Guardianship of
a Parent
Here’s the next
chapter in the ongoing saga of becoming my mother’s guardian—if not in legal fact,
in actions. A typical conversation starts like this: she had the symptom of
burning and couldn’t find the medicine for a yeast infection my brother had
picked up for her.
“Mom, did you find the medicine?”
“What medicine?”
“The suppository for the yeast
infection.”
“What do you do with that?”
“Uh, insert it.”
“In the anus, you mean?”
“No, Mom. You don’t get a yeast
infection in the anus. In the vagina.”
Complete silence for several
moments. “Oh, I forgot I had one of those.”
In November, she
wound up in the hospital with congestive heart failure and nearly twenty pounds
of excess fluid her laboring heart could not get rid of. It also failed to
regulate its own beat, as did medicine, and she required a pacemaker to help.
After two weeks in the hospital and several more in a rehabilitation center,
she finally admitted that she’s unable to care for herself.
So, down to
Georgia I go again, dragging my son along to help with the packing and driving
back to Massachusetts. I’m returning to pack the house and put it up for sale. Changing
her mind is not an option. Hate to be harsh but we three kids are rapidly
reaching the upper limits of tolerance.
Long-Distance
Care Giving Sucks
My sister—our
mother’s medical proxy—has medical expertise and tries to handle that end.
Being at work during business hours, she plays telephone tag with those who
bother to answer the messages left asking for updates on our mom’s needs and
condition. We still haven’t found out what new medicines the hospital may have
prescribed for her heart.
Poor
brother-brat has my mom’s house as his residence and came home for four days
when she was released from rehab. He’s a long-distance truck driver who gets
there maybe four times a year. After two days he called, ready to run, clueless
in trying to figure out her medications and what was wrong as our mother’s
health deteriorated and she became more confused, angry, and abusive. Scared or
annoyed elders can be mean.
The rehab erred
in sending her home with the pills she needed but no insulin. She went three
days without it, hence the confusion and a yeast infection—too much sugar in
her system. Her doctor told her to go to the ER, which she refused to do.
Fearing her collapse, we called Emergency Services twice and twice she refused
to be taken to the hospital. She answered whatever questions they asked to
their satisfaction, and they couldn’t force her to go. Really? They obviously
failed to ask her to describe her medication schedule or what day it was for
that matter.
I call her every
day, twice a day to remind her and she often doesn’t remember the schedule
without the calls. The visiting nurse will have to deal with the yeast
infection, and I’ll have to pray my mom stays sufficiently healthy until I can
get there and we can make the trip to Massachusetts where my sister and I hope
we can keep her out of a nursing home as long as possible.
No posts till I
return. There is a way to write them ahead and program them to post according
to your schedule—something else to eventually figure out.
