decide not to take her in the car but to just push the wheelchair around the building–that will be easier than lifting her into the car, top down, wrestle wheelchair, top up, right?  Well, in theory it’s easier.  I guess in reality it’s easier except for the constant, “Why are we here?  Where are you taking me?  Are you sure you know where you’re going?  I thought we were going to have an x-ray” all the way around the building.

At the hospital, it’s standing room only in registration so I get the paperwork completed and get in the queue.  We get through registration and go to get in line at radiology, and it’s also standing room only.  And I’m hungry and thirsty and irritated and she doesn’t know why we’re there and asks, “What are we waiting on…my ride?”

Me:  I’m your ride.  We came here in my car.  When you’re finished with your x-ray, I’ll take you home.

Her:  Where are we?  Why are we here?  This wasn’t my idea…..blah blah blah.

Me:  Lord, grant me patience and hurry.

Finally someone comes to get her, and she’s gone for a while and I try to regroup.  If we get out of here soon, I can still get to my appointment because God knows I don’t want to have fasted all day for nothing.

She gets finished, and I almost make it out of the hospital. Almost.  Then, right as we get to the exit door, “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

Me:  Why didn’t you go in radiology where they had people to help you?

Her:  I want you to help me.  I don’t want them to help me.

Me:  Lord, grant me patience and hurry.

There just happens to be a bathroom, and luckily it had a big stall so I can get the wheelchair in.

Now you have to know that my grandmother does not sit on public toilets.  She sort of stands/squats over the toilet, and I’m always afraid she’s going to fall over on her head.  But she’d rather fall on her head than catch a disease from a public toilet, so there you go.

Now you know she can’t stand/squat at this point because she can’t stand at all, so this is going to be interesting.  I get the wheelchair turned around, and I get her out of it and sort of leaning over one of my arms.  Then I explain to her that she’s going to have to sit but that I will put the paper down on the seat so she won’t catch any diseases.  Nope, nothin’ doin’, she is NOT going to sit.  “You are going to sit,” I say through gritted teeth, “or you’re not going to go at all.”  She actually reaches back and knocks the paper into the toilet.  “I am not playing here,” I say through gritted teeth, “you are going to sit on the paper or I’m going to drop you on the floor.”  Somehow I manage with one hand to put another paper on the seat, which she knocks off again.  Now I’ve had it, so I tell her that I’m going to put her in the wheelchair and leave her there and change my phone number and and and and if she doesn’t sit her ass on the toilet and go to the bathroom because I do not want to miss my own appointment because she won’t sit down to pee.

Another piece of paper on the toilet, then she sits, and now….nothing.  Are you kidding me?  You don’t have to go?

Her:  You scared the pee out of me.

Me:

I go out to the sink and run the water, hoping that will help, and it does and she goes.

And I get her home, and I don’t have to go to court or to jail, and I get to my doctor’s appointment, and my blood pressure is a bit high.  Really?

Friday isn’t much better except we don’t have to go to the doctor, but she still can’t walk and now she can’t think either because she is losing it completely and doesn’t know what day it is, when she saw us last, how to play cards, how to use her phone.  I’m pretty sure this is the beginning of the end, and I don’t know what to do for her. But by the afternoon, she seems to rally a bit because she’s decided that she’ll just use the wheelchair and go downstairs and do her thing as best she can in the wheelchair.

Saturday is about the same, and Sunday is the day she comes over for dinner.  So I called her and told her we’d be coming to get her and were having a good dinner and not to stuff at lunch…same old conversation we have every Sunday.  But Jason and I go to get her Sunday, and she’s down at dinner.  Then she doesn’t know it’s dinner and doesn’t know what’s going on.  Oh, boy, this is not good.

Monday night we take Mallie over to see her, and she’s happy to see us but really happy to see Mallie, and she’s just out of it.  At this point, I’m pretty sure this is it and she’s just decided not to go on.  She was just completely not with us.

Today, Tuesday, I called to see if the Physical Therapist had come yet, and I happened to catch her (the PT) in the room, and she said she’d do what she could but she just wasn’t sure what the issues were since Gramma wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.  No surprise there.

I went over after work to check on Gramma and when I got there, she was in bed.  I woke her up to see how she was doing, and she sat up and said, “I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately, but I can walk.  That wheelchair is worthless, for Pete’s sake.”

Me:  So did the physical therapist work a miracle?

Her:  No, she just did paperwork today.  After she left, I just decided that I didn’t know why I wasn’t walking and why I was in such a stupor, and I just got up and used my walker.”

Me:  Show me.

So she did.  She hopped out of bed and trotted out into the hall (have you ever seen a 93-year-old woman hop and trot?) and announced to no one in particular, “I”m back!”

And she seems pretty “with it” relatively speaking.  At least as “with it” as she’s been for the last couple of years.  I don’t know what the deal was, but thank God all is well right now.  Miracle #….whatever.  I’ve lost count.

Why you should think before you speak June 18, 2009

First, an anecdote:  When my grandmother went to London however many years ago, she did a lot of  things and had a lot of fun, but really all she remembers are a few things.  Here they are, in no particular order:

1.  She and my grandfather went to have dinner with some foreign relatives and had some foreign food.  That’s as specific as it gets, folks.

2.  That space between the train and the platform is DEADLY (Mind the gap!), and you better be careful of it or you’ll fall in between the trains and then you’re a goner.  For crying out loud.

3.  For whatever reason, they went to London, stayed in a hotel and then left for a few days and came back to the same hotel.  And, believe it or not, they had the SAME BIG, BLACK WAITER wait on them at the hotel.  What a coinkydink.  Can you imagine a waiter who works at the same place day after day waiting on the same couple TWICE?  Well, she was just amazed by it and talks about it every time anyone mentions London.

Now, the reasons we should always think before we speak:

1.  Grandma is pretty sure we didn’t see the foreign relatives while we were in London, so there’s no point talking about that.

2.  She wanted to know if we noticed the space between the platform and the train. Indeed we did.  In fact, I found out that there were 52 injuries reported last year from people not minding the gap.

3.  I swear to God, hand on heart, this is what she asked when we talked about our trip:  Did you see the big, black waiter at that hotel who waited on us coming and going?  No, Gramma, we didn’t.  We didn’t even know what hotel you stayed at, and that waiter probably isn’t there anymore.  Well, didn’t you see a big hotel?  Yes, we saw lots of them.  Well, didn’t you look for a big, black waiter?  We never saw a big, black waiter anywhere; if we had, how would we have known it was him anyway?  Ask him if he remembered Paul and Joan.

Yep, folks, I think she’s lost it.

And the jewel for today:  So tell me more about Jessica, she says.  There’s not anything more to tell, says I.  Was her boyfriend nice?  Yes, he seemed nice for the hour that we spent with him.  Well, does she like him?

Ba-dum-dum.  Dumb.  Think.  Before you speak.

Do you know how hard it is to go to the bathroom when your nose is running? January 17, 2009

Frankly, I’ve never noticed that it’s any more difficult to go to the bathroom when I have a runny nose versus when I don’t, but according to Gramma, it’s almost impossible to sit on the toilet and hold a Kleenex to your nose at the same time.  I’m glad she didn’t have to pat her head and rub her tummy.

Jason has taken over much of “Gramma-duty” since he’s still job hunting.  I recently made her get a new doctor (insurance issues; perhaps I’ll write about that later because it is a barrel of laughs as well); she had to go in today to have her ears cleaned out (they only do that on Friday mornings) and a Boniva shot, so she didn’t get to actually SEE the doctor.  I had told her she wouldn’t get to see the doctor today, but she does have an appointment on Thursday.  Here’s how that conversation went:

Me, when I made the appointment for today almost two weeks ago:  Do you think you’ll need to see the doctor, or do you just want to get your ears done?

Her:  I don’t have anything to see that doctor about, so I just want to get my ears cleaned.  I remember when I was in Hawaii and had to go to the emergency room and have my ears cleaned out once, and I don’t want to have that happen again.  So get me an appointment so I don’t have to go to the emergency room again like I did once when I was in Hawaii……

Me:  Got it.  I’ll get the appointment.

Her:  You know I had to go to the emergency room once in Hawaii…..

Me:  Shh…I’m on the phone with the doctor’s office.

Her:  Oh, are you getting an appointment for me to get my ears cleaned out?  You know I had to go to the emergency room once in Hawaii….

Me:  Shh…I’m trying to talk to the doctor’s office.

Her:  Oh, are you ……

Fast forward to day before yesterday….

Her, on the phone while I’m at work (I call and check in daily, which I’m going to stop doing very soon):  I think I do need to see that doctor on Friday because I have all kinds of problems that I’ve been keeping secret.

Me:  I won’t be able to get an appointment on Friday at this point, but I’ll call and get you in as soon as I can.  What exactly is your problem so I can tell them when they ask?

Her:  My nose is running, still, and my leg hurts.

Me:  What’s wrong with your leg?

Her:  It hurts.

Me:  I figured that out when you said your leg hurt.  What exactly is wrong with it?  Where does it hurt?

Her:  It just hurts, I don’t know what’s wrong with it.

Me:  Can you give me some more information?  Where does it hurt?  When does it hurt?  Is it swollen?  Is it muscle pain like you pulled a muscle, or is it more like a stinging nerve pain?

Her:  Trish, my leg HURTS and I need to see the doctor.  And I’ve got a runny nose and my mouth is dry and I need to go to the doctor and get it all worked out ONCE AND FOR ALL.  And Ciele (one of the “fearsome foursome” bridge-playing cronies) has been in bed for A WEEK with laryngytis, and I am sick, too, and I need to see the doctor to get all of my ailments taken care of ONCE AND FOR ALL.

Me:  Okay, RELAX, and I’ll call and see when I can get you in.

So the receptionist, of course, wants to know the extent of the leg pain, etc., and I don’t know, so the soonest I can get an appoinment is Thursday, Jan. 22.

Me:  You’re still going to get your ears cleaned out on Friday, but I can’t get an appointment with the doctor until Thursday, Jan. 22.

Her:  Tomorrow is Thursday.  Can’t you get me in then?

Me:  Tomorrow is not Jan. 22.  Jan. 22 is a week from tomorrow.

Her:  I need to see the doctor before then, Trish.  By then, I won’t have my ailments anymore.

Oh, Grandma December 10, 2008

She is a crazy old bat. There’s no two ways around it. One of her friends’ daughter made her a Christmas sweatshirt (which she did NOT ask for, so don’t be thinking she did) and it was too small. The tag on it said “large,” so I’m thinking it’s probably a kids’ large and while it doesn’t look too small to me, she won’t wear it if it’s touching her, so it’s too small. So then the daughter makes her another one, this time an “extra large.” Well, now Gramma’s offended; she’s never worn an EXTRA LARGE in her life. Does she look like she wears an extra large? She’s a medium, she’s always been a medium, and she does not understand why anyone would get her an extra large. So we go round and round about how an extra large is the next step up from the large and if the large doesn’t fit because it’s too small, then an extra large is the next logical step. Do you understand?

Yes, but I don’t wear an extra large.

Did you even try it on?

I don’t remember. I don’t wear an extra large.

Lord, have mercy. This is right on the heels of her complaining, for the hundredth time, that she doesn’t have anything to wear. She also complains, of course, that her closet is too small because there are too many clothes in there. I bought her several pairs of new pants in September, and Jessica painstakingly (and believe me, I’m sure it was painful) helped her try on every pair to make sure they fit. She also went through all the clothes Gramma owns and got rid of what didn’t fit, put summer stuff away, and organized the closet. So I reminded Gramma that all of her clothes fit in September and that all of those new pants had been offered to her with the tags on so that they could be taken back if they didn’t fit. She said she tried them all on, they were all too big and too long, and I refused to take them back.

Yes, because I like to waste my money on new clothes for you that don’t fit.

Well, you must because I told you they didn’t fit, and you didn’t take them back. None of my pants fit. I don’t want all those nice pants. I just want to wear blue jeans.

The reason you have all of those nice pants is because you told us you wanted to look nice and you wanted several matching outfits. So we bought all that stuff for you.

I don’t know why. I never asked for any of it.

Arggh! She is exasperating. So I told her she better get right with what she’s got because she’s never getting a new piece of clothing the rest of her life–she can just wear out the one pair of jeans and three shirts she wears over and over again until they fall off, then she has plenty of new clothes to wear after that. As far as I’m concerned, she can go around in her robe.

Which she asked me to take home and wash for her, right after I straightened out her underwear and sock drawer. Oh, and hang that jacket up at the far end of the closet. And my blanket needs to be washed.

Welcome to my world.

Scrubbing Bubbles October 19, 2008

I don’t even know if I can write this without giggling…this is one of the funnier Gramma stories in recent years.  Have you seen the commercials for the new toilet cleaning gel featuring these little fellas? 

For whatever reason, Gramma got in her head that I had to have some of this great stuff that had little scrubbing bubbles that “run around cleaning the toilet all day long.”  Jason and I tried to explain that there weren’t any bubbles running around all day long in the toilet; that it was another cleaner to put in the toilet and then when the water flushes, it releases soap up under the rim.  She is now furious because of the false advertising and wants me to get on the computer right now and write a letter and tell the scrubbing bubble people to stop advertising that their bubbles run around all day long in the toilet.  AND SHE’S SERIOUS.  We went to the store and bought some, cleaned the toilet, and put the gel in so she could see how it works.  She doesn’t get it and is still angry that she’s been misled.

By the way, she doesn’t want to vote for LaBamba because she never heard of him before, and she can’t vote for McCann because of that Polly woman.  Got it?