Transitions are hard
Well, the past 4 weeks have been challenging to say the least. 4 weeks ago, Mom sat in the Emergency Room (well, she laid down on a bed in the ER) for over 12 hours...they poked her, scanned her, tested her...put back in her IV after she yanked it out, and then found her a bed.
By 8:45 pm that night, she was ensconced in a room in Geriatric Psychiatric Services at Bridgeport Hospital. No, you probably never heard that there was even such a place. We never knew about it...it is a separate part of the 8th floor, locked doors...common dining area and "day" room (which we called the living room). It is where people go after a certain age when medications are a problem, or behavioral issues have started to interfere with bodily functions...people with dementia, psychotic breakdowns, for example.
Mom has been challenging to care for lately. Her eating issues have created sugar issues which have exacerbated other behavioral challenges. She had also recently been prescribed two anti-psychotic drugs to address anxiety and some "running away" concerns. Unfortunately, the doctor had told my Dad that these 2 drugs were to be given as needed. Yeah, never a good idea for someone who doesn't write things down, and doesn't know the proper names of drugs to begin with.
She got admitted, with a diagnosis of possible stroke. Quickly, that diagnosis bit the dust...FINALLY, her sugar was checked (after I pitched a small hissy...she was there for over 2 hours at that point, and they never checked it!). By then, her stick was 49...normal for Mom in the morning is around 120. People ran around trying to find her food...I had already scoped out the orange juice and crackers on the tray they had brought my Dad when he came in with her. By the time the folks came with graham crackers and peanut butter, she had finished her OJ, and the crackers and was actually pretty damn fine.
At first, medication review and assessment was the reason for admittance...she was pretty good that night, but by the next day, the doping up had begun. Various drugs were tried, including a sweet pill called depakote...NOT a success...she was listing like the Titanic by day 2...off it that night, with a switch to Tegretol, keeping Risperidone for the chaser. That kept her calmer but created ZombieMom. Dad seemed to be OK with that ("She's not so up" is the way he kept phrasing it...). We weren't and still aren't, but we're not in charge (or so it would seem...).
After week 2, the push to move her out began in earnest. Dad had already said he couldn't care for her at home any longer (I think he thought that meant he was done and the hospital would take care of finding her a placement...yeah, no). We seriously thought about taking her, but several issues came up right away, including the fact that she would be on the second floor. Her balance had taken a major hit with this hospitalization. So the hunt for a facility began.
First, though, Medicaid applications took precedence. No money? Gotta file. A liaison office is in the hospital so that wasn't very difficult at all. Because that was in process, it wasn't necessary to move her to the only place that had an opening. Bridgeport Health Care on Bond Street just wasn't part of our plan. We had a relative who was there, and knew it wouldn't be a good fit for Mom, with 4 people to a room, and an elevator system that wasn't dependable (Dad cannot walk up 5 flights or more of stairs). We got our list and began the search.
Unfortunately, I trusted Dad to do the initial visits..the first day became the only day. He went to one place, liked it, told me they had a bed for Mom and would take care of everything. On a hunch, I went there a few days after that, and found what Dad said he was told was not at all what he was told. There was no bed. The waiting list (which Mom was not yet on) was at least 6 months' wait. Dad acted shocked and surprised when I informed him of this, and told him to keep on looking, giving him more names.
In the meantime, Mom was deteriorating rapidly, losing most of her ability to utilize utensils, not always knowing us, and pacing more than ever. She was moving down to the level of the rest of the folks on the floor, after having come in at a higher self-care level. Between the medications, and the atmosphere, her ability to keep it together seemed to be gone. There was no pretense, no need, it seemed, to pass for competent. She was what she was, take her or leave her.
She also started doing this weird physical thing with her hands on her head and holding it tightly while she shook slightly. It looked like she was in pain, and this was happening many times over the course of the day. While we are not medical folks, we figured it (thanks to input from friends, and lots of medical report access!) to be mini-strokes. We just didn't know what was being impacted, until last week.
Aphasia began, strong and furious, like a river whose floodgates had opened in a hot minute. Her language didn't leave entirely, just the ability to speak in appropriate sentences and say what she meant. That's all.
THAT'S ALL? This woman, who could cut to the quick with her wit and sense of humor, tell a story, a joke, a tale that could have you hanging on every word, had now lost her ability to communicate in a way that most would understand her. Over the past week, we haven't seen that come back at all...she speaks, she says words. Nothing makes sense, unless you listen closely for the rhythm of the words, and look at her body language. Her facial expressions continue to give clues to her feelings and opinions. Mom still communicates, just in a very different way.
The staff on the floor have been the best we could hope for...they do care (and it ain't easy!), they take pride in what they do, and sincerely want the best for those whose care is entrusted to them. Dad will be taking care of them, let me tell you!
So now we come to this week (I am leaving out so many more stories...the guy on the floor who, when asked why he wanted to go back to his room yelled out, "So I CAN PLAY WITH MYSELF"....the woman who calls me Linda and wants me to have her Power of Attorney...). Mom, God willing and the creek don't rise, is moving tomorrow, to a small facility in Southport...not the best, not the worst...a bed though, in a more permanent location, where we can visit with her, and she will get some therapy for speech and a bit more services. Where she will get a wander guard bracelet or anklet to keep her safe, and where her sugar can be monitored, and there will be a schedule that is followed. Where she won't be left alone ever, and where, we hope, she continues to make people laugh.
By 8:45 pm that night, she was ensconced in a room in Geriatric Psychiatric Services at Bridgeport Hospital. No, you probably never heard that there was even such a place. We never knew about it...it is a separate part of the 8th floor, locked doors...common dining area and "day" room (which we called the living room). It is where people go after a certain age when medications are a problem, or behavioral issues have started to interfere with bodily functions...people with dementia, psychotic breakdowns, for example.
Mom has been challenging to care for lately. Her eating issues have created sugar issues which have exacerbated other behavioral challenges. She had also recently been prescribed two anti-psychotic drugs to address anxiety and some "running away" concerns. Unfortunately, the doctor had told my Dad that these 2 drugs were to be given as needed. Yeah, never a good idea for someone who doesn't write things down, and doesn't know the proper names of drugs to begin with.
She got admitted, with a diagnosis of possible stroke. Quickly, that diagnosis bit the dust...FINALLY, her sugar was checked (after I pitched a small hissy...she was there for over 2 hours at that point, and they never checked it!). By then, her stick was 49...normal for Mom in the morning is around 120. People ran around trying to find her food...I had already scoped out the orange juice and crackers on the tray they had brought my Dad when he came in with her. By the time the folks came with graham crackers and peanut butter, she had finished her OJ, and the crackers and was actually pretty damn fine.
At first, medication review and assessment was the reason for admittance...she was pretty good that night, but by the next day, the doping up had begun. Various drugs were tried, including a sweet pill called depakote...NOT a success...she was listing like the Titanic by day 2...off it that night, with a switch to Tegretol, keeping Risperidone for the chaser. That kept her calmer but created ZombieMom. Dad seemed to be OK with that ("She's not so up" is the way he kept phrasing it...). We weren't and still aren't, but we're not in charge (or so it would seem...).
After week 2, the push to move her out began in earnest. Dad had already said he couldn't care for her at home any longer (I think he thought that meant he was done and the hospital would take care of finding her a placement...yeah, no). We seriously thought about taking her, but several issues came up right away, including the fact that she would be on the second floor. Her balance had taken a major hit with this hospitalization. So the hunt for a facility began.
First, though, Medicaid applications took precedence. No money? Gotta file. A liaison office is in the hospital so that wasn't very difficult at all. Because that was in process, it wasn't necessary to move her to the only place that had an opening. Bridgeport Health Care on Bond Street just wasn't part of our plan. We had a relative who was there, and knew it wouldn't be a good fit for Mom, with 4 people to a room, and an elevator system that wasn't dependable (Dad cannot walk up 5 flights or more of stairs). We got our list and began the search.
Unfortunately, I trusted Dad to do the initial visits..the first day became the only day. He went to one place, liked it, told me they had a bed for Mom and would take care of everything. On a hunch, I went there a few days after that, and found what Dad said he was told was not at all what he was told. There was no bed. The waiting list (which Mom was not yet on) was at least 6 months' wait. Dad acted shocked and surprised when I informed him of this, and told him to keep on looking, giving him more names.
In the meantime, Mom was deteriorating rapidly, losing most of her ability to utilize utensils, not always knowing us, and pacing more than ever. She was moving down to the level of the rest of the folks on the floor, after having come in at a higher self-care level. Between the medications, and the atmosphere, her ability to keep it together seemed to be gone. There was no pretense, no need, it seemed, to pass for competent. She was what she was, take her or leave her.
She also started doing this weird physical thing with her hands on her head and holding it tightly while she shook slightly. It looked like she was in pain, and this was happening many times over the course of the day. While we are not medical folks, we figured it (thanks to input from friends, and lots of medical report access!) to be mini-strokes. We just didn't know what was being impacted, until last week.
Aphasia began, strong and furious, like a river whose floodgates had opened in a hot minute. Her language didn't leave entirely, just the ability to speak in appropriate sentences and say what she meant. That's all.
THAT'S ALL? This woman, who could cut to the quick with her wit and sense of humor, tell a story, a joke, a tale that could have you hanging on every word, had now lost her ability to communicate in a way that most would understand her. Over the past week, we haven't seen that come back at all...she speaks, she says words. Nothing makes sense, unless you listen closely for the rhythm of the words, and look at her body language. Her facial expressions continue to give clues to her feelings and opinions. Mom still communicates, just in a very different way.
The staff on the floor have been the best we could hope for...they do care (and it ain't easy!), they take pride in what they do, and sincerely want the best for those whose care is entrusted to them. Dad will be taking care of them, let me tell you!
So now we come to this week (I am leaving out so many more stories...the guy on the floor who, when asked why he wanted to go back to his room yelled out, "So I CAN PLAY WITH MYSELF"....the woman who calls me Linda and wants me to have her Power of Attorney...). Mom, God willing and the creek don't rise, is moving tomorrow, to a small facility in Southport...not the best, not the worst...a bed though, in a more permanent location, where we can visit with her, and she will get some therapy for speech and a bit more services. Where she will get a wander guard bracelet or anklet to keep her safe, and where her sugar can be monitored, and there will be a schedule that is followed. Where she won't be left alone ever, and where, we hope, she continues to make people laugh.
So admire you. I can't imagine what you are going through. Prayers continue and thanks so much for the update. I'll pass it along
ReplyDeleteThanks, Julia...we're all sticking together here, doing it together...
ReplyDelete