TB Testing

But wait! We still have that TB test if Dad is to move in with mom on Monday. 

Thankfully there is a drug store with a quick clinic just two blocks away. We drive over there. 

But although normally this store can do this in their walk in quick clinic , they are out of tests. The technician implies there is a shortage of TB tests. 

We go back to my car and I quickly look for other walk in urgent cares. There are two in the area. One doesn't have tests; the other, part of Dad's doctor's chain of clinics, does but you can't get one in urgent care, only by appointment. 

The drug store had told us one of their quick clinics still had tests, so I decide its time to go there. It's further away from us but we need to do this. 

We get there, I help Dad with the computerized check in system. There's a moment when I ask him for his house number and he can't tell me. I think he must be as overwrought as I feel. Thankfully my cellphone's got that detail. 

He goes in, after a few minutes I'm brought in to help with the paper work. The lady is calm and sweet. She explains things to us and tells us when we can have the test read. Not until this time (now after 7 PM) on Friday or Saturday morning. 

I drive Dad back to mom's rehab to get his car. 

I also tell him I'll pick him up meet him at the rehab for the discharge meeting with my mom at 11 the next morning, we'll go for lunch and we'll go back to the Garden for his intake screen. 

Bank Part 1

We arrive at the bank, wait briefly and then see an officer. She scans the power of attorney Dad has for mom. After waiting a few moments, they agree to add me on Dad's say so, but I am restricted. I can't change the address, close an account, or add another signer. 

We also go into Dad's money market account and move $20,000 to his checking. This, I hope will pay for two months of assisted living care. I also hope at this moment that by then we can receive payment for mom's care from their long term health care policy. I am also grateful to find Dad has this much in an account we can get into easily. 

But there was some detail that we didn't have that evening, so we both have to come back the next day. 

I am grateful, my father never indicated  to the officer, he wasn't sure he should be doing this. 

Recovering the Ground

I am able to leave my class an hour early so around three, I get in my car. I call my dad's cell and find him with my mom at rehab. I tell him I'll come and get him to go to the bank. I hear him sigh, and then tell me we need to talk some more about this. 

I shoot a text to my brother telling him dad's digging his heels in about the bank, I'm on my way to him, can Wes join us in another conference call? Thankfully he says yes. 

At rehab, I decide that hashing this out again in my mom's room is not a wise course of action. She's been fairly cooperative and getting her unhappy too is a mistake. I take Dad out to the home's outside courtyard. It's in the middle of four halls of rooms. Thankfully shaded and with seats. I sit at a picnic table with my Dad and call my brother. 

We cover the same topics and some unexplained reason why I should not be added to the accounts. He tells us both that he doesn't think I want to take their money that he trusts me, but he just doesn't want to do this. No real reasons why are given.  

I am feeling pretty pushed to the wall. I can't continue to come and have this scene over and over again each month as we pay bills, the Garden, their own house and utilities. I tell both my brother and my dad I can't do this. Either I get added onto the accounts or we are at a dead end. 

I am sure that my brother thought I had absolutely lost it. (Although, bless him, he's never said that.)

My brother persisted through the objections and my dad finally caves in and agrees. At just about this moment a staff person comes in and gives Dad and I a good look. I figure we might be on the edge of being thrown out. We never yelled but we certainly had some raised voices, partly due to the cell phone on speaker partly in the heat of the moment. 

Thankfully we are past that. I take Dad to say good-bye to Mom and we tear off in my car. By now it is 4:20. I check and find the bank doesn't close until 5:30. Off we go. 

Everything That Can Go Wrong

One of the choices I had to make when Dad refused to go to the bank was whether I could attend a sewing class I had signed up for a month earlier. It would be held from one to four. I knew from attending a similar class that I could probably leave after two hours. I also knew Dad liked to have a post lunch nap. So for better or worse, I decide the class was doable. 

I arrived early enough to browse the store. While in the midst of the bolts of fabric, our tour guide from the Garden called. Oh, by the way, if your Dad is coming in with your mom needs a TB test. And you'll want to get that today because it takes two days to read it. And we need to do an evaluation on him. 

Deep breath, rising panic, even worse, the thought that Dad had told me once he failed TB tests. Which means get a chest x-ray. So do I call Dad, wake him from a nap or go to class? I went to class. 

Looking back, I wish I had grabbed Dad at lunch. Maybe even gone to the nursing home where mom was and taken him to lunch and the bank. But by the time I was in the store, it seemed best to wait. 

I can say that sewing and doing something besides figuring out the unfigurable in my parents' situation did help my frame of mind. 

The Cliff

The  following morning, I called my father to see if I could come get him and go to the bank to add me to their accounts. "No, I don't want to do that now." I took a deep breath and asked if we could do it later in the afternoon, "You can call me then."

This was a terrible moment for me. As I told my family at the time, I stood at the top of tall cliff and looked down, I had the clear thought that I was losing my mind, and I considered what would happen if I did. I used to work with homeless people some of whom visited mental health facilities. I mostly liked them, they were quirky, but mostly pleasant. It wasn't a totally unappealing thought. 

But I'm the oldest child and a daughter, I took a deep breath, reached over to my table where the two giant notebooks of forms for the Garden sat. I began to fill out forms. And I thought about what the rest of the day looked like in terms of schedule. 

A Tightwad and His Money

Let me pause and reflect for a moment on my Dad and his relationship to money. Everyone in our family was well aware that he was very careful with his money and didn't like spending it. 

I knew that years earlier he had rejected moving to an independent living place because he was afraid they might run out of money. Plus they liked to go on vacations and that took money too. 

To give you a sense of how this operated: Most of my childhood we camped. This meant we went a lot of places, but we did so very cheaply. My mom never got a break from cooking and washing up. The year I turned 16 we took a month long trip to the Grand Canyon and north to Bryce and Zion. We spent one night in a hotel for this trip and that only because we wanted to take the Silverton-Durango narrow gauge train. 

My mom would, to this day, want me to point out that on somethings (books for one) Dad could be pretty free with his money. She worked a series of less than appealing jobs throughout my late elementary years and onwards so she could have carpet that wasn't black. 

One reason I knew that I needed to be on their accounts was that my dad would continue to resist paying the extremely high payments to the Garden. What would happen if he refused to pay? He still was very slow to show me their financial documents and I still wasn't sure quite what I had to work with in terms of income and savings. 

Communications in Rehab

I had been aware over the years that the rehab folks didn't always communicate in helpful ways. The previous year, I arrived for a scheduled discharge meeting to learn that it had already been held despite my being fifteen minutes early for the scheduled time. 

In the past they had told us many things that the outpatient services would do for my parents and outpatient did not. My dad was left to figure out aids and safety equipment in their house rather than getting a social worker to help evaluate what was needed. 

 And while of none of this was done to hurt us or callously, there were issues that were caused by this disjointed communication. 

 I can only assume that the time the PT team told my parents that my dad could no longer assist Mom was the meeting I had missed. When Dad and Mom ignored that advice, no one knew. 

 I get it, my dad was there, they had a lot of things to do, so they held the meeting without me. From my interaction with the PT though I did hear both frustration and a hint of condemnation that my parents had not done what they were asked.

 A similar communication issue would occur with in home therapy. The previous year I had asked to be the first contact. While I did receive some communications from that company, I also heard about appointments I had been unaware of occurring.

 This was doubly frustrating because it was clear to me that many of the professionals working with my parents clearly thought both that I was more involved than I was and that I was the one dropping many balls.

 I tried to be clear that my roll was support of my dad and  asked repeatedly for direct communication, but it was very difficult to navigate appointments and therapy without knowing all the pieces.