A Caregiver Gypsy in a Medical Funhouse
It started with the black-and-white polka dot pants in the Urology Department.
Then came the wide-legged jeans in “vintage firecracker “ and the bright cerise blazer in the Lymphedema Clinic.
With Cardiology comes three Breton striped shirts: black-and-white, red-and-white, and multi-color. Straight lines that match. Predictably fashionable. Long-sleeved, short-sleeved, and ¾ sleeved for variety.
The silver sandals, black espadrilles, and emerald flip-flops come while on hold for 77 minutes trying to make an appointment with the primary care doc.
With Neurology, it’s soothing sky blue and pink tee shirts in soft organic cotton.
The cap-sleeved, red-and-yellow silk shirt comes right after the aborted MRI. The drab beige Radiation basement waiting room with the TV blaring Barry Manilow (who can no longer sing, BTW) made me yearn to be a Parisian woman, wearing my silk shirt, espadrilles, and wide-legged cerise jeans.
Rather than being the woman I am. Which would be a woman taking her husband from specialist to specialist, test to test, knowing that nothing good is going to happen from whatever we find out.
“This is puzzling. Complicated. Serious.”
That’s when I snagged the fairy skirt on Etsy, with the mirrored polka dots that sparkle. Day or night.
I have no place to wear a fairy skirt. But I like opening the closet door and seeing it greet me happily. Just like the silver sandals. They are so damn positive. Unlike the warnings you get for taking care of yourself as a caregiver.
Make sure you exercise. I walk every day, and dance on Sunday mornings.
Eat well. No sugar, no meat, no alcohol, lots of fruit, lots of water. Check, check, check, check.
Get plenty of rest. Nine hours of sleep and bonus points for taking a nap on my office couch when I’m not in a bland, beige medical waiting room.
But no one warned me about online clothes shopping while sitting in waiting rooms.
Polka dots, stripes and firecracker colors are my hopeful prayers. My magical thinking that there will be some simple fix and these daily pilgrimages for a cure will end and we’ll live happily ever after.
Or, at least we’ll live at home and not in medical waiting rooms. We’ll sit on our deck overlooking the pond — in my fantasies it is always summer in New England — and I will wear a ratty tee shirt, frayed shorts and flip flops.
Until then I shall wear my emotional spending finds. All reds and polka dots and spangling silvers and golds and brilliant nautical stripes.
A caregiver gypsy in a medical fun house.