Yesterday we finally got to see the neurologist after a
four-month wait. The appointment was
supposed to be June 25th, but due to “unforeseen circumstances” we
were forcefully rescheduled. I’m
wondering about the “unforeseen” part because this is the second time this has
happened. That just meant I was already
annoyed when we went to Pensacola. It’s
a forty-five-mile drive from our house to the hospital in Pensacola. Ordinarily the trip takes about an hour
door-to-door, but not yesterday. We had
rain that was like the proverbial cow pissing on a flat rock. I’ve driven through tropical storms with less
rain. And where there is bad weather in
Florida, there are also drivers who forget how to drive in bad weather. We were five minutes late, even though we
gave ourselves 90 minutes. I was
spring-loaded in a pissed-off position, and I badly wanted someone to say
something, ANYTHING, about us being late so I could lay into somebody. But wouldn’t you know it, the staff at the hospital
were too nice.
Unlike when we journeyed to the hospital to get Carol her
MRI, the check-in at the neurology clinic went as smooth as glass. Instead of having to fill out yet more reams
of paperwork, they handed me an electronic tablet that is connected to the
patient portal. All they asked me to do
was verify the information on the tablet, and we were in. I thanked the office staff. When I told the lady who checked us in about
the horror show that is the MRI and the lab, she gave me one of those “you
gotta be shitting me” looks. I told her “yes, it’s all true.” At least
information sharing at this part of the hospital is living in the 21st
century.
The doctor asked Carol if she was feeling any pain. She replied that she did not. Then he looked at me and asked “is she
getting better?” All I could tell him
was that she hadn’t gotten any worse, and that she was still seeing the tree
people that only she could see. He asked
me if she’s acting on her hallucinations, and I told him “no”. With that he doubled her dosage of Aricept,
which is a medication he gives to Alzheimer’s patients. I asked him about heavy metal poisoning. He did say there was such a thing as “chemo brain”,
but then I told him her last chemo treatment was in March 2017. The last time the nurse visited our house she
told us about a therapy for glutathione deficiency. He hadn’t heard of it, so he excused himself
to do a little research. He found something
and told us if we wanted to go down that road he would order the test. He cautioned us that since this wasn’t a
“standard” treatment for Alzheimer’s/dementia, that insurance probably
wouldn’t cover it and that it might cost us a “small fortune”. Since I’m not independently wealthy, I don’t
know if we’re going that route.
I asked him to write me a letter that states her
diagnosis so I can use it for legal matters later. And there it was in black and white:
“…senile
dementia of the Alzheimer’s type…”
It’s one thing to talk about a diagnosis, but quite
another to read about it, especially when the subject of the diagnosis is your
wife. It has a kind of “finality” to it. It didn’t make me any happier, and Carol
started to cry when we got the letter.
She said she wanted to see her mom and dad [see the last bit about me
not being independently wealthy]. I used
up all of my leave time running her back and forth to all of her appointments,
so I have to build it back up so that we can visit her sister for Thanksgiving
[I cashed in travel miles]. She got a
little pissy with me, for which she apologized after we got home. I told her that I know it wasn’t her fault,
so she needn’t worry about it. But it
was a silent car ride all the way home.
A few days ago we were out and about and I had the Allman
Brothers playing in the car. She looked
at me, smiled and said “I really like this music”. Since we’ve been married, we’ve seen the
Allman Brothers Band six times, Gregg Allman and his band four times, and
Dickey Betts’ band once. So me playing
that all the way home from Pensacola was good for her. But I had an epiphany while I was driving,
and it wasn’t a good one. I remembered
when Ronald Reagan revealed he was suffering from Alzheimer’s, and that he
lived another 10 years after that. After
I did the math, I realized that if I retired when the time is right [meaning
that the house was paid off], most likely I wouldn’t have anyone with whom to
enjoy my retirement. ☹
But at least I don’t have smallpox…
A post script – I asked Carol if it was ok if we went to
Colorado after we go to Wisconsin, and she said “yes”.
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