Friday, my husband and I went to another doctor’s appointment in Oxford. We’re at the age that these visits are our date outings — and we date often.
This particular orthopedic sports specialist had glossy signed photos of female Ole Miss athletes at peak performance jumping high with basketballs, kicking soccer balls and pitching softballs. I imagined the doctor has treated these sports stars and they made her happy wall.
While osteoarthritis is not a sports injury, that’s the doctor you see and that’s the one that gives you a big shot with an extra long needle right into your joint. The next day, my husband was out of pain for the first time since March.
It’s been a stormy three months going from doctor to doctor, waiting for the next referral, getting test results to find he didn’t have rheumatoid arthritis, then finally getting the shot Friday. A new day dawned at the end of that painful storm.
So, now my turn, storms aplenty. I became the caretaker of my two older sisters, 16 and 13 years older than myself. My brother had died two years prior.
In a split-second decision, I chose to move my oldest sister back to the family home where we could live with my other sister. It was both an emotional and financial decision. Both sisters had dementia, there was not enough money for two nursing home payments and there were promises I made.
Hospice was called, day nurses were hired to turn one sister every two hours. At night, my husband and I did that job together. It took both of us.
We sold our home and stacked boxes where we could. My other sister called the sheriff twice to have me removed, then she was put on hospice when she could no longer take her meds correctly and because she kept threatening to poison my oatmeal.
My oldest sister died, then four months later my other sister died — I believe from liver cancer, because that’s where she hurt and was swollen.
So, Region One Mental Health became my go-to place. I’d been seeing Lisa Phelps for a million years because I’ve had a million storms to talk through long before all my siblings decided to just up and die on me. Lisa is married to Bud, who sells me furniture. So, when I’m not talking to Lisa I’m talking to Bud or Tom when I’m paying my bill, but Lisa never talks about me to Bud and Bud never talks about me to Lisa, so I guess they talk about their new grandson.
I kept telling Bud I could paint better paintings than what he was selling because I’d been taking oil painting classes from Carol Roark over on the East side. My heart just led to me paint a gift (top photo) for Lisa’s new office, Delta Insights Counseling Services.
I’m telling you all this because, just like those proud sports athletes hanging in the doctor’s office, I’m signing my name big and proud so everyone can be encouraged to go talk your way through your storms. A new day is dawning and Lisa has lovely tissues with lotion in case your eyes leak.
Her new office is across from the post office in Clarksdale, behind Mark Foster’s copy place. See, we’re a
