The Box

We're in a box. If she goes to the old doctor, he says "You're just old, Rose." He knows if he gives her pain killers she will take them and they'll make her woozy. She's better off without them. In addition, this doctor's office is a substantial distance from her home.

If she goes to a new doctor and says she's in pain, the new doctor will prescribe shots and pills to ease the pain. She will without fail have an adverse reaction to the shots and pills. The new doctor is doing what he thinks he should do, based on knowing none of her history, but she will end up worse than when she went in.

But sometimes you just have to see a doctor. So we found her a new doctor around the corner from her house. He's a gerentologist and will accept Medicaid. So she went to him yesterday. He gave her a shot and some pills.

Last night she was hallucinating. She couldn't figure out who we were on the phone and kept talking about all the people who were cooking in the next room, except the people weren't really there, and about her parents and our kids when they were small, except she thought we were them.

It was awful, so her caregiver didn't give her any more of those pills. This morning she has developed horrible pains in her hip, which cause her to scream out in pain. She probably needs to see a doctor. But who? And when? And for what end? What can they do but give her another shot and more pills?

The sad truth is probably what her first doctor said. But how can we be sure, 370 miles up I-5? How can anybody know? And would a hospital be better? Not very likely.

Hanky Girl, you are right. This box stinks.