Wednesday, May 25, 2011

They're the sick ones

How many times has someone said to you, "Hey, how are you doing?" and your mind immediately went to your sick loved one, and how well he or she was doing that day, before you framed your own answer to that question?

That happens to me all the time. At first, I took it as normal, and I was actually offended when people assumed that I could, in fact, be well and happy.  Good gawd, people, my parents are dying, and you have the gall to ask how I am?

Of course, even if I'd just spent a grueling day in the ICU, I answered anyway that I was doing just fine.  Because that's how we usually respond, right?  Does anybody really say, "You know, I'm feeling crappy, thanks for asking?"

I realize now, though, that that was the truth.  I, myself, was actually o.k.  I suspect that too often we caregivers take our patients' sicknesses as our own.  Of course, they are going to be constantly on our minds.  But are we physically sick?  Do we also have PSP, or need a liver transplant?  No, we don't.  We are alive and well, and our health and mental state should, if at all possible, be addressed separately from the illnesses suffered by our loved ones.

If you don't mind me saying, caregiver friends -- you have a life.  Don't forget that.  Hold it dear.  If your normal routines, your social life, and your friends seem very remote, try to nourish that inner life any way you can.  More about this to come.








Sunday, May 1, 2011

The universe giveth

A very strange experience today:  I brought Dad to see Mom at today.  It was the first time they have seen each other since July, after being married - and not separated for more than a couple of days -- 46 years.

Here is Dad, getting better, with a new liver, and ready to go back to Florida in two weeks to stay for 10 days, or until he feels the need to join us in our new home.  And there is Mom: Steadily worse. Today she was able to open her eyes, which was glorious, as they widened with joy and surprise when she saw Dad. She was even able to smile a bit. Wonderful moment.

After that, she went rigid.  Unable to respond with even a syllable, and able to move her head just a little bit, her eyes following, slowly, for the rest of the hour Dad was able to bear being there.  She apparently has a hard time blinking as well.  When I gave her a magazine, I had to position her hands around it.  When I try to move her arm or leg, it causes terrible tremors.

We have taken her off the Amantadine, as she has been on it for more than a year now and its effects are considered to be temporary, so that may explain the eyes-open-but-now-unable-to-speak phenomenon.  However, I think she might be more comfortable this way, seeing what's going on around her.  What do you think?

Dad held up well, though the entire experience was a shock.  He's never good in these kinds of situations; is any man?  He was a depressed, disgruntled patient, too.  His blood pressure went sky high and he fell up the steps going into the house.  Blood everywhere.  No big harm done, but just a gory reminder that he is still shaky in every way.