I called my parents' house this afternoon to see how Mom is doing, and spoke to Sibling Two, who asked if I could sleep over there Wednesday night to help my father out. As much as I would like to (and I would like to; God only knows how much time we have left with my mother), she forgets that I have two children to put on the bus in the morning.
I wish she hadn't asked because it just tears me in two. I cannot bilocate.
I put the girls to bed early tonight. I have to meet Child Two's teacher for a conference at 8:15 tomorrow morning, and I can't have them crawling out of bed at 8:20 as they usually do.
On a happy note, I finished revising the novel. Now I just have to type in the changes, which for me, is the hardest part. I'm not the most coordinated person; hence, I'm a rotten typist.
Monday, January 31, 2005
My Mother is Not a Science Experiment
Last week, before he announced that my mother has something called Frontal Lobe Syndrome, Dr. P. (that's what we'll call him to avoid a lawsuit, although I assure you, the P. stands for something), said that, with physical therapy, she'd walk again in two months.
He has since revised that prognosis, saying soon she'll look at her feet and not know what to do with them. He says she is still eligible for clinical trials, though. Her internist advised us to keep her comfortable and love her. She didn't actually say that Dr. P. intends to use my mother as a research subject, but that's the vibe we're getting.
I spent the weekend on my parents' couch. My mother spends most of the day in bed sleeping. She responds better to questions that require 'yes' or 'no' answers. If you give her a choice between Cheerios or Corn Flakes for breakfast, she looks at you as if you were asking her to decide whether Scott Peterson deserved the death penalty.
I look at this time as a gift. If she is indeed dying, then we have the opportunity to love her and take care of her. She is not in pain. This isn't, by any means, an easy situation, but it it is better than getting a call from a stranger that she dropped dead of a heart attack.
I am going back on Wednesday to take care of her while Dad and Siblings One and Two keep their appointment with Dr. P.
He has since revised that prognosis, saying soon she'll look at her feet and not know what to do with them. He says she is still eligible for clinical trials, though. Her internist advised us to keep her comfortable and love her. She didn't actually say that Dr. P. intends to use my mother as a research subject, but that's the vibe we're getting.
I spent the weekend on my parents' couch. My mother spends most of the day in bed sleeping. She responds better to questions that require 'yes' or 'no' answers. If you give her a choice between Cheerios or Corn Flakes for breakfast, she looks at you as if you were asking her to decide whether Scott Peterson deserved the death penalty.
I look at this time as a gift. If she is indeed dying, then we have the opportunity to love her and take care of her. She is not in pain. This isn't, by any means, an easy situation, but it it is better than getting a call from a stranger that she dropped dead of a heart attack.
I am going back on Wednesday to take care of her while Dad and Siblings One and Two keep their appointment with Dr. P.
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