You Catch More Bees with Honey
Submitted by Debbie on 2008, March 4 - 11:14.
Here's one of the first lessons of caregiving: It's not as easy as it looks.
Frankly, it doesn't look easy at all, but quite the opposite. My biggest battle, aside from my grief, was talking to medical professionals (rolls her eyes). I know they mean well, are well educated and attempt to depict the epitome of professionalism. But, geez guys, talk to us, not at us.
In the Beginning
I was lost, a little pissed, overwhelmed and unsure of myself. I was scared of hurting my family, of making a mistake. We would be at a doctor's office and I'd face resistance when I tried to go in with my mother or father. When my loved one said it was okay, the gates were open to me. And I'll tell you, that just set my teeth on edge. How dare they! What nerve! Can you imagine? Now that I have been in the game (so to speak) for some time, I appreciate that concern. Hello, they are protecting my loved one's privacy. Would we really want a stranger getting waved in? No way, and we would have a legitimate complaint. So if your loved one hasn't designated you his or her healthcare proxy, get that done now.
In the Middle
After learning how to get into appointments, I had to learn hospital etiquette. And, believe me, there is such a thing and it's a more important rule of etiquette to know than which fork to use on the salad. The first hospital stay "on my watch" was awful. And, I realize now, I set it up to fail.
I was the caregiver and I thought I knew better than anyone else—including the hospital staff—what my loved one needed. It was "Caregiver Knows Best" time. As I antagonized the hospital staff, I became frustrated, making my visit with my dad ever more tense and anything but lovely. I hated it.
Then, a new doctor came to see Dad. He asked my father if he smoked, and Dad said he was trying to quit. I was outraged. I interrupted the doctor and asked Dad how much he paid for his last pack of cigarettes. "Sixty-five cents," he said. I looked at the doctor and asked if he knew anything about my dad. I was pissed.
The doctor and I walked into a conference room and had a discussion. I explained that taking a medical history from someone with dementia is a disaster waiting to happen. I asked what he knew of my father. I was tearing this doctor up like a shark that smelled blood in the water. When I was done, the doctor apologized and explained that he was not Dad's doctor but had stopped in to see him as he was on rounds. Well, that took the wind right out of my sails. There was a better way for me to have addressed the situation, but I had chosen not to use it.
As Things Stand
I have worked to establish a rapport with the various professionals who assist in caring for my dad. I have to tell you, if it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a metropolis to be a caregiver. And frankly, I need a team with which I can work and, most important, it has to be a team based on respect.
In the incident I described above, I failed to treat the doctor with respect. Yes, he'd made an error. But it was not malicious. He'd simply become one of those "Assembly Line Doctors."
During a hospitalization, I can give the staff a wealth of information and a detailed list regarding my dad's care. We're now at the point that if Dad is hospitalized, we coordinate his medications. By being helpful and kind to the nurse, she'll be willing to share with me his medicine schedule. That allows me to determine if he'd be doubling up on some or not getting others. And just that has happened. As a result, I sat with the nurse and explained the medicine routine and why I give him certain drugs at certain times. She listened and scheduled his medications in accordance. We all felt good, and best of all, my dad received the best care possible.