Tags: barb

new year

An extremely various day.

Making an effort to move back from New Zealand time. I was up, I was reading, I was online. These rainy days are making preparation for the Open Studio harder than it might be, and my geraniums are all frost killed. Went for my walk, with pink umbrella, and took a flyer to the coffee shop.

Along the way I got on the phone to Barb's doctor's office, following up on last week, still trying to get through. This was a Women's Health Clinic, which information made the injuries from when her husband threw her around last winter before he was institutionalized a bit higher on my list of possible factors to discuss. I got two recorded messages, yadda yadda about getting prescription refills and then about protocols for your flu appointments, and then the musical selection that started playing was Clapton's "Tears In Heaven" which was a bit much for me, how could you make this shit up. I was very polite but insistent to the office staff, that I would like to talk to the doctor about giving Barb a referral to the hospice people for assessment. She said the doctor would get back to me. Right.
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When I got home it was not nearly time to try calling them back yet, so I lay on the floor and breathed for a bit, did some stretching, and then changed the bulb on the slide projector and got that working again. Just checking: it was a little wacky, but I got it calmed down. Then went downstairs to start piling up boxes and stuff to haul up for the display. I was working on the flyer I had been meaning to do when bibliofile came down after a while with a helpful snack, and showed me how to do some word processing tricks I didn't know. After a couple of Blue Screens of Death, in the course of the day I eventually threw it together the way I wanted it. But first there was a phone call, so I went upstairs to talk to the doctor's office again.

This time it was not the doctor, who seems to make a specialty of avoiding this patient, but Diana, who reports to the doctor and makes a specialty of stonewalling. Since I am not a relative or anything she could tell me nothing, of course, so instead I told her some things. Just checking whether she knew Barb is living alone now and has no one to take care of her. Whether she realizes Barb is starving to death -- now about half the weight she was when she was healthy, many years ago. I allowed as how it didn't seem like Barb has anyone listening to her, since she would quite literally rather die than go to an emergency room again. Most recently at the ER she got an antibiotic, for cellulitis that is complicating the lymphedema she is attempting to care for on her own, but she has trouble keeping it down. So many things are wrong, I'm a bit surprised she has managed to hang on this long. The reason she can't get the referral to hospice is that one is not eligible for hospice until the doctor has pronounced only six months to live. I asked how long she expects a person weighing eighty pounds to last, but of course she couldn't answer that either, and I was trying hard not to sound sarcastic. It is possible that I was emphatic enough that Diana's notes will in fact go to the doctor, and I emphasized that Barbara has severe quality of life issues to manage for the remainder of her life, which the hospice people seemed to understand right off, and all I am asking about is a referral for an assessment. Thanks, and talk to you later, I said.

After that I went and folded clothes furiously for a while. Then I had another little lie down on the floor and breathe.

Before the afternoon light was gone I went out to the garage and surveyed the possible floor layouts for this year. Set up the art fair display panels, with bibliofile's help, arranged an extension cord and moved some stuff around.

Mr S has had a remarkably busy day: moving a boat, fixing a car, and now still off until late for his refresher course and physical test for fire management. I am having some sit down with the television time, although I seem to have missed most of CSI, while bibliofile is baking. One thing at a time.