It came all of a sudden. Watching my mom drawing her blood to check her glucose level every morning before breakfast starts my everyday. She would then unfold a piece of paper where she normally notes down her numbers and would visibly relax, indicating that no insulin injection was needed. She was so good at this and I trusted her diligence completely.
It was by chance that I reached out for that piece of paper to check how her diabetes was getting controlled. I was confused at what I saw. The numbers she had written were scratchy and unreadable, her dates were wrong, and they were going in all directions, totally missing the grid lines on the paper. I looked at her last legible entry. It was one month before....more
It is – however Hallmarkish the saying – the little things that matter.
And I don’t actually mean that, picking out the perfect Hallmark card every Mother’s Day, which I do, spending countless minutes in front of the sappy Hallmark Dearest Mother section. I don’t even mean the first gift I ever remember, at age six, making for my mother, an elaborately magic marker-colored bookmark.
In a recent post I talked about my son and two other boys, all who have been affected by encephalitis. I promised that I would post pictures and updates so that you could meet them and I am excited to be doing that this evening. ...more
It's been ten days now since my 89-year-old mother fell, broke her hip, and landed in the hospital via the ER. And thus I'm in my second week of being completely torn between my mother's and my family's total need of me.
To say I am nearly being ripped apart by this is an understatement.
This morning I started the day as usual with me checking headlines on the 7a.m. news. Some habits die hard. Then I had a little quiet time and a cup of joe as I ran through my self-alloted time on Facebook and Twitter....more
A Mother and Daughter in an Emergency Room
My mother was hungry and thirsty; when she’d fallen that morning, she’d just woken up, so she never even got a cup of coffee before she was whisked away in an ambulance.
More than food or drink really, she wanted a comb. They’d loaded her into the ambulance as they found her, on the bedroom floor in a lavender nightgown, with not even shoes or time to grab her purse.
“How can you not carry a comb?” she asked me.
As I attempted to make medical appointments for myself this morning,"Excuse me, I'm sorry, I didn't understand what you just said," I stumbled over and over again as I found myself asking the appointment schedulers to repeat themselves, and when they did, I realized each was confirming the information about me already on their computer screen. Am I no longer capable of understanding familiar speech?...more