Mom and Dad update

Note: Parental update before moving on to part two of Drop Your Shovel.

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Kim came to town this week for an important follow-up to my dad's CT body scan. The scan showed nothing significant, but because Dr. Patel is searching the cause of Dad's inability to produce hemoglobin anymore, he has ordered a bone marrow biopsy. If the cancer is now in his marrow — it's already in his bones — he ... well ... that's not good news. The doctor talked about making "hard decisions."

If the cancer is not in his bone marrow, Patel suspects that the radium treatment Dad had all last summer destroyed his body's ability to make blood.

Transfusions have provided short-term relief, but they are not the answer. If the body can't make blood ... well ... you figure it out.

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Since my mother had her stroke in October, the number of psych meds to handle the resulting anxiety and depression has accumulated to SEVEN. About three weeks before we left the nursing home, Mom did see a geriatric psychiatrist who comes only to nursing homes. He acknowledged her meds were a problem and devised a plan to taper her off what she didn't need and get her to where she needed to be; this would take months, he said.

But as you know, we left the nursing home, and this doctor doesn't see patients outside of the larger nursing homes; we made an appointment with a different psychiatrist. Because Amarillo has a shortage of psychiatrists (6, I think), the appointment couldn't happen until the first of April. The physician who oversees the new place Mom stays wouldn't touch her meds while she was between the two specialists.

We've painfully watched my mother become a vegetable.

Every week Kim has called the new psychiatrist's office to ask about cancelations. Then I went to the office last week and got the appointment moved up another week. Kim came in this week and shed a few tears ... and Mom got to see the doctor on Wednesday.

I am not exaggerating or kidding when I say this: The doctor looked at her medication list and repeatedly whispered, "Jesus ..."

And he kept saying, "Her meds are all wrong." And then he kept saying, "Tomorrow is a new day."

He grew more agitated and stated that she could have had another stroke on this combination of meds.

He discontinued five of the seven and made adjustments on the others. He said he didn't need to taper those meds. He wants to see her next week when her mind is clear again, and then he could address the anxiety.

So now ... now we get to start over and see what her true abilities will be.  She has restarted occupational therapy, physical therapy and speech therapy ... these things ended at the nursing home. Insurance is paying for them again now. Why had it been such an ordeal at the nursing home?
I'm glad we are trying again. My mom had given up. She wasn't eating anymore. She slept most of the time, and when she was awake, she cried and didn't make any sense at all. Seeing my mom this way has only made my dad worse.

I'm not asking for miracles. I know my mom had a massive stroke and her brain is severely damaged. I realize this sickness and aging process never is easy for anyone.

But I can't help but ask: Does it necessarily have to be THIS DIFFICULT? Or THIS COMPLICATED? Does everything have to be an ordeal and a fight?