Thursday, January 13, 2005
My mother's medication schedule has changed...
...over the last few days to the point where she is noticing. Since she likes to discuss how I manage her medications and lifestyle. Since she is not bothered when I mention problems I'm having because she is always convinced everything is fine, I keep nothing from her, not even my occasional confusion and bedevilment. Today I was clearly confused. Her blood pressure is quickly and unexpectedly dropping back to her typical range. Normally I'd be thrilled but this time I'm circumspect because it could mean her body is experiencing another severe bout of anemia, thus, I'll be taking her blood pressure morning and night for at least the next few days. As well, she's on antibiotics while recovering from yet another urinary tract infection that surprised both of us. She's running a low grade fever, which tends to go along with urinary tract infections. Usually, though, higher blood pressure goes along with these, too. Since I'm using a different antibiotic than is usually used on her, though, and I can't remember and didn't record what the effects of this one were since she was on it (in a much, much higher dosage) for all of two days back in June, I don't know how to analyze attributions.
Our discussion started when my mother decided she wanted to go to bed at 2115 tonight. I told her I wanted to keep her up until 2200 because I felt, just in case her body was going on one of her recurrent anemic binges (actually, anemia is the opposite of a "binge"), we shouldn't skip her third dose of iron which she couldn't take at dinner because that's when she took the antibiotics. I told her that I planned to give it to her at 2130, a safe and adequate distance from the administration of the antibiotic, and I needed her to stay up until 2200 in order to make sure the iron started to digest so that it wouldn't upset her stomach and she wouldn't vomit in the middle of the night, which tends to happen when she's anemic. After studying her for some minutes and taking into account that she looks good and sounds good, her body has already, today, taken a bit of a medicinal beating with the metoclopramide and acetaminophen and has taken that beating when it hasn't been feeling really well, it wouldn't hurt if I canceled her third dose of iron (since it's only 36 mg, although its the iron that her body most readily absorbs) and let her go to bed by her desire.
In the bathroom while we readied her for bed we talked about her health, how I manage it from the outside and how she manages it from the inside. At one point I admitted that my 'occasional' confusion is actually pretty constant and said, "You know, old bodies, they have a mind of their own, Mom. They take wild hairs for granted and have a habit of deciding, 'Screw what everyone thinks I'm supposed to do or will do, I feel like doing something else,' and then they do whatever they goddamnwellplease. Sort of like old minds. Since thought like that is usually a blessing in old minds, I have to assume, beneath everything, that it's equally a blessing in old bodies."
"Take it from me," she said, "it is."
We both laughed.
Then her old mind did a number on me. "I hope you don't ever decide you want to live someplace else rather than here," she said.
I was startled. She was standing up, I was drying her thigh creases. I stopped, faced her, looked directly into her eyes and said, "Mom, I'll be right here with you until you die. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."
Her eyes widened. She began to stutter, "Well, I was just thinking, you take such good care of me..." then she reached out, hugged me, kissed me on the neck and said, while we embraced one another, "I so appreciate...thank you. I'm glad you're not going anywhere."
You'd have to know my mother to know how unusual this is. Her affection for people and life is so warm and palpable that you can feel it without her touch, which is good because she's never been a touchy-feely person. She has her subtle, endearing ways of showing affection physically:
Once the moment was indelibly inked into both of us the operation was over and we continued with her bedtime preparations. As I knelt at her feet, dangling over the side of her bed, to remove her footsies I also tried to surreptitiously wipe away my tears. She noticed though, tousled my hair (another unusual gesture) and said, in very affectionate mock-disgust, "You're so much like your father."
I laughed. "Except," I said, "I don't try to stop the tears, I just try to hide them."
"That's why you don't have ulcers," she said.
"Oh," I added, "one other difference, he didn't have to go through menopause and I sort of resent that!"
Our final laugh of the night.
We bid each other goodnight. And kissed. Twice.
I'll leave it at that and go to bed assuming, almost praying, that the gods will find her desire for life and her belief in her immortality amusing and allow her, gently, easily, more, as much as she expects. No matter how confused I become.
Our discussion started when my mother decided she wanted to go to bed at 2115 tonight. I told her I wanted to keep her up until 2200 because I felt, just in case her body was going on one of her recurrent anemic binges (actually, anemia is the opposite of a "binge"), we shouldn't skip her third dose of iron which she couldn't take at dinner because that's when she took the antibiotics. I told her that I planned to give it to her at 2130, a safe and adequate distance from the administration of the antibiotic, and I needed her to stay up until 2200 in order to make sure the iron started to digest so that it wouldn't upset her stomach and she wouldn't vomit in the middle of the night, which tends to happen when she's anemic. After studying her for some minutes and taking into account that she looks good and sounds good, her body has already, today, taken a bit of a medicinal beating with the metoclopramide and acetaminophen and has taken that beating when it hasn't been feeling really well, it wouldn't hurt if I canceled her third dose of iron (since it's only 36 mg, although its the iron that her body most readily absorbs) and let her go to bed by her desire.
In the bathroom while we readied her for bed we talked about her health, how I manage it from the outside and how she manages it from the inside. At one point I admitted that my 'occasional' confusion is actually pretty constant and said, "You know, old bodies, they have a mind of their own, Mom. They take wild hairs for granted and have a habit of deciding, 'Screw what everyone thinks I'm supposed to do or will do, I feel like doing something else,' and then they do whatever they goddamnwellplease. Sort of like old minds. Since thought like that is usually a blessing in old minds, I have to assume, beneath everything, that it's equally a blessing in old bodies."
"Take it from me," she said, "it is."
We both laughed.
Then her old mind did a number on me. "I hope you don't ever decide you want to live someplace else rather than here," she said.
I was startled. She was standing up, I was drying her thigh creases. I stopped, faced her, looked directly into her eyes and said, "Mom, I'll be right here with you until you die. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."
Her eyes widened. She began to stutter, "Well, I was just thinking, you take such good care of me..." then she reached out, hugged me, kissed me on the neck and said, while we embraced one another, "I so appreciate...thank you. I'm glad you're not going anywhere."
You'd have to know my mother to know how unusual this is. Her affection for people and life is so warm and palpable that you can feel it without her touch, which is good because she's never been a touchy-feely person. She has her subtle, endearing ways of showing affection physically:
- When I'm washing her feet in the morning she plays with my hair with one finger;
- When I'm taking her blood pressure she curls her thumb around my index finger even though I tell her that this affects her blood pressure reading;
- When we're both watching something on TV and I'm laying on the floor next to her rocking chair she'll stretch out her leg and absentmindedly wiggle her toes against me;
- When I'm sitting on the couch with my feet up and she passes by she'll playfully run a finger over my soles and act surprised when I tell her it feels good rather than tickles (which it does, I'm not ticklish on the bottoms of my feet);
- And, of course, we kiss goodnight and if we forget, which is rare, she always rearises, hunts me up and gets her goodnight kiss.
Once the moment was indelibly inked into both of us the operation was over and we continued with her bedtime preparations. As I knelt at her feet, dangling over the side of her bed, to remove her footsies I also tried to surreptitiously wipe away my tears. She noticed though, tousled my hair (another unusual gesture) and said, in very affectionate mock-disgust, "You're so much like your father."
I laughed. "Except," I said, "I don't try to stop the tears, I just try to hide them."
"That's why you don't have ulcers," she said.
"Oh," I added, "one other difference, he didn't have to go through menopause and I sort of resent that!"
Our final laugh of the night.
We bid each other goodnight. And kissed. Twice.
I'll leave it at that and go to bed assuming, almost praying, that the gods will find her desire for life and her belief in her immortality amusing and allow her, gently, easily, more, as much as she expects. No matter how confused I become.
