Wednesday, my mother was experiencing shortness of breath. Her pulse oxygen was at 70 percent, and she was anxious. The nurse called my sister, who has medical power of attorney, and mentioned that the nursing home might want to send my mother to the hospital.
My sister discussed it with me, and we agreed that Mom should not be sent to the hospital. She got confused and agitated and combative the last few times we had her there. The most recent time, I got off the elevator to find my mother, in a wheelchair by the nurses' station, berating the nurses, doctors, and guests alike. I wanted to back right back on the elevator and slink away.
It is a hard thing to decide to let your mother receive comfort care only and die.
Mom did recover with the help of some medication. When I went to see her last night, she was confused and couldn't verbalize. I know she knew that she knew me, but she had no clue how she knew me.
It is a bad year for fleas, and I have been fighting them on the dogs. The mouse came back last night and crawled up under the siding of the house to hide.
In the middle of the night, I woke with a panic attack. My doctor told me it wasn't elevated blood pressure causing my symptoms, but something else.
My office mate said to me, tongue in cheek, "You need to get rid of some of those things causing that stress."
Oh, so I need to evict my tenant, quit my job, shave the dogs, burn down the house, divorce my husband, send the kids into foster care, and hurry my mother's demise? No, I need to adapt one more time. Yet again.
So here I go again.