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ScreechingCoot of Bliss
May. 9th, 2019 11:02 pmI woke up too early, after dreaming there was a giant alien ship that looked like a ziggurat plowing the seas toward the place where we were staying, near the shore. When the alien ship came close enough, its emanations would cause everything to rise and float away into space. I needed to get into the car and quickly leave before the aliens arrived, lest I too float away. I was trying to gather up a few things I would need, realizing that all my children's toys and clothes would soon be lost forever. I was crying as I ran around, and simultaneously beating myself up for being such a whiner because other people had it worse. "Everything floats away," I cried. "Even people." Yeah, that was fun. I had been re-reading the Stardance trilogy, in which people do float away into space, but they're protected by a living symbiote and it's a joyous moment. My dreams need better alien overlords.
The clusterfuck of elder care never ends. In another long email received just tonight, the reader learns that the Duchess has decided we need more and different options, apparently giving up on hospice care because she thinks they won't do her bidding in regard to medications. I don't believe we have ascertained this for sure, and the last I heard, she wanted to have another meeting with the hospice nurse on Monday, when I would be there. Now it seems she has rejected that option. She says "someone else," i.e. me, can set up such a meeting if they want. But there's no point if she's not going to agree to hospice anyway. Meanwhile, she and Mr. Science will be attending a two-hour panel discussion on death doulas, and considering that as an alternative form of care. They can do that if they want, but I've had it with this stuff. Mother doesn't need a self-appointed spiritual counselor who will talk with her about her plans for dying and her legacy and whatnot. WTF. Mother is past all that. She can form complete sentences on a good day. She needs simple practical care for her physical needs. I don't know how this is going to end. I have no control over it at this point. I've written a draft email in which I try to express my concerns in a pacific manner, without the shouty and stabby capslock mode I'd like to employ.
My one bit of Schadenfreude is that since Mr. Science inadvertently presided over the creation of a very crappy POA document, there is no provision for a second in command, so I cannot sign off on anything and the responsibility will come back on him alone. But that doesn't really give me joy, because 1) I am truly sorry to see the emotional knot Mr. Science is in right now, and 2) It will be hard for him to get around to signing anything, and our mother will be the one who suffers for that.
This is not a good situation, and with the best will in the world, I cannot fix it. Maybe things will work out better than I think. Maybe my sibs will come to their senses in time . . . . How very appropriate that it is ScreechingCoot day.
The clusterfuck of elder care never ends. In another long email received just tonight, the reader learns that the Duchess has decided we need more and different options, apparently giving up on hospice care because she thinks they won't do her bidding in regard to medications. I don't believe we have ascertained this for sure, and the last I heard, she wanted to have another meeting with the hospice nurse on Monday, when I would be there. Now it seems she has rejected that option. She says "someone else," i.e. me, can set up such a meeting if they want. But there's no point if she's not going to agree to hospice anyway. Meanwhile, she and Mr. Science will be attending a two-hour panel discussion on death doulas, and considering that as an alternative form of care. They can do that if they want, but I've had it with this stuff. Mother doesn't need a self-appointed spiritual counselor who will talk with her about her plans for dying and her legacy and whatnot. WTF. Mother is past all that. She can form complete sentences on a good day. She needs simple practical care for her physical needs. I don't know how this is going to end. I have no control over it at this point. I've written a draft email in which I try to express my concerns in a pacific manner, without the shouty and stabby capslock mode I'd like to employ.
My one bit of Schadenfreude is that since Mr. Science inadvertently presided over the creation of a very crappy POA document, there is no provision for a second in command, so I cannot sign off on anything and the responsibility will come back on him alone. But that doesn't really give me joy, because 1) I am truly sorry to see the emotional knot Mr. Science is in right now, and 2) It will be hard for him to get around to signing anything, and our mother will be the one who suffers for that.
This is not a good situation, and with the best will in the world, I cannot fix it. Maybe things will work out better than I think. Maybe my sibs will come to their senses in time . . . . How very appropriate that it is ScreechingCoot day.
