Going Downhill, Picking Up Speed

It started about a month ago when I had to go TDY.  While I was away, my son Mark was looking after her.  One day she fell and hit her head on one of our bookcases.  To be safe, Mark took her to the ER to have her looked at.  She fell because she was dehydrated.  Upon my return, I informed everyone at work that I’m off the road for the foreseeable future.  They all understand.

I have been planning for Carol to be admitted to a mental care facility.  I found one in Navarre, which is a little over twenty miles west of here.  Now I’ve had to kick those plans into overdrive. For the past several days, Carol has been very agitated. She has been screaming at the mirror in our bathroom. Apparently the people that only she could see have been saying bad things about her, and it's been making her very upset. She wakes up early in the morning, takes a plastic hanger and start beating on the mirror, trying to get rid of her hallucinations. And since she's been very upset, she has been getting violent. Just this past week, she has punched me, she has kicked me, and she also threw an orange at me (luckily she missed).  

Today she attacked me again and I reached the end of my tether. After speaking with my sister-in-law, I called 911 to get her out of the house and to get a psych eval. The two sheriff's deputies took her to the local hospital where she was evaluated. After 4 hours, the doctor told me that she didn't meet the criteria for a 72-hour hold. Not only did the hospital not hold Carol overnight, they gave me a prescription for a sedative. I asked them “how can I give her new meds when I can barely get her to take for meds she is already prescribed?”  It looks like I will be feeding her ice cream to give her pills.

Tomorrow I will go to Navarre to make the final arrangements with the mental care facility.  Last Tuesday I contacted Carol's neurologist about getting a doctor's order to commit her. When I send them an email, they say it will take two days for them to get back to me. They never got back to me. After I have taken care of the arrangements for the mental care facility, I will be giving Carol's doctor a phone call instead of an email and I will tell him how disappointed I am their lack of assistance in this matter. They blew me off and I am not happy about it. Once I have secured carols place at the facility, I need to shop for a bed and an end table to furnish her room.

Wish me good luck because I'm going to need it.  I have done as much as I can with her at home.  It's time for the professionals to do what they can for her.

Four More Months

Here we are, four months after I last wrote in these pages.  Four more months of trying to do what is best for Carol.  Four more months of teleworking.  Four more months of trying to stay sane.  Four more months of keeping our cats alive.  Four more months of frustration.  Four more months of fatigue.  Four more months of telling her not to turn on every light in the house because electricity isn’t free.  Four more months of telling her to keep the cats inside because they’ve been indoor cats all their lives.  Four more months of getting her to take her pills, sometimes successfully.  Four more months of imaginary people outside.  Four more months of her having conversations with the mirror.  Four more months of “put your seatbelt on.”  Four more months of keeping the front door closed.  Four more months of worrying about whether she'll fall down the stairs.  Four more months of emptying the half-full soda cans.  Four more months of saying "finish that before you open another one." Four more months of disappearing toilet paper.  Four more months of telling her "those towels are for drying off after showering, not cat blankets."  Four more months of telling her “that’s your son Greg upstairs.”  Four more months of “your mother isn’t dead, she’s fine.”  Four more months of trying to get to the mail first so she doesn’t hide it.  Four more months of telling her how to use a telephone and then getting bitched at when I do.  Four more months of “you need to see your doctor.”  Four more months of rescheduling doctor’s visits because she won’t go.  Four more months of "I'm fine" when I am probably anything but "fine."  Four more months of wondering "will this be the day she snaps?"  Four more months of being “the warden.”  Four more months of doing damn near everything.  Four more months of being wrong no matter what I do.

I have to keep telling myself “this is what you signed up for – for better or worse, in sickness and in health”…