Missing Children

When we arrived a day or two later my hands were full with a tray of kibbeh and a bouquet of forsythia from our bush at home, just beginning to bloom. The caregiver said he was fast asleep. They had been having a bit of a crisis, she said, her voice betraying her agitation though she tried to speak calmly. She was young, and obviously worried whether she’d done the right thing during an unexpected situation. He’d had another episode of confusion in the middle of the night, she said, when he insisted two children had been entrusted to his care but they had become lost and were somewhere in the apartment. At one point he even wanted to call the police. When the nurses tried to dissuade him he’d become angry and belligerent, ordering them out of his sight. (“It’s so ironic,” J. said to me later, “for someone who never seemed aware of his own children.”) In the morning, after initially refusing to take any medication at all, an additional sedative had been given and he’d calmed down and gone to sleep. We felt responsible; in discussion with two of the caregivers and J.’s brother, plus listening to my father-in-law’s complaints about his inability to do anything but sleep, we’d decided the previous day to ask for less daytime sedation in the hope that he could function better, with less drowsiness and more focus, during the day. They had cut out two doses of the usual tranquilizer and this, possibly, had been the result.

But at the time, I sat and listened to the caregiver, who was clearly upset, recounting what had happened and how she had dealt with it, while J. sat by his sleeping father’s bed. When I heard my father-in-law’s voice I excused myself and went in. “Hello!” he said. “How good to see you!”

“How are you?”

“I’ve been confused,” he immediately admitted. “There’s been this story about two children…but now I can’t figure out if I made it up, or if the nurse made it up and I went along with it. I don’t know where it came from.”

“Do you think it was a dream?”

“It seems like it must have been, but it felt very real.”

“Do you think they’re here now? Are you still worried about them?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He smiled faintly. “I’m afraid I got quite angry. But these people who stay here were driving me crazy! They watch me like hawks. The minute I move, they pop up out of nowhere and want to help me – it’s maddening! So I told them, ‘Get out!! If I need you I’ll call you!’” His face softened: “They are all very nice people, kind and decent. But they’re stupid, and fat. And now I think they’ve been out there talking on the phone all day – probably about me – but I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

The caregiver had indeed been on the phone a lot, and he was able to hear more than he let on. “It’s got to be really frustrating for you. Do you feel trapped?”

“Yes!”

“We know you’d rather be on your own – anybody would - but if you want to stay here, the place requires this kind of care if they feel you’re at risk for falling.”

“I just don’t want them to hover over me this way.” He mimed a woman’s voice: “‘Can I get you a glass of water? Can I help you go to the bathroom?’” and then thundered, “Leave me alone!” His face, angry and mournful, turned to look up at us. “Well, never mind. But it’s not fun.”

“I know, Dad. I’m sorry,” said J.

“C’est la vie. And I haven’t seen a doctor in weeks. She’s made three appointments and canceled them all.”

We didn’t realize the doctor had canceled. “Has your nurse been in to see you, you know, the black woman who you like?”

“Yes, she comes regularly, she takes my blood pressure and listens to my heart and massages my back, but she doesn’t tell me anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t tell me what’s wrong, or suggest anything they can do about it.” This same hospice nurse had told us on the phone that when she came he had seemed to be sleeping, and she didn’t want to wake him, so she hadn’t said anything to him.

‘You’d like someone to give you more information.”

“Yes! And I’m suspicious of the medications. The night nurse gives them to me in yogurt, which is awful – and I don’t trust her.” (She was the one who had sent him the hospital, the event he considers to have precipitated this whole crisis.) “So last night and this morning I refused to take them.”

“I thought you said you could swallow the pills better in yogurt,” said J. His father made a face.

“So you’d feel better if you could talk it over with your doctor.”

“Definitely.” He lowered his voice, just slightly. “I don’t think they know what they’re doing here, really. They mean well, and they are awfully kind, but…they are not the same as a doctor. And I also want something for my digestion.”

“OK,” we said. “We’ll see what we can do…

(to be continued tomorrow)

Comments

[Kaycie]

Oh dear. I don't like the sound of this. I hope he is alright. It must be terrible to feel so helpless when he has this kind of problem.

[Pica]

(o)

[dale]

ai. hard.

[Natalie]

Beth, you are so good about listening and asking what he actually wants and thinks. So often in the medical world the old are talked down to and treated like rather stupid children. All these episodes you describe so well remind me of being with both my parents when they were fading away (but not going quietly!) I too became furious at various nurses and carers who were around. I don't know if this is relevant to your FIL, but the various tranquilisers that were prescribed for both my parents were not at all helpful. My mother was having hallucinations and nightmares until I discovered that her carer had been giving her regular doses of Valium to keep her quiet. When I asked about it she said 'We always give it to them ("them"= the old). I was enraged, threw away the tablets and fired that carer. After this my mother's hallucinations stopped. But it sounds like the people where your FIL lives really care about him and look after him well and, hopefully, they don't administer tranquilisers willy nilly and by the bucket, as in some places.