'You're getting so tall! I can't believe it!'
'How tall are you now?'
'You must be 5"10'
'You're getting taller! You're nearly as tall as your father!'
'I'm shrinking. I'm 5"2 now. My mother was even shorter.'
'You're so tall! Everytime I see you you're taller.'
'I'm shrinking now. I'm really small. I'm nearly as small as my mother.'
'You've grown since I last saw you.'
'You're taller than your father now! I'm getting smaller.'
'How tall are you?'
Monday 24 February 2014
A is for Answers
This is probably the most difficult post I've had to write so far on this journey into the foggy world of Dementia and Alzheimers.
After months of discussing, predicting, arguing, counselling, convincing, testing and asking questions, the day had come to get some answers. At 3.15pm, we will be sat in the Doctor's office, given a diagnosis and talk about the different treatments we can try moving on from that appointment.
Of course, this wasn't quite the way it turned out.
We arrived at the hospital with plenty of time and it turns out not much information. We hadn't received the final letter confirming the appointment and only had some referral letters from our first session with the registrar. When the Neurophysiology department had no idea who we were, and the Medical Day Unit's reception was unmanned and apparently 'closed', the panic began to set in. Cue the clichéd run around different floors and departments, increasing anxiety that we'll miss the appointment and raised tension between the family which manifested itself into shouts like 'read the bloody sign! It says outpatients this way!'
We eventually made it to the right department, ten minutes late, flustered and agitated. We spent at least 15 minutes waiting for lifts because the stairs were only accessible to staff - no idea why. (Is this some new hospital rule?! I really don't understand.) We then had to wait a further 40 minutes because the said delay had meant the other patients, who had made it on time without getting lost and harassing unsuspecting hospital porters, were ahead of us in the queue.
Finally, Dee's name was called, we were summoned into a little room with a big number thirteen on the door (this was not the day to be superstitious) and we were moments away from understanding her fate.
It turns out, two years on from the start of this battle, there still isn't much we could understand. After months of family discussion, convincing Dee to go to the doctors, the blood tests, memory tests, consultations and MRI scans, we were told she 'may have alzheimers' but further testing was needed to get a definite diagnosis. We were also told that she can be prescribed medication, but this medication was by no means a miracle cure. We were told we could make changes to her diet, but we'd be better off seeing what effects the medication may have first.
We were told many things, but none of them were definite answers. Every professional Dee has seen has been amazingly helpful, understanding and pleasant, and this lack of information is certainly not down to incompetence. It turns out, there just isn't much you can be sure about with matters of the brain.
This entry was originally called 'D is for Diagnosis', but we're still waiting for an official one. Meanwhile, a realisation has descended on the family that Dee will not be getting better, that there is no miracle cure, and that this will get a lot harder. I am not in the habit of ending these in a negative fashion, but Dee's future does not look good, and I would be cheating you of an accurate depiction of how this Dementia thing goes if I did sign this off with a positive outlook on life. There is an inescapable sadness that has fallen on the house tonight.
After months of discussing, predicting, arguing, counselling, convincing, testing and asking questions, the day had come to get some answers. At 3.15pm, we will be sat in the Doctor's office, given a diagnosis and talk about the different treatments we can try moving on from that appointment.
Of course, this wasn't quite the way it turned out.
We arrived at the hospital with plenty of time and it turns out not much information. We hadn't received the final letter confirming the appointment and only had some referral letters from our first session with the registrar. When the Neurophysiology department had no idea who we were, and the Medical Day Unit's reception was unmanned and apparently 'closed', the panic began to set in. Cue the clichéd run around different floors and departments, increasing anxiety that we'll miss the appointment and raised tension between the family which manifested itself into shouts like 'read the bloody sign! It says outpatients this way!'
We eventually made it to the right department, ten minutes late, flustered and agitated. We spent at least 15 minutes waiting for lifts because the stairs were only accessible to staff - no idea why. (Is this some new hospital rule?! I really don't understand.) We then had to wait a further 40 minutes because the said delay had meant the other patients, who had made it on time without getting lost and harassing unsuspecting hospital porters, were ahead of us in the queue.
Finally, Dee's name was called, we were summoned into a little room with a big number thirteen on the door (this was not the day to be superstitious) and we were moments away from understanding her fate.
It turns out, two years on from the start of this battle, there still isn't much we could understand. After months of family discussion, convincing Dee to go to the doctors, the blood tests, memory tests, consultations and MRI scans, we were told she 'may have alzheimers' but further testing was needed to get a definite diagnosis. We were also told that she can be prescribed medication, but this medication was by no means a miracle cure. We were told we could make changes to her diet, but we'd be better off seeing what effects the medication may have first.
We were told many things, but none of them were definite answers. Every professional Dee has seen has been amazingly helpful, understanding and pleasant, and this lack of information is certainly not down to incompetence. It turns out, there just isn't much you can be sure about with matters of the brain.
This entry was originally called 'D is for Diagnosis', but we're still waiting for an official one. Meanwhile, a realisation has descended on the family that Dee will not be getting better, that there is no miracle cure, and that this will get a lot harder. I am not in the habit of ending these in a negative fashion, but Dee's future does not look good, and I would be cheating you of an accurate depiction of how this Dementia thing goes if I did sign this off with a positive outlook on life. There is an inescapable sadness that has fallen on the house tonight.
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