Itchy and scratchy

So yesterday was Mom's turn for attention. About damn time, I guess. To make a long story short, she had a bad rash all over her entire torso and head. It was crazy. I took her to the urgent care clinic. (Why do they use the word "urgent?" To me, that implies speed.) There, they thought it was a reaction to a drug she hasn't been on for a week. Just to be safe, they sent us to the ER. Sigh. There goes my day.

The ER we went to is, basically, the Level 1 Trauma Center for all of southeastern Wisconsin. Consequently, it was a busy place. Poor Mom, with her red, itchy rash, ranked pretty low on the triage totem pole. Regardless, they looked her over carefully and did some blood work to make sure all was OK.

During the exam, the Physician's Assistant was asking Mom about the rash and the itchiness. Here's the conversation:

PA: So how does the rash feel? Is it terribly itchy?
Mom: How does it feel? Well, it's hard to explain. I feel like my body is shrinking and caving into my 'pelvic.'
Me: Mom, she wants to know how the rash feels.
Mom: Oh. I'm fine.

Mom is the queen of tangents. Ask her a question and she'll find ten ways not to answer it. I can't explain it. It's like there are answers buried in her head and she needs to share them with somebody. She looks for a question remotely connected to something she's been dying to tell someone. Lately, it's this "my body is caving into my pelvic" thing. I'm guessing this is because my Dad has largely ignored her for 60 years.

So, finally, after 4 hours, we were able to head home with a couple of drugs and a hope that the docs are guessing right about this bad drug reaction.

In Dad news, he's still on the "I want my license back" kick. He left Hubby a note saying that he wants it back. Here's the conversation he and I had:

Me: Dad, I saw the note you left. Why do you want your license back?
Dad: Because I WANT it. That's all.
Me: Dad, you can't have it. You can't drive.
Dad: I'm not going to drive. I just want my license.
Me: Dad, we'll get you a state I.D. You're not going to get your license.
Dad: Don't tell me what I can't do. 

Oh and  one of the meds that he's on increases his appetite. I can see that now. He's started cruising through the kitchen in search of carbs. Yesterday, he pulled a brilliant move. He walked into the kitchen and asked for a spoon. Hubby asked him what for. "Ice cream," he said. (Which he hadn't yet been served.) Well played, sir. May I please have a wine glass?

I have this terrible foreshadowing that I'm in for a big fight. Thank God I've got Hubby on my team. I'm just praying that I'm not alone next time Dad decides he wants something he can't have.