With the flu clinic behind us, we return to the scene of the crime for the annual check-up. There'll be tests, questions, test questions, and the mismanagement of time.
The trip begins the night before, with the early setting of the sun and the late setting of the alarm clock. I lay out coats, ready to go. Alongside the coats, I place the bag. Then I check it again.
That bag is important. In there, I'll throw my mother's handy waterproofs. She won't think to wear those in the dry. Luckily, I'll carry them into the wet.
Morning.
The routine starts earlier than usual. It's all geared to the pills. There'll be tests to see if the blood is too rich or poor in the chemical stew I hand out. So I can't miss any pills in the week leading up to the tests.
Even more important...I mustn't miss a pill on the day. Not right at the finishing-line, damn it.
I don't miss a pill. And I make sure the day's dosage goes out at a decent time. No point handing out pills a minute before the blood is tested.
My routine is pushed back to before the dawn. I make sure of the fuel. This is brown, and steams in a cup. Coffee is important.
Then it's our routine. Pills. The steady march to breakfast.
Breakfast is done. Everything lies in reach. Boots clamber on. Coats fly through the air. The bag is ready. We fight a minor war on gloves.
The gloves go on. And come off. On they go. This starts to grate, as I must watch for the bus. Can't take my eyes off the road. Need to see that bus go by.
Gloves off. Travel card in and out of all the wrong coats. Come on. We planned this. Card secure. Gloves on.
Waiting for that bus to roll by. Then it's out in time for the next one. In winter, we navigate space, time, ice, distracting frost, cold winds, and sudden cars.
But the bus doesn't soar by. It goes by in the other direction. The buses pass one way only, here. Okay. What the fuck just happened? Road blockage?
Doesn't matter. A bus went by. We are on a timer. Out we go, under the looming grey clouds.
A near-neighbour approaches. He's here for the bus. Did we know about the bus? Had it gone by, and which way? All is explained. Slow roadworks.
The road was blocked the day before. Buses rolled around from the other direction, stopped, and doubled back. So what I saw was the bus going to its dead-end stop.
But it hadn't come back yet. Truthfully, we were lucky that it hadn't come back yet. The return-time for this altered trip was short as hell...and with my mother's slow walking-pace, we'd be supernaturally lucky to reach the stop in time for the boomerang effect. No bus. Well, not yet.
And so, the near-neighbour keeps us entertained with jokes. Some of those are even funny.
Then he gets into the news. So-and-so has Alzheimer's. I stare at the grey in the sky, calculating how long it'll take for the rain to cascade into our faces.
I'm calculating the seconds. There's no time to risk getting into waterproofs now. But we are in shelter, so, no worries.
No bus. I've timed this to get us there just ahead of time. Really. No bus. This work on the road was carried over into the morning. It might be temporary. Any minute, the bus could be let through.
We never hear what happened to the missing bus. Temporarily, that bus wasn't stopped at the dead-end. The traffic manager let the bus through, stranding everyone waiting for a boomerang that never flew.
Time for the bus. No bus. Now it's time for the next bus. No bus. More jokes. Anecdotes. Worrying now. Suddenly, two buses at once. This is all fucked to shreds.
The buses roar by and head to the dead-end. Soon, the convoy returns. We board. The buses start leapfrogging each other at the stops, picking up grumpy passengers.
My mother knows everyone on the bus, starting with the driver. He calls her by name. So her dementia isn't playing up, there. She warns everyone about the near-neighbour, and not to believe a word he says. Laughter.
She's happy, going into town. It's an ordeal. This happiness is the bonus that keeps on bonusing. Okay, we're late. It's beyond our control. Nothing to be done about that. I don't fill her in on the news that we are late. Why bother her with a piece of nonsense that can't change a thing.
In town, late for the appointment, we face rain. It starts, and starts to grow heavy. I sense it'll grow heavier still. We plod to the clinic. People muddle around. I drive straight to the heart of the operation, and claim the attention of the receptionist.
No one else seems to want to claim her attention. I announce our arrival. And I explain we were delayed by traffic. Could we still have the appointment?
I say this with confidence. The maintenance routine of the annual check-up has been allocated 50 minutes. If we're late by ten minutes, either the nurse took someone else early or she sat there doing admin.
She sat there doing admin, and we were admitted. I took coats and inner garments, so the vampire act could go ahead unimpeded. Then I went in, to check on timing.
No, this wouldn't take 50 minutes. Nearer half an hour. The nurse asked if my mother could handle all the questions. For the first time, dementia was listed on the invitational letter.
Was there a test, for memory? Nothing that duplicated the efforts of the nurse visiting the house. I'd wondered about the length of the appointment, at 50 minutes.
Okay, so I had half an hour at most. Time to do some shopping. I'd be back for her. If she finished before I came back, she'd sit in reception.
I had her coat prisoner in my bag. In heavy rain, she wouldn't wander off.
Away I went, on errands. On a timer. Time bled as I donned my waterproofs. Out I went, into heavier heavier heavier rain. All the rain. More rain than that. Lots of rain.
Rain.
Visibility went down. Light dimmed. Street conditions worsened. I ran to the shops, pounding. Feet pounded pavement. Heart pounded in the chest. Ears pounded with the pulse of it all.
Time to save time by running.
I ran. Under a sheltering roof, I stopped. And I knew I wouldn't make the rounds in time.
With 50 minutes on the letter, I made plans. I'd use those 50 minutes for shopping. The nurse arranged to talk to me after, if my mother couldn't handle the questions. I wanted to let my mother have privacy with the nurse...
Difficult act to balance. I favour going in, setting the scene, then leaving. Usually, these appointments are short. I'm right outside the door, ready to provide assistance.
That's it for maintenance. With the flu jab, that was over in seconds. I didn't have time to step out. With the dentist, I'm there the whole time for safety.
And I drink in detail when I talk to the doctor at the Memory Clinic. When the nurse visits, I stay for the memory test, to see how it goes.
But this maintenance trip, the annual check, is something I leave in the nurse's hands. Newsflash. This one lasts 50 minutes. Well, hell, I'll head out and do a bit of shopping. Pick up a few items. Grab a treat to eat, for doing so well out and about. And I'll spend the EXTRA time shopping for clothes.
She needs clothes that don't annoy her.
But the appointment is shortened. I can't shop for clothes. Well, I do what I have to do, grab a few cakes, and make my way back in even heavier rain.
There she is, waiting for me. The whole thing didn't take fifteen minutes. I assist her into her fleece, the coat, and then the waterproof jacket and trousers.
By the time that's done, I've taken the urine sample bottle from her and sequestered that in the all-important bag. Then the nurse appears to tell me there are no troublesome questions. It'll be a week or so before the blood results come back in.
And we are out into the torrential rain. I explain that the traffic is still screwed around. This time, we'll be part of the boomerang.
That's the first time we've been late for an appointment. No more than ten minutes. It worked out okay. We were let down by the phantom bus that passed us and just kept on going, contrary to the set-up. Sending two buses to save us...didn't save us. But we weren't exactly condemned.
It was great to be back home. Cake loomed. The trip to buy clothes would be another day...when I'd take the piss. I mean...deliver the urine sample.
Yes, I gave her the option of going to deal with that in the clinic, but she refused to use those toilets. You do what you can, to eliminate unnecessary trips.
When those trips are necessary, you combine many tasks and generate business. Drop off a sample. Pick up clothes. Never go to town for just one thing, if you can go for loads of things.
And that's my story about being very slightly late for an appointment. If we'd lost the appointment, I'd have taken her shopping for clothes. Major fun, I'm sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment