In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.
At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Orthopedist Visit
After the eighth circuit around the parking lot, I headed to the main lot and then to the far employee lot, both were full. The hospital must have been running a sale. I went back to the medical office parking lot and spotted a man walking to what I hoped was his car. I slowly followed behind with my directional happily blinking to others, I had found a space.
On the way to the orthopedist’s office, I wondered if the Weebles had found the office alright. If they would remember the office was on the first floor. After all, we visit this building every other month to see the foot doctor on the third floor. I had a moment of panic when I entered the empty office. I hadn’t been trolling the parking lot that long. The last time we visited this doctor, his waiting room was wall to wall with patients and the line spilled out into the main lobby where there were several more chairs outside his door. As I approached the receptionist, she looked up.
“They are in the examination room. Would you like to go in with them?”
“God, no!” I said forcefully. “I just wanted to make sure they found the office ok. I’ll just wait over here.” I took a seat in the corner and flipped through a very la-di-dah architectural magazine. The kind of magazine that showcases “Homes Better Than Yours”. I could hear some of the conversation between Ma and the doctor. Complaint. Explanation. Complaint. Explanation.
“That’s because you are leaning on the walker instead of using a cane,” he patiently explained. “Well, everything is looking fine. I want to see you in another month for an x-ray. I’ll escort you to the waiting area.” He caught sight of me and added, “Your daughter is here.” He emphasized daughter and I wasn’t sure if I was elevated to a high status or if he was relieved to turn the weebles over to someone else. He then asked Ma if he could fill me in on how she was doing.
Now, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s not my monkey. Somehow he must think I’m the primary care giver, and I need this information. Ma takes care of herself very nicely and no thanks to anyone. So I put on my best intelligent look and listened as he explained Ma’s wrist is healing nicely. The pain she feels is because of the pressure as she leans on the walker. She had complained of shoulder pain, but he thought that was mostly due to the way people using a walker hunch their shoulders when they walk. I nodded. Very interesting.
Ma interrupted at this point to ask about the visiting nurse. I thought she was going to ask him if the visiting nurse could do the housework or take her to Market Basket.
“Ma, he has nothing to do with the visiting nurse.”
“Yes, he does. She wants me to have physical therapy.”
“I told you the therapy isn’t necessary,” he said to her. “Her hand is very arthritic,” he began to me.
“I don’t feel like I have Ahtha Ritis” That’s how a Bostonian pronounces, arthritis, just like it’s a man’s name. Arthur Ritis.
“Well, you do. You don’t have much range of movement in your thumb. Therapy isn’t going to change that. No therapy.”
Ma was put out. “The nurse isn’t going to like you.”
I’m thinking he outranks the nurse and good for him for not prescribing services that won’t be a benefit except to make money for the insurance company.
At this point, the doctor noticed Dad was carrying Ma’s splint.
“Why does he have that? Why isn’t she wearing it?” he asked me as if I were the primary care giver.
“She doesn’t wear it. She hasn’t worn it in a few weeks.” He was about to ask another question and I shook my head. He has an Italian last name and I was tempted to ask Parli italiano? You ask why? She’s a cetriolo. A cucumber. I knew Ma would selectively hear this remark. Not good for me. He wouldn’t understand that she wouldn’t wear the splint because she had to sign those checks so she could win the two million dollars that was coming this week. I shook my head. “I’m just the chauffeur.” On duty is tattooed on my butt cheeks.
