Notes from Maine - 2021/02/20

Last week, I took my father to the urologist. It was actually a pretty easy appointment. When I say that, I mean that it was easy for me. I’m not sure he would agree.

When I first got there, I was concerned about his mental acuity. Dad has good days and bad. When I catch him in the morning, he’s usually pretty sharp, but there’s really no way to know so I was watching carefully. 

He wasn’t ready to leave when I arrived. Typically, for a morning appointment, he gets pretty nervous about not being late, so he will have his jacket and shoes on by the time I show up. Also, it was clear that he hasn’t shaved in several days. Last year, he refused to shave before he declared that he was giving up. I told him that it was a bad sign. He laughed.

I asked, “You ready for your exciting trip?”

“No.”

“Dad, you don’t remember your appointment this morning? I called you thirty minutes ago.”

“I remember, but there’s nothing exciting about it.”

I wasn’t certain that he did remember. We put his shoes on, got his jacket on, and started to the door. He’s wheezing when he stands up and moves around now. That’s pretty disconcerting. His morning helper said that he has been congested for a couple of weeks. Although he seemed frail, he was able to get down the stairs to the garage. At some point, my brother found a wheelchair at the dump. It works well enough to get him from the stairs to my car. Dad asked where it came from. Again, this was disconcerting because the thing has been at his house for months and he uses it to load into the car pretty frequently.

He did remember where to turn to get to the urologist’s office.

He did remember to wear a mask.

He asked me several times if I had a big Super Bowl party, and I reminded him about the pandemic. Recurring questions are nothing new though.

Inside the exam room, the PA asked, “Can you tell me your name and date of birth.”

Dad said, authoritatively, “Yes.”

I rolled my eyes while she waited patiently.

“Dad,” I said. 

He had been waiting for me to say something.

“What? She asked if I could, not if I would.”

Conversational sparring is my father’s favorite hobby.

He proceeded to rattle off his name and birthday very quickly. My concern level dropped when I heard him fall back into his own tricks. When he stops trying to be a curmudgeon, we’ll know that the dementia has fully taken over.

She left us, promising that the doctor would be with us soon. He was uncomfortable on the exam chair. They don’t give the patient any armrests, so it’s a balancing act that he’s not well equipped for. Dad focused on the sign next to the restroom.

Under a picture of a man, woman, and wheelchair, the sign read, “PATIENTS RESTROOM”.

He said, “You think they would have an apostrophe on that sign.”

“Where, though? There are three people pictured. Would it be after the S?”

“I was just wondering the same thing,” he said. Then, he added, “Although with the amount of time we’ve been here, they might consider a CE.”

I wasn’t ready for that level of wordplay from my father. It took me a second to realize he was saying that the sign should read, “PATIENCE RESTROOM.”

He noticed that it took me a second and he said so.

That’s when the doctor came in.

The doctor carried several stapled pages and explained, “This is our standard consent form. I won’t bother to go through it all since you’ve been in so many times already. In fact, you can just consent to this verbally if that’s okay.”

Dad said, “All contracts are verbal since they’re constructed from words. You’re asking for oral consent.”

The doctor took this in stride. My father was a lawyer. It still shows.

When the doctor pulled out a long device with a built-in camera, I realized that this appointment was going to include a fairly intense procedure. I watched the realization dawn on my father too. 

“Where are you going to put all that?”

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “Not all of it goes inside you.”

It wasn’t the length that bothered me—it was the girth. Dad has no tolerance for pain anymore. He jerks and twists when anyone gets near him with a device. During his physical therapy sessions, he usually tries to quit, saying, “I refuse to believe that anything that hurts is good for me.”

This philosophy contradicts surgery, most of medicine, and all physical therapy, as far as I can tell. 

Despite my father’s objections, the doctor started the procedure.

Looking at the display, I suppressed the urge to say, “I remember that place!” It’s the kind of joke that I would laugh at, but not the kind that anyone else would think funny.

My father started moaning like a ghost.

The doctor seized the opportunity to finally engage with my father’s earlier joke.

“I can tell you’re experiencing discomfort based on how verbal you’re being,” the doctor said. “Or should I say oral?”

Dad didn’t laugh.

I thought it was hilarious.

They didn’t find anything wrong, but they will execute some tests on the samples they took. I think he’ll be okay. Frankly, I’m more worried about the wheezing. I’ll check with my brother to make sure Dad is still taking his COPD medication.

If I miss anything about my father being here, I miss watching him spar with healthcare providers. They probably hate it, but I’m comforted to know that he’s still sharp enough to do it. 

I always strive to be an easy patient.