But I don't want a sandwich...
Well I'm officially part of the sandwich generation, meaning I've lost my appetite permanently. My kids are still, well, kids, but my mother is suffering from dementia. I won't go into the complex medical issues but basically her mind is suffering from years of an elevated calcium from hyperparathyroidism. The parathyroid glands, located underneath the thyroid, control calcium/phosphorus metabolism and too much calcium is neurotoxic. For weeks, she refused to go to the hospital. It took a broken ankle to get her there. Her ankle and the hyperparathyroidism was surgically cured, but the cognitive effects of the hypercalcemia may take three months to reverse. The bad news is that she may have Alzheimers underneath it all, but hopefully not. We don't know how long she's had the disease, but looking back at her old records, her doctor neglected the3 elevated serum calciums for at least two years. Kinda slipped under the radar. Anyway, my 87 year-old dad and I have been at the hospital every day (minus two mental holidays off) bathing her, urging her to eat, brushing her hair and teeth, and disimpacting her at times. (Oh, you might not know what that last one is and you're probably better off enjoying that blissful ignorance. If you're the curious type and you haven't just eaten breakfast, it'll be safe to read on: Fecal dismpaction is the procedure of digging out the poop that has stubbornly impacted itself in the rectum. High calcium levels cause constipation so you can imagine what can accumulate over a few years. I basically had to mine her rectum with my spelunker's helmet, a feces-proof flashlight, and a big stick to beat off any wild animals that crawl out to attack me.) She does seem to get better, but sometimes she thinks she's at the mall. The other day, she kept asking anyone who came into her room if they were there to fill up her car with gas. She called to tell me she was butt naked in a gas station waiting for her Mercedes to finish getting detailed. Before that, when she was at her worst, she was seeing little men in the corner with peacocks and cocktails on their heads. She warned me that soon there'd be bodies floating in the street, reeking of rotting flesh, then she'd have me check the toilet for floating bodies. It'd be entertaining if it weren't alittle sad. Of course, if she does have Alzheimers, I'll have to be aware of signs in my own future. I'm batty enough as it is now. These past several months have been a physical, emotional and mental drain on my dad and I. As a new card-carrying member of the sandwich generation, I started out a robust meatball sub with melted mozzarella and have turned into a moldy egg salad sandwich with wilted lettuce and soggy tomatoes. Pray for my mom's full recovery. We'll know in a couple more months if she'll get all or part of her brain back. If anyone has any advice, I'm all ears.