Tag Archives: Health

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Alcoholism: A Family Affair

It takes an enormous amount of energy to live in an alcoholic family in denial. “Loose lips sink ships,” my father said and our family currency became half-truths and lies. My dad wasn’t a drunk. He liked to drink. He wasn’t an alcoholic because he didn’t go to AA. Even thirty days in rehab didn’t stop the denial. We unknowingly snuck him out one night when he begged us to visit and then told us we could take him into town for an outing. I knew it wasn’t because he missed us, but because he missed the liquor store.

العربية: مجموعة مشروبات كحولية. Català: Divers...

العربية: مجموعة مشروبات كحولية. Català: Diverses begudes alcohòliques. Cymraeg: Rhai diodydd alcoholig traddodiadol. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

See, no matter how many drunken speeches an alcoholic makes about how he loves his family, he loves the alcohol more. Deep down, his family knows this. We did. We heard it in the next-day apologies for his drunken behavior. We saw it in the glaze of his eyes. It reverberated in the clink of empty bottles.

As I grew older, it became harder and harder to convince myself that I was content in a relationship where I came in second to a bottle of booze. Eventually, he succeeded in pushing me away and I let him. For that, I am grateful.

Growing up with an alcoholic taught me to be careful and cautious and scared. It made me evaluate every drink I take. It forces me to analyze every slurred word or stumble I make when I’m drinking. All of my interactions with alcohol are judged on a strict scale because, due to my family history, I’m only a few drinks away from being an alcoholic. I carry that burden with every drink I take.

Maybe that’s where I break the cycle. I love my kids more than I’ll ever love booze.

Yes, alcoholism is a disease. Yes, some of us are genetically predisposed. And it might be unfair, and un-politically correct, but on some level I still believe that if my father had loved us enough, he would have given up alcohol and I guess I’ll never forgive him for that decision.

All I can do is not make the same mistake he did.

 

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Can You Hear Me Now?

Vaseline Glass Bowl-Hat

Vaseline Glass Bowl-Hat (Photo credit: Paul Garland)

When I was younger, I thought wearing glasses was the biggest humiliation I would have to suffer. Without glasses I can’t see the computer screen I’m sitting in front of, but glasses have a downside. In cold New England a walk from the chilly outside to toasty inside results in a thick layer of condensation that renders glasses wearers temporarily blind. In the summer, going from air conditioning to humidity does the same thing. Aquatic endeavors require a decision to either see what’s going on (my preference in a lake) or swim blind (my preference in the ocean. I believe if I don’t see the shark, it won’t see me).

PhotonQ-Under the Shark

PhotonQ-Under the Shark (Photo credit: PhOtOnQuAnTiQuE)

I’ve made my peace with wearing glasses, but now I’m confronted by a problem many of my fellow baby boomers are also facing,  hearing loss. Yes, we didn’t wear helmets when we biked/skied/played sports and we didn’t wear hearing protection when we shot guns, listened to our Walkmans at full blast, or spent time in noisy environments. Our youthful ignorance of the damage caused by loud noises has led to an explosion in the number of baby boomers with hearing loss.

The National Institute for Health reports that 18% of adults in the 45-64 year old category, have hearing loss. The percentage of Americans with hearing loss increases in the 65-74 year old group to 30%, and for adults over 75, a whopping 47% of them are struggling to hear.

How many of those hearing impaired people are wearing hearing aids? Less than 15 percent. There’s a lot of people out there who have no idea what you’re saying.

Seems like a minor problem until you read the early studies that indicate adults with hearing loss are 3 to 5 times more likely to develop dementia than those with normal hearing.

Scary.

So why don’t we embrace hearing aids in an attempt to increase our thinking skills and ward off dementia (as well as not blowing out the volume controls on the TV)?

Hearing aid

Hearing aid (Photo credit: Soitiki)

Maybe it’s because hearing aids are equated with old people and we’re a nation dedicated to never growing old.  Not all of us can afford facelifts, botox, or tummy tucks, but we can dye our hair, buy anti-wrinkle cream, and pretend we can still hear.

And most people don’t know how much sound they’re missing. When I trialed hearing aids, I couldn’t believe what a noisy house I lived in. The refrigerator cycled on and off, the dryer had a strange squeak, and with the windows open I could hear my neighbor’s children playing outside. All sounds that hadn’t existed for me before the hearing aids.

I wanted to turn the volume down.

But without hearing aids I struggle to carry on a conversation in certain decibel ranges. I lean in closer and keep a semi smile on my face because I’m not sure if the correct response is to laugh or to  cry. Most of the time I can piece together what’s being said through context, but once in a while I can’t. It’s embarrassing when someone asks me a question and I don’t understand enough words to even guess what they’re saying. It’s like suddenly I’m hearing a foreign language and my ears can’t process it.

As easy as it is to downplay hearing loss or make a joke about it, the sad truth is that it has a profound effect on quality of life and, it seems, the risk of dementia. Maybe instead of being fixated with the idea that wearing hearing aids makes us old, we should think about all of the sounds we miss without them. If it’s a choice between hearing my daughter whisper “I love you” as she leaves the house or looking and feeling old, I think I’m going to choose to hear.

There’s only a finite number of “I love you’s” we’re privileged to hear and I’d like to hear every single one of them.

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I’m a Nurse, not a Saint

Priest

Priest (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am continually amazed and astounded by the things patients feel comfortable saying to me. It’s as if they think a nursing degree is equivalent to a counseling degree, a white set of scrub pants akin to a white collar, and a hospital or outpatient clinic room is the same as a confessional. It’s not.

Confessional

Confessional (Photo credit: cliff1066™)

Don’t mistake my words for a renunciation of confidentiality. My lips are sealed when it comes to protected health information and you, but, as in real life, there are times when people provide too much information. I’ve provided some examples so you can judge whether you need to be a little more discreet on your next hospital or doctor’s visit.

When I ask you to undress down to your underwear and cover yourself with a sheet, you don’t need to tell me, “I don’t wear underwear.” That is a surprise best left for the doctor. I’m not coming back in to check that you disrobed appropriately.

If I ask you to take off your shoes to be weighed, don’t apologize for the holes in your socks. Our office is only responsible for checking sock holes on alternate Thursdays in months that end in -Z. Any other time, don’t worry. We won’t be putting it in your permanent record nor will I be calling your mother (or the Emergency Room) to rat you out.

If I come in with an shot for your child, don’t tell them it won’t hurt. Chances are it will. I’ll try to minimize the pain, but since I can’t tell them to “suck it up, buttercup,” I’m hoping you’ll have your big girl panties on and shush them rather them tell them you’re sorry the “mean nurse” hurt them.  The mean nurse can’t do shit unless you give me permission, but I’m not telling your toddler “your mean mom made me do it.”

If I do a cervical check on your pregnant girlfriend, don’t ask her if she’s enjoying it. She’s not. Neither am I. Creep.

Never ask me to rub “extra hard” down there if you’re unable to clean yourself off. There are non-medical devices and non-medical personnel who can meet your needs much better than I can. Once you ask, the only “happy ending” I’ll think of is your discharge or death.

Don’t ask if you can strip down to your underwear to ensure your weight is “accurate.” I personally don’t want to see you half naked and believe stripping down for non-medical reasons should happen in your home, not in the exam room.  You can buy your own scale for the cost of a co-pay.

Going Down?

Going Down? (Photo credit: billhd)

Don’t expect me to believe that you need an early refill on your methadone, oxycontin, oxycodone, percocet or vicodin because the bottle you just filled fell into the toilet with the cap off, ruining all of the pills. Unless a major study at a prestigious medical center proves that toilets have a preference for narcotic painkillers, I’m suspicious. This never happens to anyone’s heart, allergy, or diabetic medicine. If you have to lie, go big or stay home. Don’t let drugs kill your creativity.

Remember I’m a nurse, not a saint.

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Patient’s Rights Shouldn’t Be at Nursing’s Expense

Group of nurses, Base Hospital #45

Group of nurses, Base Hospital #45 (Photo credit: The Library of Virginia)

Providing nursing care is an intimate business. Nurses are at the bedside for births, life-threatening injuries, chronic conditions, and death. They become familiar with both a patient and their family. Helping people navigate these life changes takes compassion and empathy. There are days it is damn hard to be a nurse.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, if you’re in the hospital there will always be a nurse on-site. Budget cuts, staffing issues, increasingly complex machinery and treatments all contribute to the stress that nurses must deal as well as twelve-hour shifts, mandatory overtime, and working holidays and weekends.  Nurses are expected to keep patients safe, use resources wisely, and provide culturally competent care. The nurse is required to respect each patient as a person.

That makes it even more distressing when a hospital disrespects a nurse and her rights as in a recent lawsuit against a Michigan hospital.

The lawsuit alleges that a nurse of 25 years standing in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit was told by her supervisor she would no longer be assigned to care for an infant because the baby’s daddy didn’t want African-American nurses caring for his child. The man showed the supervisor a swastika-type tattoo in relating his request. According to the lawsuit, the baby’s chart was prominently marked to indicate no African-American nurses were to be involved in this infant’s care. This was honored for a month before the hospital attorney stepped in and had the notation removed.

English: The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NIC...

English: The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at Kapiolani Medical Center in Honolulu, Hawaii (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t know what the hospital was thinking, other than to make the customer happy, but they should have told the man that they weren’t going to allow his hateful beliefs to compromise the care of his child and demean their employees. They could have offered to transfer the child to an institution willing to make those choices, if they could find one. They could have had their Ethics Board review the case and come up with an appropriate plan of care that didn’t imply that African-American nurses were any less competent, worthwhile, or caring than their white, Hispanic, or Asian counterparts. They could have done something.

Woman at work--registered nurse

Woman at work–registered nurse (Photo credit: yooperann)

Instead they bowed down to the demands that were not only hateful, but illegal. If the allegations are true, for an entire month qualified, trained nurses were told they weren’t the right color to provide care and that’s just plain wrong.

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The Secret Ingredient is (Always) Love

cat eating leftovers

cat eating leftovers (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Not at my house!

 

 

 

 

I’ve always loved to cook.  As a child, volunteering  to cook on weekends meant I didn’t have to go out and help drag brush into burn piles or do other unpleasant, outside chores. It also meant not having to suffer through my mother’s cooking which, back in the day, consisted of undercooked casseroles or spaghetti and burnt cookies.

 

 

 

overcooked cookies

 

 

 

 

 

 

As an adult, able to purchase my own ingredients and cook in my own kitchen, I grew to love cooking even more. Home made caramels and chocolates, crab rangoons, cheesecakes of every descriptions, there was no holiday or family event that didn’t involve hours of poring over recipes and experimenting with new dishes. Preparing my favorite meal, Christmas Eve dinner, involved days of preparation and culminated in tables and counters overflowing with food.

 

smörgåsbord), Swedish buffet

smörgåsbord), Swedish buffet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

At my house, there are always leftovers.

 

 

 

The last few years, though, I’ve noticed my cooking has been lacking something. My dishes are good, just not great. The menu is varied, but not spectacular. The leftovers fly out the door as quickly as ever, but what remains sits in my refrigerator uneaten. There’s something missing.

 

 

 

At first I thought it might be a change in my taste buds, but no one complained about the seasoning or flavor combinations. Perhaps it was a reflection of my hurried life. Rushing through meal preparations might result in inaccurate measurements or missing ingredients, but even when I slowed down, the results remained the same. In desperation, I started to farm out my cooking to other relatives. My recipes, my ingredients, my directions, my kitchen, not my cooking. Sort of like I was the executive chef and my daughter and nieces functioned as my sous and pastry chefs. It filled the table, but didn’t feel fulfilling.

 

cook helpers

 

 

 

Then this week, beset by an awful cold, I made my famous, never fail, totally delicious homemade chicken soup. And it sucked. Oh, it was good-looking enough, and it was hot, and it had the correct ingredients, but it didn’t taste right and it didn’t make me feel any better. It sort of made me feel worse. A feeling I’d never experienced with my chicken soup in the past. Why?

 

 

 

As I dumped it down the sink and ran the garbage disposal, it hit me. It was missing the most crucial ingredient of all – love. My food isn’t meant to just nourish people’s bodies, it’s meant to nourish their souls. Cooking isn’t the combination of ingredients and heat or cold and time equaling taste, it’s the way I say “I love you.” And the last few years, I’ve been a little down on myself. I feel overstressed, overworked, pulled in too many different directions, and plain tired.  Cooking has become another chore in the my never-ending chore list and I approach it with the same attitude I clean up dog poop with – resignation. It’s no longer a way to say “I love you.” Instead it’s become a way to say, “Eh, eat.”

 

human food

human food (Photo credit: xtopalopaquetl)

 

So how do I pull myself out of this cooking death spiral and put the love back in my cooking? I’m not really sure, but I have to try because I miss the looks on the faces of my loved ones when they bite into their favorite dish. I miss the appreciative “mmm’s” as they chew. I long for the happy smile when they ask for seconds. I miss all of it and I want it back.

So this weekend I’m going to pick out one dish and cook it with intention, honesty, and love. No looking at the clock. No stressing about bills that need to be paid or laundry that needs to be washed. No regard for how many dishes or ingredients it takes. All I’m going to do is make one meal with love. Then, hopefully, I can recreate that feeling and make another. I’m going to keep going, one recipe at a time, until I  return to the days when my food whispered “I love you” with every bite.

A turducken that is chock full of love.

A turducken that is chock full of love.

 

 

 

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Not Dealing with Dementia

 

June and Ward Cleaver (Barbara Billingsley and...

June and Ward Cleaver (Barbara Billingsley and Hugh Beaumont). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Television moms and dads are kind, generous, clean, independent, and a source of wisdom. Real life moms and dads can be mean, self-centered, critical, and looking for a handout.  Such is the cards some children are dealt.

 

Dementia

Dementia (Photo credit: Fulla T)

These abusive moms and dads don’t miraculously turn into saints as they age, either. Most of the time the dysfunctional behavior they’ve exhibited worsens, rather than improves, as they age. If they’ve abused drugs, alcohol, or neglected their health, they may get much worse.

 

What to do when bad mom or bad dad (or both) are no longer functioning well at home alone? I don’t mean the not able to shovel out their driveway or lift the air conditioner out of the window type problems. I mean when they think strangers are coming in through the drainpipes and they think one of the intruders stole their gun. That scary not functioning well may be dementia.

 

Dementia is a broad term used to describe difficulties in the areas of language, judgment, behavior, thinking, and memory. Some causes of dementia, such as metabolic disorders and tumors, can be reversed. Other causes of dementia, such as Alzheimer’s disease, can only be slowed down, not cured. Repeat, not cured.  Pay careful attention to the part of the happy pharmaceutical commercials that caution,  “All patients will get worse over time, even if they take wondrous dementia drug.”

 

If you’ve had a great relationship with your parents, filled with mutual respect and assistance, it’s easy to say you’ll do whatever it takes to keep mom and dad safe. Even if it means moving them out of the home they’ve lived in for the last thirty years. Even if it means hiring someone to stay with them so they don’t burn the house down. Even if it means hiding the car or car keys to prevent them from driving to their favorite store that went out of business twenty years ago. Even if it means taking time off from work to accompany them to doctor’s appointments or leaving work early to rush home to deal with emergencies.

 

But if you haven’t had a great relationship with your parent, maybe haven’t even talked to them in five, ten, fifteen, or twenty plus years, what’s your responsibility when the neighbors start calling with their concerns? Do you forget the past and hope they’ll become nice? Put on your martyr uniform and hope for the best? Make an anonymous call to Elder Services and wash your hands of it?

 

There is no easy answer to these questions. Letting your conscience be your guide doesn’t mitigate the guilt that comes with the decision to keep your distance from a demented parent. If you decide to re-engage with the parent, there will still be the resentment that comes with putting your own life on hold to care for a parent who never cared for you. It’s an intensely personal decision that each adult child must wrestle with and decide based on all of the myriad considerations and individual details of their life. If you do decide to ride to the rescue, don’t expect the parent to be grateful for your efforts. Age doesn’t make people any less dick-ish, nor does dementia.

 

As someone who has wrestled with this issue, rest assured I don’t take my abandonment of my parent lightly. There’s a better than average chance that I am the best suited of my siblings for understanding and navigating the complexities of having someone declared incapable of making decisions to pave the way for admission to a nursing home. Not just because I’m a nurse, but also because I’m the oldest. Unfortunately I can’t forget or forgive the toxic parent-child relationship that ultimately ended with my decision to stop speaking to my parent over twenty years ago. I can’t let that go, even though part of me says it’s my duty and part of me feels incredibly guilty that I can’t caretake this person who can no longer caretake themselves.

 

I won’t deny that seeing my parent in their current state, even from a distance without saying a word or them being aware of my presence, breaks my heart. I wish I could find it within myself to soften, bend, and do what some would insist is the right thing. But I can’t.

 

And as much as I salute those who can, I acknowledge that there are those of us who can’t. Age and infirmity doesn’t turn a toxic parent into a saint, it only turns them into a old, sick toxic parent. Don’t judge me for turning my back.  It’s like they say when you fly, if the oxygen mask drops down, you have to put it on yourself before you can help someone else. Unfortunately my parent has demonstrated that they would suck up all the oxygen in my world if they could. As bad as I feel about their condition, I won’t let them.

Day 3: flight to Yazd - inflight safety card

Day 3: flight to Yazd – inflight safety card (Photo credit: birdfarm)

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