Chapter 5 - Patricia moved in
Patricia was sixty-two.
Michael’s mother.
Widowed.
Retired licensed practical nurse.
That last fact gave her authority inside our house far beyond what she still legally practiced.
She had worked in long-term care for twenty-five years.
Not obstetrics.
Not enteral nutrition.
Still, Michael treated:
Mom was a nurse
as though it settled every medical question.
Patricia moved into our guest room after my second hospitalization.
I agreed.
Meaningfully.
I wanted help.
I was vomiting six, eight, ten times a day.
I could not stand long enough to shower safely.
Michael was exhausted.
Patricia arrived with groceries.
Cleaned.
Changed sheets.
Sat beside me while Michael slept.
For two weeks, she was helpful.
Then she began correcting.
“You vomit because you panic as soon as you feel nauseated.”
My doctors did not say that.
“You need to stop associating food with fear.”
Maybe partly true psychologically.
Not a cure.
“You lie down too much.”
“You think about symptoms too much.”
“You let doctors scare you.”
Then the tube.
After my fifth hospital admission, the team placed a nasoenteric feeding tube and gave us a specific formula and schedule.
The hospital taught Michael and me how to handle routine care and what not to do.
Patricia attended part of the teaching.
She disliked the schedule.
“Sick people need real food.”
The dietitian explained:
“This is real nutrition.”
Patricia smiled.
“I know.”
The kind of smile that means:
I do not agree but will wait until you leave.
She began suggesting additions.
The dietitian said:
“No unapproved substances through the tube.”
Clear.
I remembered.
Michael remembered.
May you like
Patricia remembered too.
That would matter later.
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