I had finally secured an appointment with a geriatric psychiatrist who was willing to see Fran. It was a difficult process since Fran had only been in Michigan for less than two months and needed all new doctors.
I was alarmed as the episodes continued to escalate; we were constantly battling over everything, every day.
By then, I knew that she was taking Tramadol pretty much whenever she had to go somewhere, in particular, doctor appointments.
She was cagey and knew that it could mask her symptoms. I decided to tell her the appointment was mid-morning, about a 45-minute ride away.
I picked her up; she was somewhat anxious, but as we drove towards Brighton, she seemed to completely relax, and we had a nice conversation.
As we got closer, I told her I had made a mistake; her appointment was actually early afternoon. I suggested we stop in town and have a bite to eat before we went to the appointment and kill time.
Surprisingly, she did not resist; it was a nice early summer day, and we grabbed a table outside. I tried to keep her engaged, and we talked about the last time we were downtown Brighton years ago with her sister attending the art fair.
She was starting to get a bit anxious after I continued to stall and wanted to know where this appointment was. Slowly, she started to exhibit behavior that indicated to me the drug was wearing off.
When I finally got the check, I explained the doctor’s office was another 15 minutes away; Fran was agitated; it was showtime.
As we arrived at the office, she was paranoid that it did not look like a doctor’s office and she wanted to speak to the receptionist without me translating.
Good plan as that never goes sideways!
As we presented the insurance card, confirmed a few details, we were directed to take a seat; they would call her soon.
Almost as soon as we sat down, Fran became fixated on her walker. She ran her fingers over the handles, recoiling then trying again.
I waited and watched her repeat the routine over and over.
I finally asked her what was going on, to which she replied, “The ghosts are back.”
She launched into the explanation that she thought they stayed in her apartment. She claimed she had no idea they hitched a ride.
I was very concerned as she spoke in low tones and started to talk to the ghosts, telling them to leave. She asked me why I didn’t get “rid” of them and continued to try to shoo them away.
I wanted to record it on my cell, which I did routinely so I could document the episodes. Before I had the chance, she became very aggravated and pushed her cart away, asking me if I saw the “ghosts.”
I had not, and that infuriated Fran. By now, there were several people in the waiting room, and the last thing I needed was a meltdown.
The receptionist must have been used to reading the room. We were escorted to another area where we waited, alone. Within minutes, the doctor was ready, and we moved towards another room.
I escorted Fran but bailed on going into the room. I advised the doctor that I thought it would be best if Fran met one-on-one with her, and then she could speak freely.
Moments later, I could hear Fran tell the doctor I was making her life a living hell and that I was poisoning her. She claimed I had switched her meds, because the shape of some of her pills was different.
It got louder and more intense. I could hear almost every word Fran said. She was presenting!
The door opened, and I was invited in to participate in the last few minutes with the doctor. It was a push-and-pull event, and I knew the doctor was going to lose.
Minutes in, Fran announced she had had enough. The doctor was clearly as nutty as a fruitcake, and she was leaving. I immediately informed Fran that it would be a nice walk back home; she should get a head start.
The doctor, to me, appeared to be at a loss on how to end the session. Fran turned back and sat down as I explained to the doctor that we had a deal.
Fran would see a specialist. We would get an assessment and move on from there. The doctor pointed out that there indeed were some serious concerns, and she gently guided Fran to an action plan that she felt would make her feel better.
Fran now knew she had been defeated, accepting the suggestions of medications that could help her.
The doctor explained to me that while Fran needed care and meds, she would not prescribe any meds as she did not know enough of Fran’s history. I was perplexed, wondering why we were even there.
I was back to square one.
Next up: A step in the right direction