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Drama, drama everywhere
Sep. 22nd, 2007 09:52 pmToday was largely dedicated to my mother. We've been arguing lately about exactly when she can go home-- she thinks she'll be ready in a few weeks; we say it'll probably be more like a few months yet, and her social worker agrees with us. Since my mother is stubborn beyond belief (*I'm* a stubborn bitch, and I've got nothing on Mom), and we'd been listening to her complain and plan her triumphant return home for over a week, we decided to convince her in the only possible way. We took her to her house this afternoon.
She did better than we expected. John and I were betting she wouldn't even get all the way in the door, what with the two steps up into the house. She did get in (though she needed me to put one of her feet up on the second step), and made it all the way into the living room. There she collapsed on the couch and said "So, how long do you think I'll have to be in this new facility?"
Of course, once she was in her house, we had to collect a half dozen things to take back. One was a pair of shoes, which means she's gearing up for another round of Shoe Drama. Her feet have swollen very badly since her stroke-- her circulation was questionable to begin with, and with months of sitting and not walking and not putting her feet up at night like every nurse since Day One has told her to do ("It hurts to keep them up"... "Yes, and they're going to continue to hurt both up and not up until the fluid drains, which won't happen until you put your feet up"), her feet and lower legs are now absolutely huge. When she first started to walk in therapy, traction was an issue, and she hates the little socks with rubber treads on them. So I brought her no less than 8 pairs of shoes. I started with her own shoes, because she insisted (only one pair even came close, some little stretchy canvas things, but the elastic cut into her after a few minutes). I purchased wide-width shoes. I returned the wide-width shoes and purchased men's shoes, which were even wider. I returned the men's shoes. I purchased men's sandals, since they had more give in the sides. I returned the men's sandals, and Foot Locker employees started going on break as soon as I entered the store. I ordered $90 shoes online from a specialty catalog that caters to people with foot problems. I returned the $90 shoes (minus shipping charges). The only thing that has fit her has been the velcro-close slippers from the same specialty catalog, and even those just barely fit. Now that she's walking more, her feet have reduced in size a tiny bit, which is to say that instead of an eighth of an inch of velcro holding her slippers on, there's now a quarter of an inch.
We also collected her cell phone, which will lead to more frustration, I'm sure. She owned the phone for six months prior to her stroke and still didn't fully know how to use it (which would bother me a lot less if she didn't work in the computer industry. But she's a technical person who can not remember to push the green button to make the call go through, and this scares me). Post-stroke, she also can't quite match up numbers yet, so that when John was walking her through how to make a call, the conversation went like this:
John: "Okay, now push 4. No, that's an 8. No, that's a 5. The 4 is this button here. Now push a 2. No, that's a 6...."
Either she will not manage to make a single call and I have nothing to worry about, or I'm going to open her next cell phone bill to find she's made $10,000 worth of calls to Pakistan. Thank goodness she's got five months worth of rollover minutes, so I only need to worry if she manages to dial an international number. But she insists that she needs a phone, because it's too much hassle to have to go the extra ten feet to the facility's office and have someone dial their phone for her (which they are more than willing to do).
After leaving her house, we went back to our house so she could see her cats. Her cats are little snots who can't get enough attention from us but want no part of her. Ichabod isn't too bad once he gets used to her being in the house. Inky is a complete bastard about it, and will growl and hiss while she's holding him. Of course, she's hurt and upset, especially since Inky was her favorite of all her cats, past or present. Inky likes to flaunt his disdain for her, and after she gives up and puts him down, he'll often come over to John or myself and start rubbing up against us. We don't reward that behavior, and won't cuddle him, but he doesn't seem to care-- it's not about getting petted, it's about proving that his unwillingness is limited only to Mom.
After we took Mom back to her room, I came home and dug some more of a garden bed, because dirt doesn't whine or complain at me. I like dirt.
She did better than we expected. John and I were betting she wouldn't even get all the way in the door, what with the two steps up into the house. She did get in (though she needed me to put one of her feet up on the second step), and made it all the way into the living room. There she collapsed on the couch and said "So, how long do you think I'll have to be in this new facility?"
Of course, once she was in her house, we had to collect a half dozen things to take back. One was a pair of shoes, which means she's gearing up for another round of Shoe Drama. Her feet have swollen very badly since her stroke-- her circulation was questionable to begin with, and with months of sitting and not walking and not putting her feet up at night like every nurse since Day One has told her to do ("It hurts to keep them up"... "Yes, and they're going to continue to hurt both up and not up until the fluid drains, which won't happen until you put your feet up"), her feet and lower legs are now absolutely huge. When she first started to walk in therapy, traction was an issue, and she hates the little socks with rubber treads on them. So I brought her no less than 8 pairs of shoes. I started with her own shoes, because she insisted (only one pair even came close, some little stretchy canvas things, but the elastic cut into her after a few minutes). I purchased wide-width shoes. I returned the wide-width shoes and purchased men's shoes, which were even wider. I returned the men's shoes. I purchased men's sandals, since they had more give in the sides. I returned the men's sandals, and Foot Locker employees started going on break as soon as I entered the store. I ordered $90 shoes online from a specialty catalog that caters to people with foot problems. I returned the $90 shoes (minus shipping charges). The only thing that has fit her has been the velcro-close slippers from the same specialty catalog, and even those just barely fit. Now that she's walking more, her feet have reduced in size a tiny bit, which is to say that instead of an eighth of an inch of velcro holding her slippers on, there's now a quarter of an inch.
We also collected her cell phone, which will lead to more frustration, I'm sure. She owned the phone for six months prior to her stroke and still didn't fully know how to use it (which would bother me a lot less if she didn't work in the computer industry. But she's a technical person who can not remember to push the green button to make the call go through, and this scares me). Post-stroke, she also can't quite match up numbers yet, so that when John was walking her through how to make a call, the conversation went like this:
John: "Okay, now push 4. No, that's an 8. No, that's a 5. The 4 is this button here. Now push a 2. No, that's a 6...."
Either she will not manage to make a single call and I have nothing to worry about, or I'm going to open her next cell phone bill to find she's made $10,000 worth of calls to Pakistan. Thank goodness she's got five months worth of rollover minutes, so I only need to worry if she manages to dial an international number. But she insists that she needs a phone, because it's too much hassle to have to go the extra ten feet to the facility's office and have someone dial their phone for her (which they are more than willing to do).
After leaving her house, we went back to our house so she could see her cats. Her cats are little snots who can't get enough attention from us but want no part of her. Ichabod isn't too bad once he gets used to her being in the house. Inky is a complete bastard about it, and will growl and hiss while she's holding him. Of course, she's hurt and upset, especially since Inky was her favorite of all her cats, past or present. Inky likes to flaunt his disdain for her, and after she gives up and puts him down, he'll often come over to John or myself and start rubbing up against us. We don't reward that behavior, and won't cuddle him, but he doesn't seem to care-- it's not about getting petted, it's about proving that his unwillingness is limited only to Mom.
After we took Mom back to her room, I came home and dug some more of a garden bed, because dirt doesn't whine or complain at me. I like dirt.
