I assume there must be some sort of formalized testing procedure for the diagnosis, but I've never been formally tested. Although there are times when I wonder if some sort of hidden camera isn't trained directly on me in a clandestine effort to assess my mental stability.
But that's just when I'm with my mother.
About six months ago she mentioned a lump on her abdomen. I looked at it and thought it was worth mentioning to her care providers. They felt it warranted an x-ray. Fortunately there are people whose job it is to go around with portable x-ray machines and drop by to conduct the whole procedure in-home, so I was spared the arduous task of taking my mother anyplace. I half suspected a dire diagnosis out of it but, as it was, the mass was indelicately identified as...impacted feces.
I guess I should have mentioned, upfront, this isn't lunchtime reading.
Anyway, Steve said he wasn't surprised by the diagnosis as he has always thought my mother was full of shit.
Nevertheless, it isn't an insignificant problem but there isn't a lot that can be done about it either. She was told a few things to help herself out but, of course, she won't do them. Over the past few months nothing about the mass has changed and she has made weekly mention of how she thought the diagnosis was stupid and needed further testing. Further testing seemed pointless to me, but last week she had badgered enough people for so long that the decision was made to schedule a CT scan.
I made the arrangements, told Mommie Dearest the appointment date, and let her know when she should stop eating. I called the night before and told her not to eat the next morning. I called her the morning of the procedure to remind her not to eat.
She'd already eaten a donut. Of course.
Later that day, I pulled my car up to the building where she lives, as she was making her way out the door. Before I got around the car to help her in, she started telling me she didn't see any point in all this. I sort of chuckled as I buckled her seat belt and told her that after months of complaining she needed further testing, this was her lucky day. Before I drove out of the parking lot she said the appointment wasn't necessary. I smiled sweetly and told her, again, she'd been asking for it for months.
As I drove, she moved through her litany of complaints: she doesn't have a boyfriend, she doesn't have a car, her life is boring. And this was a ridiculous appointment. I gritted my teeth and kept driving.
We arrived at the appointment and she checked in, but not without mentioning a few more times that she didn't see any reason to do this. She was given a plastic bottle of white, chalky barium to consume and told the procedure would commence in an hour. For the next 59 minutes she complained about how long it was taking. And besides that, she didn't need to have this procedure done.
At this point I tried to numb my brain. Lacking any tools for performing a physical lobotomy I simply tried to shut my brain off. I stopped responding. I tried to change the subject. I considered telling her I was going to the restroom but really just leaving and changing my identity.
And then I started getting paranoid.
I started thinking that this was really just a test of my sanity. Someone was watching to see how I would respond. I tried to calm myself. She prattled on about not needing the procedure. I started to twitch.
Finally someone came and got her for the scan and I was given a few minutes of reprieve. My heart rate returned to normal. My breathing stabilized. The paranoia abated.
And then she was finished.
On the way home she mentioned that she hadn't needed the procedure. And she didn't have a boyfriend. Or a car. Her life was boring. It was so ridiculous to have that procedure. And she didn't have a boyfriend. Or a car. And she certainly hadn't needed that CT scan.
I started to shake.
The results of the scan came back today...impacted feces. I called to give her the report and she responded by saying that was a stupid diagnosis. Surely it was wrong.
She needs another procedure.
Please. Turn off the camera.
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