Joyce's KP Adventure mikepasini.com headlines
Of Meds and Maybes
2 September 2020
This morning Joyce was evaluated by Steven for physical therapy sessions with Alpha starting next week. He didn't think she needed a commode or walker or cane or any of the cool things Medicare club members get. She just needed strength exercises.
Meds. The liquid one is mine.
So he diagrammed four for her to start with (and she actually did them this afternoon). The idea is to strengthen the muscles outside her knees to straighten her feet and make her more stable.
I got in touch with Salwa Rashid, Joyce's new nurse. She's planning a visit Friday to take vitals. Nothing more.
And Tyler called. He confirmed they can do the dressing changes at home but he needs an order from Dr. Tong. So he was going to follow up with her and get back to us.
With all of this settled amicably, I took the laundry over to my mother's, took down her garbage, wound the clock, paid her bills and chatted with her home healthcare nurse Jaymee.
Jaymee's husband works for the Post Office. He's not happy. They've been told to come in an hour and a half later, which puts him right in the middle of Silicon Valley traffic going and coming to work.
The "higher ups" have decreed that sorting the mail shouldn't take as long as it's taken for the last 200 years. Even if they've started eliminating sorting machines. So he can't get his work done.
But after breaking his foot when a package fell on it at work, he's out of the picture for a while anyway.
Sometimes the stuff you hear on the news is really what's going on. Imagine that.
When I got home I saw a FedEx truck parked up the street so I hustled in to find out if the canisters had been delivered.
Nope.
Having intimations of disaster, I called Apria to track the delivery at 3:30. What delivery?
Oh dear.
Christine (who seems to have been there when the cornerstone was placed) figured out how to get an order here tonight. A big order. Ten canisters not five, 15 foam pads not five and some drapes (the stick tape that plugs leaks).
So what's your preferred lead time, I asked her nicely.
I'd sell unlaundered unmentionables for one canister at this point.
"You order on Wednesday for a Friday delivery and I get it to you on Thursday," she said. Same day is possible if you order in the morning. Next day is typical. Two-day will be next day.
Except this time.
But she promised we'll get the order tonight.
"Too bad," I said. "I was hoping to drill into one of the full canisters to drain it."
She laughed. "Well, you can still do that."
An hour and a half later I get a call from Kimberly at Apria to confirm our address.
"You sure you don't want 15 canisters?" she offers.
I'd sell unlaundered unmentionables for one canister at this point. Except I just laundered everything. "OK," I try to be agreeable.
I make coffee and read over Joyce's new meds. Ativan and Oxycodone. Oh boy.
Then I go downstairs to answer email even if it's really dinner time. I don't have to cook because Alice bought enough hot food for two nights.
So according to the natural order of things, the phone rings. "Ha!" I laugh to myself (but audibly to the neighbors). "I'm not cooking tonight!"
It's Dr. Tong. "Winnie?" "Yes, Michael?" "Yes."
She's going to try to get the nurse to do the dressing change tomorrow. Take the Oxycodone 20 to 30 minutes before, she says, then Tylenol if necessary five minutes later, then Ativan five minutes after that if Joyce is anxious (oh, I thought she meant I should take the pills).
I thought you weren't supposed to mix them but she says it's OK if they're staggered. They gave Joyce Oxycodone last time and she did well.
But, she says, she isn't cancelling the hospital visit tomorrow at 2 p.m. in case the nurse can't do the procedure in the morning. It's our Plan B.
"Another thing," she says (and I probably should not be telling you this). "Be nice to them."
During this Covid-19 crisis, having home healthcare do what the clinic could is a big benefit to her and us. But they can always cite some "gray area" that would exempt them from continuing service, she said.
"Oh, Joyce is very nice," I remind her.
"You both are," she says. "I'm just saying."
"Got it." Available evidence suggests I'm not nearly that nice.
So Joyce has her Oxycodone and Ativan and I have an affordable single malt and somewhere as the sun sets our canisters, white foam and drapes are rumbling toward us as the Post Office is shackled by political operatives.
I think I'll start dinner and see who calls.