My mother is dying, slowly, one day at a time. She doesn’t have cancer. She isn’t even terminal. Her back hurts. It hurts so badly that she is disparate for help, and none is forthcoming. The pain is so disparate she is popping Vicodin like they are Skittles. The pain began with a flair-up of her sciatic nerve. It went down hill from their, from about the end of July. Our lives are ruled by her damn back. She’s quit eating. She’s doing nothing but sitting, taking pain meds. She’s depressed, feeling like she’s going to die – which she is, if she doesn’t get help. She was sent to a pain specialist, who offered nothing but a flaky procedure. Then, when we discovered she had broken her lower vertebra 2 years ago, we realized the services this quack offered would not help her.
Hope was shattered.
Then, she started feeling better. So, she decided to cook breakfast – that will be 2 weeks this Friday. So, she pulled a muscle. She can’t handle muscle pain or muscle spasms, so they put her on more Vicodin and Valium. So, she tripped one night, making matters worse.
My sister was here 2 weeks ago. She arrived last night, shocked at the changes. The Vicodin has turned my mother into a depressed invalid, who is barely consuming 500 calories a day. It doesn’t matter what I cook, how much I spent, she just won’t eat. She promises to do better but it’s like an addict, promises are nothing.
Today, we go to the doctor.
If something is not done, she will be dead by Christmas.
The vital person in this photo no longer exists. She has been replaced by a self-absorbed, cranky old woman who refuses to admit that she is mourning for my father, who is in Stage 6 of Alzheimer’s Disease. She is so busy obsessing over every little thing with my father that is is almost like she has Munchhausen’s by Proxy. He can’t groan without having her worry. She’s killing herself with worry.
There must be a better way to manage pain than this.