A Simple trip to the Doctor
So when you have to go for blood work in the morning, you may not consume anything. Lack of Coffee + Lack of Xanax to keep your hands from choking the parental unit + stress at work = I may kill someone this AM and not even think twice.
We start this journey through my own personal hell with me starting the car and waiting for the arrival of the parent, who comes rolling up in her electric chair with her O2 concentrator on her lap. She is gasping like a little goldfish someone tossed on the sand. The gasping was caused by one of the pets? I am not sure how but that is the explanation I got.
The O2 Concentrators, a lovely little mobility freeing contraptions come with a shoulder strap, a hand strap to carry like a briefcase OR a luggage pulling cart.
This trip will entail going from the HOUSE to the CAR, from the CAR to the OFFICE, into a ROOM, BACK to the CAR and HOME.
Since I AM her personal step and fetch, she feels the need to allow me to follow her with this machine. One would assume shoulder strap or handle. OH NO, We are on the cart. With a 5 foot length of hose. FOR ME TO WALK BEHIND HER AND KEEP THE CART CLOSE ENOUGH FOR HER TO KEEP BREATHING. So you can imagine how very awkward this whole little PARADE of SPAZ is. I either catch the back of her shoe, or she ends up having to stop short because she gives no thought to the Obstacle Course in Hell she has created for me with this stupid little FLIPPING CART. Oh, and let me add, it just SITS on the cart. There is no way to strap that bitch in. You slide the handle over the back bracket, which provides enough roomy slippage for the damn thing to fall off, AND SHE JUST KEEPS WALKING. So here I am dragging behind her the whole time pulling the cart and the damn thing falls off TWICE, and she kept walking TWICE. You would think at this point she might get the idea and PULL THE FREAKING THING HERSELF. SHE IS OLD, NOT AN INVALID.
While in the exam room the doctor asks her the usual questions. She has an opportunity to ask ANYTHING she wants. In the tiny little room where NO ONE CAN HEAR. Oh, no that would be WAY TO FREAKING SIMPLE. Let us wait until we are at the WINDOW LEAVING, to ask the doctor if we can have something for our leg cramps that keep us up at night. This is no big deal, if she wants the world to know she has leg cramps so be it. The issue is WE ARE NOW BLOCKING THE RIGHT OF WAY FOR ANYONE TO EGRESS FROM THE OFFICE.
I on the other hand, while in the little room, struggled to find a tactful way to ask my doctor to increase my mg level on my xanax without blurting, "you live with this crazy bitch and see how often you need something to keep you from smacking the shit out of her?" I blamed it on my job, he didn't increase the mgs. but he did up the number in the bottle per script. I don't take it all day every day. It just seems like lately it is a wee more frequently that before.
We get out of the office, and I am now in a mad dash to get back home because OH! I WORK, and I have a CALL I HAVE TO BE ON. She starts making inroad requests for grocery store items. UM, I could have taken more time if I knew you were going to drag this out, but I WORK.
So the PARADE of SPAZ ended. I got to log back into work with literally a MINUTE TO SPARE. Today has not been a day of golden joy where work is concerned, but it is keeping me from running her ass over with the cart and then beating her about the head and neck with it.
GOOD TIMES AT THE DOCTORS.........
We start this journey through my own personal hell with me starting the car and waiting for the arrival of the parent, who comes rolling up in her electric chair with her O2 concentrator on her lap. She is gasping like a little goldfish someone tossed on the sand. The gasping was caused by one of the pets? I am not sure how but that is the explanation I got.
The O2 Concentrators, a lovely little mobility freeing contraptions come with a shoulder strap, a hand strap to carry like a briefcase OR a luggage pulling cart.
This trip will entail going from the HOUSE to the CAR, from the CAR to the OFFICE, into a ROOM, BACK to the CAR and HOME.
Since I AM her personal step and fetch, she feels the need to allow me to follow her with this machine. One would assume shoulder strap or handle. OH NO, We are on the cart. With a 5 foot length of hose. FOR ME TO WALK BEHIND HER AND KEEP THE CART CLOSE ENOUGH FOR HER TO KEEP BREATHING. So you can imagine how very awkward this whole little PARADE of SPAZ is. I either catch the back of her shoe, or she ends up having to stop short because she gives no thought to the Obstacle Course in Hell she has created for me with this stupid little FLIPPING CART. Oh, and let me add, it just SITS on the cart. There is no way to strap that bitch in. You slide the handle over the back bracket, which provides enough roomy slippage for the damn thing to fall off, AND SHE JUST KEEPS WALKING. So here I am dragging behind her the whole time pulling the cart and the damn thing falls off TWICE, and she kept walking TWICE. You would think at this point she might get the idea and PULL THE FREAKING THING HERSELF. SHE IS OLD, NOT AN INVALID.
While in the exam room the doctor asks her the usual questions. She has an opportunity to ask ANYTHING she wants. In the tiny little room where NO ONE CAN HEAR. Oh, no that would be WAY TO FREAKING SIMPLE. Let us wait until we are at the WINDOW LEAVING, to ask the doctor if we can have something for our leg cramps that keep us up at night. This is no big deal, if she wants the world to know she has leg cramps so be it. The issue is WE ARE NOW BLOCKING THE RIGHT OF WAY FOR ANYONE TO EGRESS FROM THE OFFICE.
I on the other hand, while in the little room, struggled to find a tactful way to ask my doctor to increase my mg level on my xanax without blurting, "you live with this crazy bitch and see how often you need something to keep you from smacking the shit out of her?" I blamed it on my job, he didn't increase the mgs. but he did up the number in the bottle per script. I don't take it all day every day. It just seems like lately it is a wee more frequently that before.
We get out of the office, and I am now in a mad dash to get back home because OH! I WORK, and I have a CALL I HAVE TO BE ON. She starts making inroad requests for grocery store items. UM, I could have taken more time if I knew you were going to drag this out, but I WORK.
So the PARADE of SPAZ ended. I got to log back into work with literally a MINUTE TO SPARE. Today has not been a day of golden joy where work is concerned, but it is keeping me from running her ass over with the cart and then beating her about the head and neck with it.
GOOD TIMES AT THE DOCTORS.........
FWIW, I think the wrong person is on the X. I think often of that line from Delores Claiborne, "one of us is goin' to the bone yahhhhd," when I think of IF I ever had to live with my mom again under one roof. I'd be grinding that shit up, and making a fuck load of her favorite soup!
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