Member-only story
I’m here by choice. I’m just not perfect at this. I fall so far short.
May 22, 2019
I haven’t written much since I’ve been with mom. Don’t know why. You wouldn’t think I’m consumed with activity, but it seems I am. I am overwhelmed.
I am learning wound care. She has an opening in her chest wall that is nearly two inches deep. I pack it with cotton tape, pushing in a section at a time with a long cotton swab. I wasn’t packing it deep enough. I hadn’t taken the cotton swab and angled it to probe to find the bottom. I had been packing half as far as I needed to. How was I to know? I hadn’t had adequate instruction. Why isn’t there a wound care specialist? I don’t know.
I thought she was keeping a log of her blood sugar, food, when she took her pills. She hadn’t. She had when I first came, then she simply stopped. I hadn’t noticed. Now I keep a log of everything, including when she uses the bathroom. How much water she drinks. Her level of nausea, dizziness.
I’m exhausted. She fights me. She says she knows what she’s doing. She says she’s fine. But she said that the day she went into the ER, the day she nearly died of sepsis. I remind her of that. She shakes her head in frustration and looks away.
She’s deaf. If she chooses not to listen to me, she holds up her hand and closes her eyes. She says…
