Day 25 - When Things Don't Go Exactly As Planned
I thought that yesterday's visit with the doctor would have been relatively uneventful. The doctor's clinic hours were from 10 - 2. We'd go there a little bit early since there tends to be a very long queue. We'd bring the Risperdal injection with us. We'd meet and greet, he gives the injection, and then the day is over. Come back in two weeks.
Not so easy.
Mom and I agreed to leave the house at 10:00AM to go to the hospital. I had forewarned her that there would be quite a wait, and she said that she was fine with this.
Per routine, Tess came earlier in the morning to give mom her meds and then headed to the market to open the bookstore.
Come 9:30, it was time to get ready for our tricycle trip to the hospital. I bought a special thermal bag to keep the Risperdal on ice. Given the waiting times at these clinics, I knew it would be best to keep this as cold for as long as possible. I searched around the kitchen, my room, and in the help's room for the bag. I couldn't find it. Ugh. I checked the fridge and discovered one of the Risperdal packs missing. An ice pack was missing as well. At that point I figured that Tess had packed the injection and brought it with her to the store. Fine. Not exactly what I would have preferred (I would have just kept it in the fridge until the last minute that we would depart for the hospital), but it would work.
Ate Flor, one of the house help asked me what I was looking for, and I described the bag to her. Suddenly, the whole house was looking for the bag, even though I had communicated that Tess probably had it. Flor showed me other bags that I could use, but they wouldn't work (and I didn't even need the bag anymore as I figured that Tess had it.) We'll wait for Tess.
I called the store to speak with Tess and confirm my assumption that she had the bag and the Risperdal. My aunt answered the phone. She confirmed my suspicions. She had also taken the liberty to call the hospital to schedule an appointment for my mom. (Its like a deli counter. You take a number... and then you wait.) Mom was #25... and the doctor hadn't arrived yet to see his patients. Check in again at 12pm. My aunt informed me that my mom doesn't like to wait and has a history of storming out before even seeing the doctor.
Great.
The previous week, I waited in line for almost 2 hours until I was able to see the new psychiatrist.
"Fine", I replied. "We'll go to the mall next to the hospital and kill time there."
After 10, I rounded up mom, hopped in a tricycle, and headed to the mall. We'd get a snack and wander around before heading over to the hospital. I explained the time-delay situation to mom, and she replied with her typical, "that's ok."
At noon, we walked over to the hospital and made a bee-line for the doctor's clinic. Dr. B shared an office with his wife; they both trained together under mom's old psychiatrist, Dr. R. Mom took a seat amidst the large crowd of waiting patients while I went to check in with the secretary.
"My mom is #25...", I told the secretary. She looked at her list and replied back in rapid-fire tagalog that my mom was not on the list.
"Huh?"
She asked me which doctor I'd like mom to see, the husband or wife. "The husband."
Again, in rapid-fire tagalog, she informed me that the wife was currently holding office hours. The husband had office hours at the same time in a hospital across town. (I'm impressed that my comprehension of tagalog has exponentially improved!)
She was kind enough to call the secretary for Dr. B at that hospital. My mom was #25 OVER THERE. I was at the wrong hospital. If I went to the other hospital around 2:00pm, the doctor should be ready to see mom. (When they say 2:00, they really mean 3:00... filipino time.)
Ugh. Great.
I extended my thanks to the secretary and collected my mom. I explained the mix-up to her and that we'd have to go to the other hospital around 2:00.
Mom had to pay her water bill for the house in Lexber. "Mmmmm.... ok." We had time to kill, so why not. We hopped into a tricycle and puttered away to Lexber. I never realized how FAR it was from everything. the tricycle driver didn't realize how far he'd be driving either (my mom just kept on telling him, "go straight, go straight..." not much information beyond that.) He compulsively checked his gas tank as we sputtered along (literally, opening the gas cap between his legs as we were driving.) Eventually, he had to stop and fill up the tank. Mom was surprised by this, but I told her, "uh... I think he is about to run out of gas." She didn't notice him checking his tank as I had.
We eventually reached Lexber after what seemed like an eternity crammed into the sidecar. I forgot my sunglasses at home, so now my eyes were red from all of the flying dust and dirt.
Lovely.
My mom asked the tricycle driver to wait for us (Thank God, as we were in the middle of no where... I didn't see any other tricycles.) The water bill transaction took all of 5 minutes. We were back in the tricycle headed home. Imagine a 20 minute tricycle ride; not exactly the model of comfort. At this point, my right arm was significantly darker than the left; I used my right hand and arm to hold on to the frame of the sidecar so I wouldn't be pitched out.
We killed an hour at home; retreated to our own rooms. Mom took a nap, and I read my book in AC-comfort.
Its 2:00. Tess is here with the injection. Its time to go. Our number has been called... #25.
Great. We're late.
I rouse mom from her nap, and the three of us cram onto a tricycle headed across town to the correct hospital. Mom and I are crammed into the sidecar; Tess sits side-saddle on behind the driver on the motorcycle. She clings to the bike with one hand, and holds the risperdal bag with the other. I don't envy her position.
This time, I remembered my sunglasses. The dirt and dust aren't as bothersome this time, but the noxious smell of fumes prevails. Oh well. You deal with it.
We arrive at the hospital, and check in with the secretary. We're next, so we take a seat on the benches in the hallway outside his clinic. The clinic is at the very end of the hallway which opens up to the dirt parking lot outside. An iron gate locks us in.
In the corner across from the bench is a trashcan with the remnants of someone's lunch. It smells. Flies are swarming everywhere, and I wave them away. F**king annoying.
Its f**king hot, and there are no fans. I'm sweating like a pig. Mom and I are seated and Tess stands next to us and fans us. I've learned that if you remain absolutely still, even if there is no breeze, you can deal with the heat. Just remain still, accept the fact that you're sweating like a whore in a church, and shut your eyes.
I turn to mom. "You realize that you're getting your injection today, right?"
"No, that's next week."
"Uhhh, no, your last one was on the 12th. Its two weeks later. You're due for your next injection."
"NO. Its NEXT WEEK."
In my pocket, I have a piece of paper from Dr. R.'s prescription pad. He made note that her next injection would be August 25th. I figured that the 24th was close enough. I don't pull this paper out, but save it for later. I go along with her. "Ok."
Mom is agitated now. She starts talking about a movie that I had never seen; she watched it this morning on TV. Uh oh. She's rambling. She asks me who is the governor of California.
"Arnold Schwarznegger. Have you seen his movies?", I reply.
"No."
I remembered her video collection. Among them include the Terminator and the Predator series. Yet again, I let it go.
Finally, its our turn and we're called into the doctor's office.
Dr. B is seated at his desk. Mom sits in a chair in front of his desk. I shake hands with Dr. B. and hand him mom's scripts from Dr. R, including the note that the Risperdal injection is due for August 25th. Tess and I have a seat in the background and watch mom and Dr. B engage one another.
What occurs over the next 15 minutes is what I think of as a "break-in" period for Dr. B. I met with him the previous week and explained my mom's condition. Now he gets to see it in person. He begins his line of questions.
Mom starts off with, "Let me explain..." and its all downhill from there. Tess and I sit back as if we're watching a movie. Dr. B tries to follow mom's line of conversation which meanders all over the place. I hear words like "him", "fifteen years ago", "US Embassy." She asks him if he knows Dr. so-and-so... and prattles on.
I feel kind of bad for him. He's listening very intently and tries to follow her conversation when its best not to do so. Let her go on.
Somehow, I'm able to facilitate an answer to a question that he's seeking. Yes, she's responding well to her current medications. No side-effects. Sleeping ok.
We get to the topic of the Risperdal injection. Mom persists that the injection is due next week, even though Dr. B presents her with Dr. R's notes for an August 25th injection. She is very adamant about this and will not back down.
I interject. How about if you have the injection next week? Say next Monday? (At this point its late thursday. She isn't actually due for the injection until Friday. Waiting one weekend doesn't hurt.) I emphasize the fact that it would fall under her parameters of "next week."
She quickly agrees. End of debate. That was easier that I thought.
The doctor sets up an appointment on Monday morning for mom to have her injection. It will be at 10:00am. No waiting this time. She's fine with this.
Appointment is over. Its time to go. Mom and Tess leave the office, but Dr. B wants me to stay to talk awhile. The door shuts behind Tess; I see Mom looking back and we make eye contact. The door closes.
"Is your mom always like this?"
"No." I explain how she had been completely lucid for the entire morning. She took a nap before this appointment, and now its as if she's kissed her own demented Blarney Stone. "Actually, this was her being good. She didn't become hostile or angry. I think she likes you."
We pick apart the whole interaction and conclude that her "wires are crossed." (No surprise to me.) She has a bunch of topics in her head, but the wires get crossed and the messages that she sends are garbled and intermixed.
He'll see her on Monday morning for the injection and will monitor her meds. That's what I want.
I pay mom's fees, and we all head outside the hospital to hail a tricycle. As we walk down the parking lot, I ask mom, "So do you like Dr. B?"
"Yes, he's alright."
That's a good sign... her way of signalling that she likes him.
"By the way, I paid your fee when we left. It will be P250 per visit ($50 USD.)"
She reaches for her wallet to pay me back.
"Nah, don't worry about it. Its my treat."
She laughed.
Not so easy.
Mom and I agreed to leave the house at 10:00AM to go to the hospital. I had forewarned her that there would be quite a wait, and she said that she was fine with this.
Per routine, Tess came earlier in the morning to give mom her meds and then headed to the market to open the bookstore.
Come 9:30, it was time to get ready for our tricycle trip to the hospital. I bought a special thermal bag to keep the Risperdal on ice. Given the waiting times at these clinics, I knew it would be best to keep this as cold for as long as possible. I searched around the kitchen, my room, and in the help's room for the bag. I couldn't find it. Ugh. I checked the fridge and discovered one of the Risperdal packs missing. An ice pack was missing as well. At that point I figured that Tess had packed the injection and brought it with her to the store. Fine. Not exactly what I would have preferred (I would have just kept it in the fridge until the last minute that we would depart for the hospital), but it would work.
Ate Flor, one of the house help asked me what I was looking for, and I described the bag to her. Suddenly, the whole house was looking for the bag, even though I had communicated that Tess probably had it. Flor showed me other bags that I could use, but they wouldn't work (and I didn't even need the bag anymore as I figured that Tess had it.) We'll wait for Tess.
I called the store to speak with Tess and confirm my assumption that she had the bag and the Risperdal. My aunt answered the phone. She confirmed my suspicions. She had also taken the liberty to call the hospital to schedule an appointment for my mom. (Its like a deli counter. You take a number... and then you wait.) Mom was #25... and the doctor hadn't arrived yet to see his patients. Check in again at 12pm. My aunt informed me that my mom doesn't like to wait and has a history of storming out before even seeing the doctor.
Great.
The previous week, I waited in line for almost 2 hours until I was able to see the new psychiatrist.
"Fine", I replied. "We'll go to the mall next to the hospital and kill time there."
After 10, I rounded up mom, hopped in a tricycle, and headed to the mall. We'd get a snack and wander around before heading over to the hospital. I explained the time-delay situation to mom, and she replied with her typical, "that's ok."
At noon, we walked over to the hospital and made a bee-line for the doctor's clinic. Dr. B shared an office with his wife; they both trained together under mom's old psychiatrist, Dr. R. Mom took a seat amidst the large crowd of waiting patients while I went to check in with the secretary.
"My mom is #25...", I told the secretary. She looked at her list and replied back in rapid-fire tagalog that my mom was not on the list.
"Huh?"
She asked me which doctor I'd like mom to see, the husband or wife. "The husband."
Again, in rapid-fire tagalog, she informed me that the wife was currently holding office hours. The husband had office hours at the same time in a hospital across town. (I'm impressed that my comprehension of tagalog has exponentially improved!)
She was kind enough to call the secretary for Dr. B at that hospital. My mom was #25 OVER THERE. I was at the wrong hospital. If I went to the other hospital around 2:00pm, the doctor should be ready to see mom. (When they say 2:00, they really mean 3:00... filipino time.)
Ugh. Great.
I extended my thanks to the secretary and collected my mom. I explained the mix-up to her and that we'd have to go to the other hospital around 2:00.
Mom had to pay her water bill for the house in Lexber. "Mmmmm.... ok." We had time to kill, so why not. We hopped into a tricycle and puttered away to Lexber. I never realized how FAR it was from everything. the tricycle driver didn't realize how far he'd be driving either (my mom just kept on telling him, "go straight, go straight..." not much information beyond that.) He compulsively checked his gas tank as we sputtered along (literally, opening the gas cap between his legs as we were driving.) Eventually, he had to stop and fill up the tank. Mom was surprised by this, but I told her, "uh... I think he is about to run out of gas." She didn't notice him checking his tank as I had.
We eventually reached Lexber after what seemed like an eternity crammed into the sidecar. I forgot my sunglasses at home, so now my eyes were red from all of the flying dust and dirt.
Lovely.
My mom asked the tricycle driver to wait for us (Thank God, as we were in the middle of no where... I didn't see any other tricycles.) The water bill transaction took all of 5 minutes. We were back in the tricycle headed home. Imagine a 20 minute tricycle ride; not exactly the model of comfort. At this point, my right arm was significantly darker than the left; I used my right hand and arm to hold on to the frame of the sidecar so I wouldn't be pitched out.
We killed an hour at home; retreated to our own rooms. Mom took a nap, and I read my book in AC-comfort.
Its 2:00. Tess is here with the injection. Its time to go. Our number has been called... #25.
Great. We're late.
I rouse mom from her nap, and the three of us cram onto a tricycle headed across town to the correct hospital. Mom and I are crammed into the sidecar; Tess sits side-saddle on behind the driver on the motorcycle. She clings to the bike with one hand, and holds the risperdal bag with the other. I don't envy her position.
This time, I remembered my sunglasses. The dirt and dust aren't as bothersome this time, but the noxious smell of fumes prevails. Oh well. You deal with it.
We arrive at the hospital, and check in with the secretary. We're next, so we take a seat on the benches in the hallway outside his clinic. The clinic is at the very end of the hallway which opens up to the dirt parking lot outside. An iron gate locks us in.
In the corner across from the bench is a trashcan with the remnants of someone's lunch. It smells. Flies are swarming everywhere, and I wave them away. F**king annoying.
Its f**king hot, and there are no fans. I'm sweating like a pig. Mom and I are seated and Tess stands next to us and fans us. I've learned that if you remain absolutely still, even if there is no breeze, you can deal with the heat. Just remain still, accept the fact that you're sweating like a whore in a church, and shut your eyes.
I turn to mom. "You realize that you're getting your injection today, right?"
"No, that's next week."
"Uhhh, no, your last one was on the 12th. Its two weeks later. You're due for your next injection."
"NO. Its NEXT WEEK."
In my pocket, I have a piece of paper from Dr. R.'s prescription pad. He made note that her next injection would be August 25th. I figured that the 24th was close enough. I don't pull this paper out, but save it for later. I go along with her. "Ok."
Mom is agitated now. She starts talking about a movie that I had never seen; she watched it this morning on TV. Uh oh. She's rambling. She asks me who is the governor of California.
"Arnold Schwarznegger. Have you seen his movies?", I reply.
"No."
I remembered her video collection. Among them include the Terminator and the Predator series. Yet again, I let it go.
Finally, its our turn and we're called into the doctor's office.
Dr. B is seated at his desk. Mom sits in a chair in front of his desk. I shake hands with Dr. B. and hand him mom's scripts from Dr. R, including the note that the Risperdal injection is due for August 25th. Tess and I have a seat in the background and watch mom and Dr. B engage one another.
What occurs over the next 15 minutes is what I think of as a "break-in" period for Dr. B. I met with him the previous week and explained my mom's condition. Now he gets to see it in person. He begins his line of questions.
Mom starts off with, "Let me explain..." and its all downhill from there. Tess and I sit back as if we're watching a movie. Dr. B tries to follow mom's line of conversation which meanders all over the place. I hear words like "him", "fifteen years ago", "US Embassy." She asks him if he knows Dr. so-and-so... and prattles on.
I feel kind of bad for him. He's listening very intently and tries to follow her conversation when its best not to do so. Let her go on.
Somehow, I'm able to facilitate an answer to a question that he's seeking. Yes, she's responding well to her current medications. No side-effects. Sleeping ok.
We get to the topic of the Risperdal injection. Mom persists that the injection is due next week, even though Dr. B presents her with Dr. R's notes for an August 25th injection. She is very adamant about this and will not back down.
I interject. How about if you have the injection next week? Say next Monday? (At this point its late thursday. She isn't actually due for the injection until Friday. Waiting one weekend doesn't hurt.) I emphasize the fact that it would fall under her parameters of "next week."
She quickly agrees. End of debate. That was easier that I thought.
The doctor sets up an appointment on Monday morning for mom to have her injection. It will be at 10:00am. No waiting this time. She's fine with this.
Appointment is over. Its time to go. Mom and Tess leave the office, but Dr. B wants me to stay to talk awhile. The door shuts behind Tess; I see Mom looking back and we make eye contact. The door closes.
"Is your mom always like this?"
"No." I explain how she had been completely lucid for the entire morning. She took a nap before this appointment, and now its as if she's kissed her own demented Blarney Stone. "Actually, this was her being good. She didn't become hostile or angry. I think she likes you."
We pick apart the whole interaction and conclude that her "wires are crossed." (No surprise to me.) She has a bunch of topics in her head, but the wires get crossed and the messages that she sends are garbled and intermixed.
He'll see her on Monday morning for the injection and will monitor her meds. That's what I want.
I pay mom's fees, and we all head outside the hospital to hail a tricycle. As we walk down the parking lot, I ask mom, "So do you like Dr. B?"
"Yes, he's alright."
That's a good sign... her way of signalling that she likes him.
"By the way, I paid your fee when we left. It will be P250 per visit ($50 USD.)"
She reaches for her wallet to pay me back.
"Nah, don't worry about it. Its my treat."
She laughed.
posted by YodaBeesh at
11:19 PM
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