The Mixed Bag
Fri., November 12, 09:29 AM
I can’t decide whether it’s news, or just a little “life goes on.” But I feel an obligation to post something. People have been so nice about helping me maintain a page despite my dissatisfaction with the D’land technology.
So the good news is that I saw the oncologist last week, for the first time since I finished up the radiation treatments. He says I came through both chemo and radiation very well. I still have some residual fatigue and so forth, but I’m coming along. I will continue to see him every few months and take this new pill for the next five years.
The bad news is that this tiny little pill – it looks like a saccharin tablet – runs over $200 a month! My fancy expensive insurance will cover it for the next seven months, but I don’t know what happens when I turn sixty-five and Medicare becomes first insurer. How much will it cost me to maintain prescription insurance for all the meds I take?
A rhetorical question, of course. Right now my social security pays for the insurance. When Medicare kicks in, I may need the social security to pay for medication. And what will I live on? Why, Mr. Dubya is going to take care of me, isn’t he? Oops, sorry, I didn’t mean to get political so soon. But that’s a bit of life going on as usual, isn’t it?
Anyhow, in another bit of good news, I had to buy a mascara this week which, as any woman knows, means that my eyelashes are back and my face looks a little more normal.
The other major part of my life – the part that contributes to the fatigue – is Husband, who thinks he’s fine. Medicare covers home care as long as the patient is improving, but once his need is just custodial care, you have to pay. So I let them stop for now: the therapists whose exercises he never did unless they were watching him, the nurse who checked his vitals, and the aide who helped him bathe and dress. Husband is thrilled. He immediately put aside the walker and went back to his cane, ignored his daily care, and started complaining about his pills.
Given the chance, he would crawl into a hole and pull it in after him. He doesn’t have a clue about how sick he was a couple of months ago; had I not been getting him up regularly, he would have slipped into unconsciousness before we ever knew what was going on. He has not complained about how much junk we threw out, nor does he seem to notice that his room no longer stinks. The cigarettes are gone.
Son installed a wall bracket for his TV set, so that he can watch from bed if he wants. But he usually comes into the kitchen to watch my set after I’ve gone to bed. Same old, same old.
I picked up a pill from the bathroom floor, one that he said he had taken. When I showed it to him, he accused me of planting it there. He then decided he didn’t want to go and visit some old friends, a visit we had set up for his benefit. Son finally talked him into going.
I had already told him that U.D. and I were going, regardless of whether he went or not, because it’s rude to tell people you’re coming and then not show up. He agreed to ride with Son and his ladyfriend. But this man – who never had a mean bone in his body – is often very rude.
No, he’s not senile; no, it’s not Alzheimer’s. The nurse agreed with me that regular observations indicated that his brain is fine, albeit lazy. I think it could be depression; the staff at the nursing facility looked into that too. But he “doesn’t believe in that stuff.” He tells skilled questioners that he feels fine, and what can they do – call him a liar? He becomes very angry at the thought of selling the Cheesebox, though that will become necessary if I decide that we can’t care for him at home. The property is half his, after all, and he would need the money to help pay for custodial care. For the time being, we’ll try to keep him happy here.
But if you think for one minute that checking out all the possible scenarios isn’t stressful… Now you know (part of) why I sleep so much. He complained that I sleep too much. When I pointed out that I’m sick, he pooh-poohed that. He can’t contemplate my illness; good servants are hard to find.
