Indy had one final telehealth speech appointment. One final opportunity for Indy and Willie to toy with my sanity.
I strolled into the Temple of Doom, my computer and Indy Notebook tucked under my arm. I take notes during all of Indy’s appointments – speech, neurology, audiology, whatever. I carefully date the notes, and if I have a question going into the appointment, I pre-date the notes and write the question beneath.
I’ve filled two notebooks since Indy’s odyssey began. Notebooks are critical.
Also, I love notebooks. I have one to keep track of the kids’ stuff. Another I use to take notes on things I want to write about. Yet another with my to-do lists.
I love notebooks.
I had pre-dated and written a question for this appointment as I was curious about follow-up. Would Indy and I ever be sentenced to weekly speech appointments again? We both hate them.
Before I could do anything though, I had to contend with Willie.
Having WIllie present for Indy’s appointments is a bit like bringing a toddler to dinner at Tavern On The Green – it’s not a great idea, but sometimes you just don’t have a choice. So if you want to eat in peace, you need to set her up with something to do. Otherwise, she’ll interrupt constantly.
But sometimes, Willie starts interrupting before I can corral her. That was the case on this particular day.
“Come over here!” Willie demanded, clearly vexed. “You need to do something about this!”
Of course I do.
Indy’s medications had arrived from the VA. Enclosed with the pills was a packet about the drugs. How to take them. Side effects. When to call the prescriber.
Willie held up the packet. “Look at this!” she said, as if I was aware of the exact nature of the problem.
But I wasn’t. I was confused. Willie treated my confusion with love and patience because she’s my mom. She loves me. She wants me to understand. She wants to facilitate whatever task she demands I complete.
Um, kidding. Willie treated my confusion with anger and exasperation because Willie quit being my mom the day that tube went down her throat. I handled those six weeks of managing her care and her household finances just fine without her. My punishment/reward is that now I can totally shove it, Ms. Smarty Pants.
“What’s wrong with the instructions?”
“They’re long!” Willie cried.
“Well, what do you need to read it for?” I asked. It’s not like this was a new medication for Indy, and – as Willie often reminds me – she was a nurse once upon a time.
“No!” Willie yelled, the anger at my increasing confusion just a beautiful mother-daughter moment. “Look at how long it is!”
I absolutely failed to see the problem with the VA’s long prescription instructions.
“They’re killing trees!” Willie cried. “I want trees to be around for my grandchildren! You need to do something about this!”
So just to be clear, Willie wanted me to demand the VA cut down on the length of their prescription information packets because they used too much paper, killing every tree in the world. Willie doesn’t want trees killed because she’d like the trees to be around for her grandchildren.
But she doesn’t mind sucking up my time with inane and insane tasks, taking their mother away from some of those very grandchildren. The trees are more important for my kids than having a mother.
She is just the worst Lorax ever.
“No,” I told Willie.
“No?!” Willie said. “No?! But they’re killing trees!”
It took the military decades to notify Marines about the contaminated water at Camp LeJeune. I was not hopeful they’d move with any haste to save the trees.
“You can call the VA and save the trees. I’m not wasting my time.”
“I’m not doing that,” Willie said. “I wouldn’t get anywhere.”
But I would, the implication said. So when no trees are left, you know whose fault it is.
Mine.
I backed away, slowly so the toddler playing with reams of VA paper was not alerted to my departure. I slipped into my seat and logged Indy into his appointment.
Indy’s appointment involves exercises using a glass of water and a straw. He also has vocal exercises, where he has to speak a variety of phrases.
Indy is really good about laying out the tools for his speech therapy. But on this day, his packet of phrases was missing.
He keeps the packet in a green folder. Now, I tend to think that normal people using a folder to hold their speech exercises would put that folder in a filing cabinet when it’s not being used. But the filing cabinet is Willie’s and Willie doesn’t share.
And Indy isn’t so much about filing cabinets anyway. Maybe that’s why their marriage works.
To find that folder, I had to think like Indy. That usually means the floor. To Indy, the floor is a great place to keep papers.
But the folder wasn’t on the floor.
Willie, who had joined us for the appointment because I had failed to successfully distract her, sighed at what I like to think is Indy’s disorganization but in reality is probably my ineptitude.
“It’s in his chair,” she sighed.
Indy’s green folder was indeed wedged into his chair. I don’t know why. He never practices his phrases. He only pulls the folder out for his monthly appointments. Isn’t it uncomfortable having a green folder crammed into the cushion of your recliner?
I mean, I guess Parris Island was uncomfortable. So what’s an 8×10 folder in your La-Z-Boy?
When the appointment was over, Indy’s speech therapist discharged him until December. Indy was happy.
Lucky for Indy, he has Willie. Willie, whose new hobby is getting scammed.
A rehab hospital has set up a satellite office at the Temple of Doom. They took one look at Willie and Indy and decided they needed all the help they could get. Those rehab people hang with Willie and Indy more than my future stepdad. They do cognitive rehab for Indy and Willie’s terrible forgetfulness. Physical therapy too, because Indy and Willie walk like drunk frat boys.
I think it’s a scam. Willie says no. Indy says all sorts of things because – you guessed it – they also have him doing speech therapy.
“But he just finished speech therapy!” I wailed to Willie.
“He did?!” Willie asked, shocked.
So that cognitive therapy seems to be going well.
Hopefully, it remains this effective. I don’t want Willie to remember the trees. I don’t have time to save them.
I only have five months left to find Indy’s green folder.