Doctor, Doctor

Appointment is at 1:15.
I arrive at 12:35.  The office is 20 minutes away.

Dad: (coming out of dining room):  I have to wash my hands.
Me:  Okay, Dad.  I'll wait down here for you.

Dementia has its' own timetable.  Dad no longer understands why he should have to show up anywhere at any given time.  Fortunately, the doctor and the doctor's office help all understand this.  Various housemates of Dad float by and we greet each other.



Dad:  (at 12:58).  I'm ready.  You go out first and start the car.  (translation: I don't need your help walking down the stairs today).

I start the car.  I watch Dad walk down the stairs.  I help Dad into the car, straighten out the seatbelt.  Dad has one brown glove and one black glove with him.

Dad:  (at 1:05)  Why are we going to the doctor?  Which one?
Me:  You were complaining about shooting pains in your leg near your scab.  And burning.
Dad:  Okay.  (looks around vaguely).
(translation: I have no idea what you just said but I'll ride along and see where we end up).



In doctor's office at 1:25.  The staff see him arrive and check him in as I am parking the car.


Doc:  Your scab is healing.  Everything is okay.  The cellulitis did not come back.
Dad:  Doc, is my leg going to fall off ?
Doc:  Your leg is firmly attached.  You are going to be alright.
Dad:  But my ankles are different colors, see?
Doc:  (inspects ankles, straightens out one of Dad's socks for him)  Your ankles are that way because of your age.


Me: (out in the hallway with the doctor)  Sorry Doc.  He said he was having shooting pains and burning.
Doc:  I'd rather have you bring him in and it be nothing than you miss something that he does need medical attention for.


Dad and I go out for coffee at the favorite local diner.  This is something that we enjoy doing together.  Dad orders coffee.  I order hot chocolate.  We split an English muffin.  Dad comes back from the mens' room and is able to tell the manager that the sink water in there was too hot.


We start the drive back to Dad's home.
Dad:  My leg didn't hurt in the doctor's office.  Now it is burning and has shooting pains.


sapphoq on life: And I even had a question about which side of the family donated a genetic propensity toward anxiety to me???

Dementia is hell.  Dementia is painful.  Dementia tears families apart.  Dementia has torn our family apart.  I am losing one person.  Dad is losing everyone.  Dad was always there for me and now it is my turn to be there for him.  I feel very fortunate and honored that I can be a comfort to Dad in the evening of his life.