Yesterday morning I was in a dozing bliss, trying to snag any extra minutes of sleep I could in retaliation to Daylight Savings Time. I was being extra greedy while my husband, who always gets up early on the weekends to be “productive,” piddled around in the kitchen. A few minutes later he came into the bedroom to announce that he needed to take Hamilton, one of our beloved tabby cats, to the vet.
“He’s not acting right. He’s limping, and he’s making that fighting sound that he makes when he fights, but he’s not fighting.” He walked into the kitchen, and a few minutes later, I heard him mumbling. I eventually deciphered that he was talking on his cell phone, and then I figured out he was talking with my dad because his southern accent grows stronger when he talks with him.
I soon learned that my parents had gone to the emergency room the night before. Mom was having chest pains and wanted to get things checked out, and the doctors opted to keep her overnight. Suddenly a Sunday filled with catching up on work and taking The Tots to a birthday party morphed into triage for two family members — one furry, one not.
Dad told me I didn’t need to come, but my parents get confused, and they’re not getting any younger. A hospital isn’t the best place for them in terms of communication skills, so I knew I needed to go. I’ve gone alone before, but I really wanted to be with John and The Tots as much as possible, so they drove me over to my hometown to the hospital where I was born, 45 minutes from our front door.
John took the kids to the mall next to the hospital while I tried to gather information about what had happened and what was going to happen next. Mom looked good when I walked into her room, and Dad was reluctantly glad I came. (My father hates to cause anyone any trouble, and he hates asking for help more. As my parents age, this isn’t making anything easier — for any of us.)
It turns out that mom probably has some cartilage arthritis in her sternum. There’s a fancy word for it, but I don’t remember it, and I sure as heck can’t spell it. Reflux was probably another reason for the pain. Luckily, she scored well on all of her heart tests, so there doesn’t appear to be a serious problem.
As we sat in the hospital room waiting on doctors and nurses to do what they needed to do, we had some tense moments. I didn’t have a great attitude, and mom and dad were tired and confused. My mom has Alzheimer’s, so being somewhere new is difficult and understanding the rules of a new place is equally hard. She kept wanting to take out her IV because it hurt. I didn’t want her to be in pain, but I also know nurses are supposed to take the IV out for a reason — they know how and when to do it. Both of them were confused about which day it was, a common occurrence among the older set, and neither of them were happy with the room (seniors!).
I took breaks from the situation by texting John and checking with the nurse at the desk. The Tots were fine. Margot found a unicorn/rainbow bracelet (standard issue for a 9-year-old girl) at Claire’s, and Graydon was browsing the bookstore. John was struck by the fact that there’s a small fenced-in graveyard adjacent to the mall. I hadn’t thought about that graveyard in years, and it never struck me as strange. Didn’t every mall have a graveyard? John was amazed.
During one of my breaks at the desk, I confided in the nurse that it’s hard helping aging parents, especially when they don’t want it. Regina, with long dark ringlets framing a beautiful face, told me she understood. For 25 years she was a social worker, then she had to start taking care of her grandmother, so she knows the perils of trying to help older folks. She shared a story about giving her grandmother a bath.
When she told her grandmother that she needed to bathe, her grandmother balked. “You have to make it fun,” explained Regina. “I made it a bubble bath.” When her grandma got in the tub, she just sat there, so Regina began washing her back. Tears filled her grandmother’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” asked Regina.
“No one has washed my back since I was a little girl,” said her grandmother. And right then, Regina decided to become a nurse so she could help people feel special.
Most people these days don’t select a line of work for that reason, and they certainly don’t switch streams mid-career to do it, but Regina did. We went on talking about kids. She has three, including a 21-year-old daughter with special needs. “She is just right for our family. She’s such a joy,” said Regina.
Soon my mom was discharged with a simple prescription of OTC Zantac to remedy her chest pains. As she sat in the mandatory wheelchair, waiting for her papers to be printed, she crossed her legs and combed her hair. Regina explained that mom had expressly asked for a comb before I arrived. That made me so happy because despite what Alzheimer’s has taken from my mom, it hasn’t taken away her desire to look good. I laughed and told her that she looked cute.
I probably would have never crossed paths with Regina had my mom not gone to the ER Saturday night. I don’t usually hang out at hospitals on Sundays (or any day for that matter), and Regina doesn’t usually work Sundays, but she had volunteered for this Sunday shift. I’m glad she did because she shined a light on a dim situation — a light I desperately needed.