The Man That Scares Me and The Man I Love

Republished at: https://www.kevinmd.com/blog/2018/10/the-man-that-scares-me-and-the-man-i-love.html

There is a man. He is in my house. I don’t know where he came from. But he just came into my house. And now he is living there. And I am afraid of him. I do not know who he is. There is a man in my house. I am so scared. I don’t know why he came. But he is there. And he tells people he is my husband. And he is not! He is not! And no one believes me. Do you believe me? He is not my husband. I am so scared. Do you believe me? I am a good person. I have seven children. I am an honest person. There is something wrong. I know there is. I know there is.

 My patient. Age 68. She perseverates about this man. She is insistent. She was found wandering in the hospital parking lot. No one is with her. She wants to let out her fear in screams, but her voice is thin and frail. She is so frightened.

 They told me she has early onset Alzheimer’s dementia a year and a half ago. Last week I found her standing outside in the rain. A few days ago she had walked down to the neighbor’s house three doors down at 11 o’clock at night without a coat on. Today, she had an accident in the bathroom. She hollered for me to come to the bathroom and then hurried me away because she said she was going to clean it up. I went to check on her and she was gone. She had taken the car and left. She drove herself here.

 My patient’s husband. He is soft-spoken. His left hand tremors as he stands. His face is slightly glossy and his expressions are muted. I explain that she currently is confused. She thinks he is not who he is. She may be frightened to see him.

Sometimes she gets like that. She yells at me. “Get out! Get out! You don’t love me! You don’t love me! You son of a bitch! Get out!” It hurts my feelings. It does. It really hurts my feelings. And then sometimes she tells me she loves me. She thanks me for being her husband.

He speaks with a hollow, flat voice. He stares at me with foggy, pale blue eyes. His sadness and defeat lean into me. He tells me to wait for his son. His son is arranging for her to go to a center. He’ll have the details to tell me.

We’ve been married 44 years. We have seven children. And 16 grandchildren! She is my world. Can I go in?

 We stand outside her room, and his eyes fall on the closed door handle. I tell him that she seems frightened at the moment, but he knows best. If he thinks she will be comforted by the sight of him, he is more than welcome to go into her room. If he thinks it may make matters worse, he is welcome to wait in the waiting room. Whatever he thinks would be best for her.

Well. I think I’ll try, Doc. If she shouts and hollers and shoos me away, I’ll go outside. But if I go in quietly, sometimes I can talk to her and she is okay with me staying there. And then sometimes she warms up to me. I’m going to try.

 He is soft spoken but resolute. I peer through the crack he leaves in the door as he slowly inches in. He leans over the railing of the bed. He straightens her white crisp hospital sheet. She looks at him and I can’t hear their conversation, but that is relieving. He settles into the seat next to her side.

The next time I enter the room, the husband has left with family to rest and the patient’s son sits at the bedside. He loves his parents and he tells me that they are arranging for her to go to a memory care center.

He won’t be far behind her. He can barely take care of himself, let alone her. It’s just been too much for him, you know?

 The last ten days has been draining on their family. This seems like a quicksand downhill plunge. They have been in and out of hospitals. She was at her neurologist’s three days ago and there is nothing to do. Maybe these new medications will help. They will take time. In the mean time, they are chasing her in the rain.

I come back when the work-up is finished. I am relieved. She has a urinary tract infection. I am not relieved there is something wrong with her but I am relieved there is something fixable. You see, urinary tract infections can make you more confused than normal. Confusion can be the absolute only sign that you have an infection. And there it was. The last ten days of rapidly losing this adored wife, this beloved mom, this treasured grandmother, explained with a urinary tract infection. IV antibiotics were started and I admitted her to the hospital where she would not wander into the rain and she would get better.

I am not saying this is the end of their battle, that it won’t still be a declining slope, but I am saying that maybe they haven’t completely lost her the way they had thought.

I go back into the room to tell them. She is no longer tense and tearful. She is relaxed and loved and safe next to her son. I tell them about all the things I have done. Laboratory studies, CT scan, and that she has a urinary tract infection that is very treatable. She laughs out loud and all sense of that frightened woman I had met before seem to be drowned right out. She holds her hand up high in the air to give me a high-five.

Wow! Good job, Doctor!  So thorough! Thank you!  

She laughs joyously like I have just uncovered the eighth wonder of the world for her to see. I thank her for the first high-five of my day. We all chuckle together like old friends and it feels good.

There it was. A glimpse of her real self. All the charisma, all the spunk, all the warmth. There was the woman he has loved for 44 years. There is the woman that raised seven children with all the strength in the world. I see her now. I can see why this is so hard. To see her, then lose her, then see her. It would hurt my feelings too.

Hold close to those you love. Remember all you love about them. Tell them often. Let what you love imprint itself onto you, because you never know which way life may turn.

 

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The Audition

The hoops to being an “on-top-of-it” parent are endless. Remember to pack a lunch every day. Check their homework every night. Help them brush their teeth two times a day. Cook dinner for an entire family. Orchestrate on time after school pick-ups and drop-offs with accompanying sports equipment, water bottles and snacks. Remember to pay the monthly daycare bill. Sheepishly solicit uncles, aunts, grandparents and neighbors to donate to the current fundraiser. Check to make sure they remember their winter hat and gloves on the first cold day of the season. Check to see if they need new boots and coats. It is exhaustingly endless. But somehow we scramble and hustle and keep the barreling train moving forward. Sometimes, the wheels rattle and sometimes they screech and sometimes we wonder if they are falling off, but somehow, we keep things moving forward.

Last week was just like every other stretch of hurling myself over each hurdle of the 100-meter sprint to the end of the next 7-day stretch. It was Sunday night and I was bracing myself for a week of having an out-of-town husband-teammate. I was rallying to keep myself afloat by studying our family Google calendar as if prepping plays for the Saturday morning football game. My eyes flitted onto the upcoming Sunday. “Auditions” it said. My heart took a freefall down the cliff to my stomach. You see, I have a bad habit of burying anxiety-ridden thoughts to be searched for later, and I had done exactly that a few weeks ago.

My seven-year-old daughter had been asking since the start of the school year about auditioning for a “specialty dance” at her dance studio. My seven-year-old daughter—my quiet, thoughtful, unwavering-as-steel little girl wanted to audition for a small group dance. Who was I to deny her of her greatest ambition to date? You go girl, I enthusiastically fist-pumped, in my best she-is-fierce-hear-her-roar impersonation. That is, until I got the instructions for auditions. “Choreograph 6 – 8 8 counts of dance, any style, any music. We can’t wait to see your creativity!” it read. I was horrified.

First of all—for point of reference—you should know something about me. I have no sense of coordination. Here are a few facts about me:

1. I am the person who sprains her ankle walking on flat ground. Routinely.

2. I once fell from standing height while standing still at a wedding because I had put on heels for the first time after spending my entire intern year in residency working, eating, and practically sleeping in sneakers and scrubs.

Do you get what I am saying? To say that I have never been much of a dancer is to let me down gently. I certainly have never learned a piece of choreographed moves to a beat, let alone know the first thing about choreographing a number myself. My anxiety dug a hole in that mud pile in my brain where I hide unwanted terrifying thoughts and snuck this bit of palpitation-inducing information deep into its trenches.

I carried on week by week, just trying to be that scraping-by parent I was so seasoned at being. But now here I was, 7 days from The Audition. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT AN 8 COUNT IS. My panicked brain screamed at me. I frantically searched for a reputable life-line. I asked my daughter, “What is an 8 count?” “A what?” She looked at me blankly. “What is an 8 count in dance? Like, do you count to 8? What is it?” She looked back at me as if I was speaking in Klingon. “An 8 count. Do you know what I am talking about? What is it?” I quickly realized this was leading nowhere fast. I set it aside, and busied myself on the train. We pushed forward with the bedtime routine. Homework, baths, teeth brushing, pajamas, bedtime stories. Two more bedtime stories. And just one more bedtime story. And just one more bedtime story. And by that time, I was ready to put myself to bed. So, the kids went to bed, and I’d love to say I had a productive night of learning about 8 counts, but let’s be honest. I went to bed.

Monday morning. 6 days till game time. WHAT IS AN 8 COUNT??? Brush teeth, put on school clothes, breakfast, check backpacks for weekend homework, library books, get your coats, gloves, hats—don’t forget your coat. Your snacks are still on the counter. Put your snacks in your backpack! Where is your coat? Do you have your gloves? Shoes. Wait, why don’t you ever come downstairs with socks? Get socks!!! You need to go potty? Take your gloves off. Where did you put your gloves? You just had them! Here. Here are a different pair. You want your Frozen gloves? Well, I’m sorry. You just lost them. Seriously, though. You just had them! Never mind. Hurry! We are late! Get in the car!

9 hours later, I have finished a shift in the emergency department. I have emergently sent someone to cardiac catheterization lab for a heart attack. I have put a chest tube into a patient with a collapsed lung. I have diagnosed appendicitis in a patient with abdominal pain. I have put a broken arm in a splint. Guess what.  I still do not know what an 8 count of dance is.

My husband is out of town. My daycare provider is on her honeymoon. My nanny is in Kentucky. My friend, part of my life-line team, and second mom to my kids has picked them up from the bus stop, and is feeding them dinner before taking my daughter to dance. I get off work in time to meet her for dinner, and finally, finally—someone who knows what an 8 count is. She educates me and I feel like she has given me the map to finding something as profound as the fountain of youth. I KNOW WHAT AN 8 COUNT IS. Thank you friend. Thank you for picking up my kids. Thank you for feeding them. Thank you for not laughing at me when I asked you what an 8 count is. Thank you for offering to help your super dance-challenged friend choreograph a piece. Thank you a million times over.

Monday evening comes around. I am armed with my knowledge. I still have no beat and do not know the first thing about dance moves. I watch old clips of dance studio numbers. I get swept up in how good the dancers are and forget to pay attention to what will work for choreographing a dance for my daughter. I have no idea what I am doing. I am in a frenzy. My husband gets home from Philadelphia or Sarasota or wherever his out-of-town trip was this time—I seriously cannot keep track. I thrust my arms in the air and dramatically groan. “I give up! You need to do this! I can’t do this!” before he has a minute to put down his carry-on luggage and take off his shoes. I am passing the buck, because truly, my husband can stand without spraining his ankle and can pick up choreography and help our daughter with her dances in a much more effective way than I have ever been able to. He has officially and involuntarily been promoted to choreographer. He is startled or maybe frightened by this seemingly hasty but unwavering promotion I have bestowed upon him.

I go to bed that night irrationally assured and unequivocally certain that I will awaken in the morning to a choreographed, adorable number that my husband has masterfully slapped together. He is literally good at everything (except completing a full load of laundry from start to finish—blogpost for another day). But this. Oh, this he will excel at. I know. I just know. Because, well, we truly have no other option.

The morning alarm hurls its horrible short sirens through our peaceful slumber. We fall out of bed, time to get ready, time to get the kids ready, more than half-asleep, we are already late, I’m sure. My husband breaks the news. He spent a harrowing 60 minutes last night trying and came to the conclusion that it is in fact impossible to choreograph 6 – 8 8 counts of dance moves to create an audition piece. We can’t. He says. We just can’t.

Okay. Let’s take a minute. If there is one thing that makes me know I CAN is someone telling me I CANNOT. The fire has been lit and I am the woman for the job. I demote him from his title, and re-promote myself. The buck stops here.

So, I do it. I truly can’t even explain how it came to be. I just DID. I choreographed 8 8 counts of dance moves to a beautiful song called “Superman” picked by my strong-as-steel seven-year-old daughter. It is Tuesday, and she has an audition piece. She is beyond thrilled. I see the excitement shiver up from her toes to the sparkle in her eyes. She practices on repeat each day. She is in love with her audition piece.

Fast-forward 6 days and it is Sunday morning. It is the day of her audition. She picks her audition outfit. She performs for her brother, sister, mom and dad. My insides are weeping with pride. She is beautiful. She is brave, she is powerful, she is IT. She walks into her audition with not a nerve in her clean, long lines, and she let’s them know: She is strong-as-steel.

We have yet to know if she will do a specialty dance. That will be announced in the following weeks, but wow. I’m not sure that part of this story truly even matters.

This head-strong, quiet, seven-year-old of mine gave me my greatest challenge to date, and I gave it right back to her. If I didn’t realize it before, I realize it now. This is the building of a strong, fearless girl. I am up for the challenge. We beat down that audition. Regardless of the outcome, deep down, I wholeheartedly know we have already nailed it.