Thursday, July 22, 2004
I'm nervous about having her blood drawn tomorrow, 'er, rather, today...
...so I think we might wait until Friday or Monday. I expect that her Comprehensive Metabolic Panel is going to show the healing phase of her urinary tract infection. It seems to me that her anemia profile may have suffered from the bleeding from her urinary tract, although she hasn't been bleeding since Saturday. I want to give her some time to recover so that I don't have doctors conveniently forgetting (or not paying attention to) her recent urinary tract infection and trying, once again, to badger me into having her scoped, needled, iodized and radioactivated. I've been very optimistic about her recovery, perhaps overly so, despite trying to remember her Mesa PCP's long ago advice that, "She's old, she's been sick, give her time." Not that I think this will be remembered by her doctors. They are lathering to get me into a position where they think I can't possibly say no to a variety of tests that I believe would be torture for her and would turn up nothing about which they can do anything, anyway. She is not a good risk for surgery if she is bleeding somewhere and I feel that surgery should only be attempted on her if the other option was immediate death or extraordinary disability that would rob her of any decent quality of life.
Believe me, despite the obvious thrust of my medical efforts on my mother's behalf I harbor a devil's advocate who is constantly chanting, "But what if she dies, an autopsy is done and you discover that she was bleeding internally and something could have been done? What if you are wrong about her surgery risk?" My only answer is, this could very well happen. If it does I am prepared to say that in one sense I was wrong but in another she doesn't like doctors fussing over her. She and I understand that at this point she'd rather leave the timing of her death up to the god in whom she believes and the optimistic frame of mind upon which we both count to get her through another night so that she can ask me, once again, in this life, face to face, eye to eye, "Why do I have to get up?" and she can hear me say exactly what she believes in her heart: To celebrate the day she's been given and to join me in celebration of the day I've been given with her. I know myself well enough to be sure that I will torture myself over some unintended mistake in making decisions about her medical care about as much as her doctors and nurses torture themselves when they make a mistake with her.
Scotty, beam me down a tricorder, please.
Otherwise, let's see, the day went well according to Mom. She enjoyed the trip to the bank to notarize the paper and was satisfied to sit in the car in the parking lot of Costco, people watch and smoke a few cigarettes without being harassed by me. When I returned to the car from my very short trip to pick up more paper underwear and replenish our meat supply she was full of wry observations on human behavior based on the people on whom she spied. She was ready for lunch when we arrived home, not at all dragging despite the surprise of her low blood sugar and stayed up until 1830 when she decided to take a nap, making me promise to awaken her at 2000. She was making her way down the two steps into our living room just as I was heading into her bedroom to awaken her.
I discovered today that she has decided to use my bowel movement strategy to coerce a few more cigarettes out of me. The first time I tried it she told me that, yes, she was indeed moving her bowels and she needed an extra cigarette. She wasn't. I thought, well, she probably wasn't sure. Then, this afternoon after lunch, she headed into the bathroom. When I asked her, as I do whenever she's headed for the bathroom, if she thought "this was it" she replied, "Yes" and waited expectantly for me to dole her a couple of cigarettes, then asked for a third while seated on the stool. When I checked on her as she was arising she faced me, gave me a sly look and said, "Well, not that time," and I saw it as though she'd tattooed her fulfilled intention across her forehead: She'd figured out that using my strategy against me to suggest that she was "ready" to have a bowel movement would get her a few more cigarette breaks throughout the day. Wily woman. If she can figure out how to trick me in twenty-four hours I have a feeling she's snowed the doctors and the gods. Unless I miss my guess, this is a sterling indication that she's got a while to go, pun not intended.
Believe me, despite the obvious thrust of my medical efforts on my mother's behalf I harbor a devil's advocate who is constantly chanting, "But what if she dies, an autopsy is done and you discover that she was bleeding internally and something could have been done? What if you are wrong about her surgery risk?" My only answer is, this could very well happen. If it does I am prepared to say that in one sense I was wrong but in another she doesn't like doctors fussing over her. She and I understand that at this point she'd rather leave the timing of her death up to the god in whom she believes and the optimistic frame of mind upon which we both count to get her through another night so that she can ask me, once again, in this life, face to face, eye to eye, "Why do I have to get up?" and she can hear me say exactly what she believes in her heart: To celebrate the day she's been given and to join me in celebration of the day I've been given with her. I know myself well enough to be sure that I will torture myself over some unintended mistake in making decisions about her medical care about as much as her doctors and nurses torture themselves when they make a mistake with her.
Scotty, beam me down a tricorder, please.
Otherwise, let's see, the day went well according to Mom. She enjoyed the trip to the bank to notarize the paper and was satisfied to sit in the car in the parking lot of Costco, people watch and smoke a few cigarettes without being harassed by me. When I returned to the car from my very short trip to pick up more paper underwear and replenish our meat supply she was full of wry observations on human behavior based on the people on whom she spied. She was ready for lunch when we arrived home, not at all dragging despite the surprise of her low blood sugar and stayed up until 1830 when she decided to take a nap, making me promise to awaken her at 2000. She was making her way down the two steps into our living room just as I was heading into her bedroom to awaken her.
I discovered today that she has decided to use my bowel movement strategy to coerce a few more cigarettes out of me. The first time I tried it she told me that, yes, she was indeed moving her bowels and she needed an extra cigarette. She wasn't. I thought, well, she probably wasn't sure. Then, this afternoon after lunch, she headed into the bathroom. When I asked her, as I do whenever she's headed for the bathroom, if she thought "this was it" she replied, "Yes" and waited expectantly for me to dole her a couple of cigarettes, then asked for a third while seated on the stool. When I checked on her as she was arising she faced me, gave me a sly look and said, "Well, not that time," and I saw it as though she'd tattooed her fulfilled intention across her forehead: She'd figured out that using my strategy against me to suggest that she was "ready" to have a bowel movement would get her a few more cigarette breaks throughout the day. Wily woman. If she can figure out how to trick me in twenty-four hours I have a feeling she's snowed the doctors and the gods. Unless I miss my guess, this is a sterling indication that she's got a while to go, pun not intended.
