Shredded

Sometimes I write about off-brand Triscuits because it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment that isn’t stressful. And it’s better to write about crackers than to eat them, especially if it takes eating a whole bunch of them to relieve the stress.

I know about the Triscuit Stress Relief Diet first hand, believe me. Five years ago, I landed in the hospital for what the doctor thought was a nasty bout of ischemic colitis, a fancy way to say “a stroke of the colon.” This five day episode involved more bags of IV fluid, pain, and blood than you want to know about, or than I want to remember. I couldn’t keep one bite of food down, I do recall that.

And the fact that in five days on nothing but IVs, I gained seven pounds!!! (Sorry, but that fact is dreadful enough to warrant a boatload of exclamation points.) When I got home from the hospital, I was to be extremely careful with what I ingested, lest the um…problem…recur. So I ate the only thing that tasted good: Triscuits. Lots and lots of Triscuits.

I gained another five pounds, but who was counting?

Four days after getting released from the hospital, I had an appointment with my gastroenterologist. That’s a REALLY fun word to type, which I did not know until just this second, but which I can now wholeheartedly recommend to you! Gastroenterologist. Oh, yeah. Just as much fun the second time!

While I was in the exam room, waiting for the good Dr. Gastroenterologist (wow!!) to come in, my cell phone rang. It was one of my siblings, saying I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. (A horrible panic attack during which she believed she was dying right that second. She’d sweat and shake and yell and carry on for several hours, and then finally decide to die another day.) I held on to see the doc, but just barely.

A week later, I had a scheduled appointment with my opthalmologist, a follow-up to some eye problems that began when I had brain surgery the previous year. She became very alarmed that day when she detected swollen optic nerves, especially since those could indicate another brain tumor had sprouted. While she was writing an order for me to go “immediately” for an MRI of my head, my cell phone rang.

I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. I held on at the eye doc’s office long enough to gather the paperwork and then ran out. When I got to Mom’s, I remember whispering to my sibs, “I may have another brain tumor. Just so you know…”

Things have gone down hill since then. Somehow, on this blog, the term “The Moms” came into existence. We moved my mother into assisted living first, five years ago, and then Doug’s mother, three years ago. We’ve cleared out and shut down two large houses with between thirty and forty-five years accumulation of stuff each.

We’ve been doing The Mama Shuffle ever since. I’ve eaten Triscuits. Lots of Triscuits. I’ve tried to be of good cheer, but it gets exhausting. You might as well know the truth. When I write about Triscuits, it’s actually code for “Help Me!”

Friday, we moved Doug’s mother into a new facility, one where she can get a higher level of care. It’s half as much space as she used to have, so we divided (if not conquered) her remaining possessions once again.

She’s having a difficult time adjusting. Today I’ll go over and sit with her through a meal, try to help her get to know some new people. Unfortunately, these facilities can be like high school. If you don’t make a stellar first impression, the other residents will write you off FAST. Adele is confused, can’t hear well even with the best of hearing aids, and sometimes blurts out her wishes in a socially inappropriate manner. We’re hoping she can find a friend or two to relate to, but time is of the essence.

My mother, though, wants her fair share. Yesterday, she had horribly high blood pressure and very high blood sugar and felt generally weird, so the nurse decided she needed to “take a little ambulance ride.” She even TOLD me that Adele had gotten attention three out of the last three days, so.

We spent the afternoon in the ER, where she introduced me to each new nurse and technician as her “know-it-all daughter.” In case you’ve got even a shredded Triscuit’s bit of doubt, she didn’t say this in a complimentary way. I decided to let her describe her own symptoms to the attendants, since she obviously did not want my involvement. When she told the nurse she felt “funny,” the nurse looked at me for elaboration.

I said, “Hey, she doesn’t want me speaking on her behalf. Good luck to you.”

The nurse said to my mother, “I can’t write down ‘funny.’ If I do, the doctor will be angry with me. You’ll have to use different words to describe your symptoms. Are you dizzy? Weak? Faint?”

Sorry. Funny was all the old gal had. Which of course wasn’t funny at all. I kept my mouth shut, though. I know when I’m beat.

Even though I had the exam room TV tuned to one of her afternoon favorites, Roseann, she became increasingly irate as the hours wore on that it was taking so long. She demanded I march myself out to that nurse’s station and tell them she was getting OFF that gurney that VERY instant and going home.

“No, Mom. You pulled that crap two weeks ago when we were here. If you go AMA on St. Joseph’s too often, they’re going to think you’re unhappy.”

“What’s AMA?”

“Against medical advice. You made Doug wheel you out of here the last time before the doc even wrote out his dismissal orders. The next time, they may point the ambulance on down the road, and then where would you be?”

“I don’t know. Baptist? Research? St. Mary’s?”

“Play nice, Mom. I’ll tell you this: if your EKG was too bad, they’d be in here working you over. I’ll bet there are people here worse off than you.”

“They’re making me wait too long! My back hurts! I’m hungry! I want to go home! And if someone doesn’t come to take me to pee, I’m going to EXPLODE!”

“OK, Mom. I’m pretty sure I can get someone to come if I say the word explode.”

“Good. And while you’re out there, see if you can find me some Triscuits.”

That makes two of us.

Posted by Katy on 05/15/07 at 10:38 AM

Fallible Comments...

Ah, girl. I'm lifting you up right now.
Posted by Suzan on 05/15/07 at 04:23 PM
Oh Katy! Wish I could give you a hug...
Posted by Sunflower on 05/16/07 at 05:58 AM

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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Shredded Sometimes I write about off-brand Triscuits because it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment that isn’t stressful. And it’s better to write about crackers than to eat them, especially if it takes eating a whole bunch of them to relieve the stress. I know about the Triscuit Stress Relief Diet first hand, believe me. Five years ago, I landed in the hospital for what the doctor thought was a nasty bout of ischemic colitis, a fancy way to say “a stroke of the colon.” This five day episode involved more bags of IV fluid, pain, and blood than you want to know about, or than I want to remember. I couldn’t keep one bite of food down, I do recall that. And the fact that in five days on nothing but IVs, I gained seven pounds!!! (Sorry, but that fact is dreadful enough to warrant a boatload of exclamation points.) When I got home from the hospital, I was to be extremely careful with what I ingested, lest the um…problem…recur. So I ate the only thing that tasted good: Triscuits. Lots and lots of Triscuits. I gained another five pounds, but who was counting? Four days after getting released from the hospital, I had an appointment with my gastroenterologist. That’s a REALLY fun word to type, which I did not know until just this second, but which I can now wholeheartedly recommend to you! Gastroenterologist. Oh, yeah. Just as much fun the second time! While I was in the exam room, waiting for the good Dr. Gastroenterologist (wow!!) to come in, my cell phone rang. It was one of my siblings, saying I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. (A horrible panic attack during which she believed she was dying right that second. She’d sweat and shake and yell and carry on for several hours, and then finally decide to die another day.) I held on to see the doc, but just barely. A week later, I had a scheduled appointment with my opthalmologist, a follow-up to some eye problems that began when I had brain surgery the previous year. She became very alarmed that day when she detected swollen optic nerves, especially since those could indicate another brain tumor had sprouted. While she was writing an order for me to go “immediately” for an MRI of my head, my cell phone rang. I needed to go to my mother’s house right then, as she was having one of her meltdowns. I held on at the eye doc’s office long enough to gather the paperwork and then ran out. When I got to Mom’s, I remember whispering to my sibs, “I may have another brain tumor. Just so you know…” Things have gone down hill since then. Somehow, on this blog, the term “The Moms” came into existence. We moved my mother into assisted living first, five years ago, and then Doug’s mother, three years ago. We’ve cleared out and shut down two large houses with between thirty and forty-five years accumulation of stuff each. We’ve been doing The Mama Shuffle ever since. I’ve eaten Triscuits. Lots of Triscuits. I’ve tried to be of good cheer, but it gets exhausting. You might as well know the truth. When I write about Triscuits, it’s actually code for “Help Me!” Friday, we moved Doug’s mother into a new facility, one where she can get a higher level of care. It’s half as much space as she used to have, so we divided (if not conquered) her remaining possessions once again. She’s having a difficult time adjusting. Today I’ll go over and sit with her through a meal, try to help her get to know some new people. Unfortunately, these facilities can be like high school. If you don’t make a stellar first impression, the other residents will write you off FAST. Adele is confused, can’t hear well even with the best of hearing aids, and sometimes blurts out her wishes in a socially inappropriate manner. We’re hoping she can find a friend or two to relate to, but time is of the essence. My mother, though, wants her fair share. Yesterday, she had horribly high blood pressure and very high blood sugar and felt generally weird, so the nurse decided she needed to “take a little ambulance ride.” She even TOLD me that Adele had gotten attention three out of the last three days, so. We spent the afternoon in the ER, where she introduced me to each new nurse and technician as her “know-it-all daughter.” In case you’ve got even a shredded Triscuit’s bit of doubt, she didn’t say this in a complimentary way. I decided to let her describe her own symptoms to the attendants, since she obviously did not want my involvement. When she told the nurse she felt “funny,” the nurse looked at me for elaboration. I said, “Hey, she doesn’t want me speaking on her behalf. Good luck to you.” The nurse said to my mother, “I can’t write down ‘funny.’ If I do, the doctor will be angry with me. You’ll have to use different words to describe your symptoms. Are you dizzy? Weak? Faint?” Sorry. Funny was all the old gal had. Which of course wasn’t funny at all. I kept my mouth shut, though. I know when I’m beat. Even though I had the exam room TV tuned to one of her afternoon favorites, Roseann, she became increasingly irate as the hours wore on that it was taking so long. She demanded I march myself out to that nurse’s station and tell them she was getting OFF that gurney that VERY instant and going home. “No, Mom. You pulled that crap two weeks ago when we were here. If you go AMA on St. Joseph’s too often, they’re going to think you’re unhappy.” “What’s AMA?” “Against medical advice. You made Doug wheel you out of here the last time before the doc even wrote out his dismissal orders. The next time, they may point the ambulance on down the road, and then where would you be?” “I don’t know. Baptist? Research? St. Mary’s?” “Play nice, Mom. I’ll tell you this: if your EKG was too bad, they’d be in here working you over. I’ll bet there are people here worse off than you.” “They’re making me wait too long! My back hurts! I’m hungry! I want to go home! And if someone doesn’t come to take me to pee, I’m going to EXPLODE!” “OK, Mom. I’m pretty sure I can get someone to come if I say the word explode.” “Good. And while you’re out there, see if you can find me some Triscuits.” That makes two of us. Posted by Katy on 05/15/07 at 10:38 AM Fallible Comments... Ah, girl. I'm lifting you up right now. Posted by Suzan on 05/15/07 at 04:23 PM Oh Katy! Wish I could give you a hug... Posted by Sunflower on 05/16/07 at 05:58 AM Page 1 of 1 pages Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: Catering Costs Plummet? Previous entry: Irregulars << Back to main


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri