An uncooperative patient

It is three minutes to 8 in the evening and I have just returned from an eventful visit to the doctor. Mother's doctor. Yet again, I played the ever-important role of the translator (Mother's ability in Spanish still only extends to a small variety of fruit).

Over the last three days it has become ridiculously cold here. So, wrapped up suitably, we walk to the clinic. This clinic was the final choice. The winner, if you will, from 10  other clinics in town that were not up to Mother's standards after spending an afternoon interviewing the receptionists of each one. So, here we are at the clinic. Mother no longer attempts to communicate and instead just points at me. We register and are directed downstairs to the Optician department.

"Downstairs? What - in the basement?!" Mother expresses her worries quite freely.

I usher her into the elevator. 

We are in the waiting room for a few minutes before Mother inhales and dramatically rises her wrist to see her watch.

"Three minutes past. Three minutes late! I'm paying for this service, you know. And if you think I'm waiting for all this lot to go before me, you've got another thing coming! I shall be writing to the CEO of Catalonian health service and complaining! We can't be having ---"

At this moment, a tall lanky man comes into the waiting room and calls out Mother's name.

Upon entering, Mother directs me (with her pointy finger) to communicate the fact that she is unable to learn any Spanish at all and will not be able to understand anything and will be relying on me, yet again, to translate all the medical jargon.

"Tell the man --- wait, ask him what his name is first --- and then tell the man I've got three problems. The first one is that a mosquito attacked me last week and I was left with a very damaged eye. There's probably something really wrong with it. It bit my eyebrow! It was all inflamed --- tell him, darling. Tell the doctor while I'm telling you --- go on --- and the second problem is that my left eye is in SO MUCH pain every June and July and I don't know why but it streams and STREAMS and I can't bear it! Tell him --- have you told him, darling?! That's the most important thing, make sure you tell him! Now, the third problem is my eyes in general, darling. They're deteriorating. There's probably something seriously wrong with them. I might be going blind. Things are getting worse every day. You remember me telling you all about it this morning, don't you darling? Well - tell the doctor."

I attempt to relay the first issue to the doctor and just as I finish briefing him, he spins around and talks to Mother in Spanish.

"Wait! No - no! Wait, there's more. You didn't tell him all THREE, did you?" Mother is leaning around Dr to speak to me; "Excuse me, Dr, there are MORE PROBLEMS. More."

 

The doctor has pulled out those scary glasses Opticians have that hold multiple, interchangeable lenses. He proceeds to place them onto Mother's nose.

"OUCH!!!! No!!! I don't need these bloody glasses! I know how far I can see! OUCH! They're hurting, darling! Tell the man!! They're squashing my nose! Nope..." Mother takes them straight off, much to Dr's astonishment.

I relay Mother's message. Mildly.

Dr places them back on. 

"OWWwWwww..... God, they don't fit me properly! They haven't been adjusted especially for me. This is bloody useless - we'll be leaving in a minute! If he doesn't listen to my other health problems, we'll be walking out, darling!"

The Dr asks me to ask Mother to read the letters appearing on the wall and Mother does surprisingly well.

Dr then removes the glasses and I manage to slip in the details of the other two eye problems. He and I then discuss further between ourselves whilst Mother's head is poking around the side of the equipment trying to understand the conversation.

"Tell him I want a photograph of my eye!"

I do. He tells me she doesn't need one.

"YES I DO! I am not paying for this kind of service! I AM THE CUSTOMER! I am right!"

I ignore her and translate the doctor's instructions to place her head on a part of the apparatus.

"DO. NOT. MOVE. QUIET. QUIET. DO. NOT. MOVE. QUIET. QUIET."

Ah. So the doctor speaks English. Perfect.

I don't know why Spanish people do this - but I am assuming it is a cheap thrill; watching a foreigner aggressively rant away, thinking they cannot be understood. 

Anyway. I don't think Mother recognises the fact that he speaks English because she continues mumbling at me whilst the doctor examines her eyes.

"I won't be coming back to this one, you know. I don't like it. This is nonsense. Look at all this equipment. It's ANTIQUATED! Darling, this won't do. This is old! Oh my God... I put my head on that thing... he didn't even clean it! Ask him if he sanitised it!!"

I do not.

Dr grabs some eye drops and gushes them into Mother's eyes before I could finish blinking.

He does provide some sort of explanation for her 'problems', which I translate as best as I can --- although bear in mind that 60% of the words he used were medical jargon, in which I am not fluent. Either in English or Spanish. I do, however, pick up the fact that he thinks Mother's 'June / July allergy problem' is nothing to worry about if it's only happening for two months of the year. This infuriates Mother more than I anticipated.

"IT IS SOMETHING TO WORRY ABOUT BECAUSE I AM WORRIED ABOUT IT OH MY GOD!" 

I reassure Mother that everything else is fine and there's nothing to worry about. This is not the answer she wanted, apparently.

"Nope. No. Tell him he is WRONG. Wrong-o. Not right." Mother shakes her head and wags her finger dramatically. "He is not right! I know my EYES! I don't need to know about what bloody glasses to wear! He is not qualified - is he? Ask him what qualifications he has because he certainly has not fixed my problems!!! This is an outrage. I will be talking to that lady upstairs and complaining. Just you wait and see."

 

The doctor looks at me, confused. I make up something short and also start up a conversation about something totally irrelevant to diffuse the awkward situation.

I am successful in the diffusion and we leave on quite good terms. Shaking hands etc. It turns out that the doctor does not really speak English very well. Only those few choice words. Probably a blessing. 

Arriving upstairs, back at the reception, Mother took it upon herself to loudly educate the clinic in their employment of a useless doctor. The staffs' apologies earned themselves very little with Mother - as she insisted to be re-assigned to a different doctor. This was done in a matter of seconds, actually, as Mother was invited to speak with a very jolly 'Jose' (oh hey, what an unusual name) - who happened to be wearing a flamboyant cravat. Naturally, they got on supremely well (despite the language barrier) and they nearly cheek-kissed when saying goodbye. 

Mother has instructed the receptionists to allocate Jose as her personal doctor for all future appointments, regardless of the appropriate medical category.

xoxo

Sunday runs with Mother: Ep.1

My friend has just started 'couch to 5k' - which is apparently an attempt by the NHS to get people moving as we approach the hibernation season. An interval training approach to fitness.
Having told Mother of my friend's new goal, she has decided to join in. Although Mother prefers her version; "Sofa to 1k". 

I intend to force Mother to stick to this activity every Sunday - partially so that I can document any mishaps. You may think a light Sunday exercise should not create a blog-worthy post - but you are wrong. 

As I approach Mother's bedroom to collect her, I see this:

 
























That is indeed Mother in my Halloween costume. 

She informs me that she actually has no "running gear". Apparently my Grease Pink Ladies jacket was a suitable substitution. 

We all look forward to the next one. xoxo

P.S. I demanded the jacket back before the running commenced. By 'running' I mean 'light prance for 1 minute and then a lengthy break on a bench'.

A very unplanned day

There is an ongoing battle in my brain, in which I cannot decide which mantra to live. 1) lower your expectations and reduce disappointment or 2) expect greatness, receive greatness. 

This particular day required the very tiny expectation that one might have of a city; to be functioning. 

Mother has an upcoming important business meeting with a fancy Lord and, of course, shopping for appropriate attire became the top priority. She cannot rock up in her Hawaiian sarong and curlers (the 'everyday' fashion choice). So, on Saturday, I appointed myself 'personal shopper' for the day and took Mother shopping in Barcelona. The ease of public transport remains and, twenty five minutes later, we arrive on Passeig de Gracia. I notice Philipp Plein is closed. Prada, a few doors down is also seemingly closed. As is Mango. Interesting. I don't mention this to Mother, as she may erupt into a violent panic. Unfortunately, Mother spots Tommy Hilfiger and tries to walk in. 

"Darling! Where's the doorman? There's no doorman! What is one supposed to do in these situations?" Mother's face crinkles.

She has not noticed that the door is locked. There are also no lights.

Suddenly, a voice comes from the ground below us. There is a handsome, homeless man (albeit in shiny brown loafers that may or may not have been by an Italian designer) who is speaking to us... along with a Chinese couple holding a large camera and looking equally perplexed.

"Yes, the shops are closed - it is a fiesta today."

"WHAT?! You're joking, aren't you. You ARE joking?"

"Yes, it is the fiesta of Barcelona today. There is a Nike shop down there that is open...."

"Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Oh my God! I can't believe it. I can't BELIEVE IT! No. No. NO!  They can't be serious. They cannot be serious. Another fiesta? Another fiesta?!"

Mother erupts in the street, to the homeless man's surprise (he is not used to the British outcry). 

sad and empty

I thank the gentleman on the floor and guide Mother anywhere else. I, too am upset about this inconvenience .... as there couldn't really be anything more inconvenient on this particular day. Nonetheless, after a few moments of breathing, Mother and I decide to "embrace the situation". Sort of. There is one store open round the corner and Mother waltzes in and makes a direct path towards the shop assistant. 

"Hello! Now, I want to buy something in here because I want to CONGRATULATE you on the fact that you're open!"

N.B. Mother enunciates the word 'congratulate' quite aggressively with her mouth. I worry, again, that her jaw may dislocate.

Two minutes later, I see Mother in deep conversation with a woman browsing through the cardigans. I can hear her.

"You know, Spain complain about their financial difficulties but this is why there's a crisis here! THIS IS WHY!"

The woman is from Canada and slowly nods; "Yes... I was wondering why the shops are closed. Why are they closed? They don't close on a Saturday in Vancouver... there'd be a riot!"

"Yes, I know! Well, it's another damn fiesta, isn't it! As if they need another one! This is why there's a crisis in Spain, you know. It's Sunday tomorrow - they close anyway! Why wouldn't they just move the fiesta day onto tomorrow? They are losing millions of euros, let me tell you! The amount of money Chanel would have made today! Saturday, of all days! I mean really!"

After another ten minutes of telling the entire store why Spain is having a financial crisis, I drag Mother out and make our way towards a different part of town. A shred of hope remains within us that there may be shops open in the quieter part of town.

As we head towards the other end of town, a swarm of over 300 humans are flying in our direction and we soon realise that the fiesta is happening everywhere. All over the city. Our last shred of hope dissolves into the giant bobbing Queen's head as it passes us in the crowd. 

Right, so quite clearly any kind of shopping is out of the window. 

As afternoon brews, it is time to find somewhere to eat lunch. Mother's mantra of "embracing the situation" returns (briefly) and decides we ought to bask in the fiesta spirit and relax over some food. Neither of us realised how difficult it could be to find a table anywhere on this particular day. 

Eventually, after much fluster, we find an organic, non-Spanish cafe. In fact, Mother finds it whilst I wait a few blocks away (I avoided the trek of restaurant-hunting because of my knee situation) and, when I arrive at the restaurant 30 minutes later, I see Mother waiting outside with a glass of cava in her hand. Of course.

As I browse the menu, I see Mother is not. Instead, Mother is transfixed by a waiter and immediately calls him over. For what, I am not sure - as she has not seen the menu yet. 

"Darling, could we possibly move to that table over there, please?" Mother bats her eyelashes expectantly.

I am a little sceptical at this request, considering we have waited a long time for an available table - so an instant relocation may not be as easily accommodated as Mother thinks. 

I am proven wrong as the waiter happily moves us to the table near the window. I notice Mother is cava-less. This is odd and as I look at her I see her struggling to recall what is missing.

"Darling I d--- OH! My cava! He must have taken it away... Wait uh---"

Mother proceeds to hail the waiter down again;

"Darling, sorry - you took my cava away, darling!" She pulls a sort of sad-puppy face.

"Oh... I- I- I'm sorry yes, yes I bring you another one don't worry" Lovely waiter says.

As he brings Mother a fresh glass of cava (may I add here that the previous glass that was taken away was very nearly finished...), Mother gently grabs the waiter's forearm, before he can escape, to ask him his name.

"Luis Miguel but it's Luisimi for short"

"How beautiful! Oh how wonderful!! Luisimity? Loosemiti? Louis? Oh anyway it's gorgeous where are you from? Are you Spanish?"

"I am from Argentina, actually"

"OHHH!!" She literally shouts "OF COURSE YOU ARE! Ohhh how lovely, that's why you are so SMILEY!!!! You know, all the people from Argentina are just SOOOO lovely!"

It continues.

As Luisimi brings me my calming lavender tea (N.B. some might call me a grandma but you do not realise the necessity of calming tea when you are with Mother) I offer Mother to taste it. She does. 

"Hmmm.... lovely, darling! Yes... what is that?" Her face grimaces.

"It's calming lavender tea, Mother"

"Yes. I see. What sort of alcohol is infused? Because it's quite subtle, isn't it? Is it vodka, darling? Or perhaps gin because that would go with lavender, surely."

"Uh.... it's just tea, Mother. There isn't actually alcohol in it..."

"What do you mean, NO alcohol? What are you drinking then, darling?"

"What? Tea.... the tea? I'm drinking tea. See?"

Mother's confusion fades as the food arrives and her attention is diverted towards Luisimi and his bright smile. 

quintessentially 'us'.

"Barcelona is lovely but it's always so much better with cava, don't you think, darling?"

"Mhmm."

As we eat, an older gentleman is seated at the table behind Mother. Instantly I am uplifted (I love old people) and even more so now that I see he is dining alone. My heart swells and Mother whips around to see what's going on, with great fear of missing out on any restaurant antics that may be happening behind her. The man does not realise that this restaurant is a vegetarian restaurant and is perplexed when the waitress tells him there is no meat. Bless his heart, he hesitantly orders the risotto and waits patiently.

It arrives and he looks quite pleased as he powers through it. Mother frequently and not subtly spins around to check his satisfaction levels. As if she were the chef seeking approval. 

As the man leaves after his meal, he walks past our table. He does not get very far, however, as Mother suddenly launches herself at him and clenches her hand around his jacketed arm. He jumps and looks around, ever so startled, to see Mother grinning up at him. Her hand still tightly secured around him.

"It's good, isn't it? Did you like it?" Mother attempts to get across her questions in a bizarre Danish accent.

He responds timidly, still shocked; "Please?" as if to say "Please let go of me you crazy woman".

" It's good, no? You like?" Mother's accent remains.

"Yes.... uh- yes you are right.. yes. Ok." He says, nodding and trying to pry Mothers grip from his arm.

"Bye!" Mother shouts at him excitedly.

The man scuttles off and, soon after, we do too. 

In the lovely sunny afternoon, Mother and I are walking through some back streets of Barcelona (often where one might find a little hidden treasure of a store) with the mild plan of heading towards the beach. As we are strolling along the wide, empty street looking at the buildings, I am jolted forward. Literally. Something very heavy has just been smacked into my ankle and a human force has pushed me. Instant fear... I think I'm being mugged. Panic strikes me as my horrified face turns to Mother. She grabs me and we both turn around to see a haggard, dirty old woman that strongly resembles the Evil Witch from Snow White, proffering the apple. She doesn't say anything - only grunts and mutters something like "MOVE" at me whilst struggling with a large 5 litre bucket of water as she continues to push past me until she gets to her porch. I remain in shock as I am being physically shooed out of the way. Another encounter with a crazy woman fuels Mother to react quite aggressively;

"HEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" She shouts at Evil Witch.

Evil Witch responds, grimly; "Move faster!" with a surprising American accent.

Mother is taken aback and says; "NO!   NO MOVE FASTER!    NO!   NO MOVE FASTER THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!!"

The old hag scuttles into her hole with her bucket of water. (Sorry, I wouldn't normally be so rude with my descriptive words but there were a number of ways for that woman to handle the situation with consideration. She just bulldozed me instead).

Those of you who may be concerned that Mother is to attend her business meeting in a sarong and coconut bra; we plan to return to the city of shops next weekend. Pray for us that there will not be another fiesta. Or another crazy woman.

xoxo

MOTHER'S QOTD (quote of the day)

Upon being offered a red rose by a foreign 'salesman'

 "No, because we've come to a restaurant, haven't we? Not a garden centre."

xoxo

Daughter goes to battle

I am still buzzing with rage from this experience, so brace yourselves for some profanity (sorry).

Last week, I had to make the difficult effort to travel to a specific electronic store; 'Media Markt' in a shopping mall in order to return another piece of technology . I say 'difficult' because I had to 'public transport' my way, with the assistance of Mother wheeling me around. During my short stint as a temporarily-disabled human, I have learnt the many hidden issues that disabled people face every day. I am actually grateful to have had the experience.

So, here I am with Mother in Media Markt patiently waiting for Carlos the TV expert to finish helping an old couple choose their screen. I notice that Carlos is demonstrating the USB slot functions in the side of a TV... by using the couple's personal USB stick. All of a sudden, a large album of photos appear on this large screen. Amongst the photos of their grandchildren, I spot a slightly grim image of the wife. Naked. In a bath. In a foetal position. Swiftly I wheel myself away and try to find Mother. Mother is browsing in another section and then we notice Carlos is just about to be available, so we make our way over to him.

Carlos is lovely (he only speaks Spanish so I am the translator). Having been in discussions over Sony vs Samsung for about five minutes, I hear a squawk from afar; "I just have one question oh my GOD". At this point, this noise has not registered with me because a) honestly I don't think it's got anything to do with me and b) because I can't easily turn around to see what's going on (wheelchair, remember?). 

A few moments later, the squawk is significantly louder and I realise this noise is closer to me than I originally thought. 

"Hey! I just have one question! I've been here an hour oh my God! Just one question so I can gooooooo!!" 

The voice vibrates around my head and I recognise it to be foreign. Not Spanish and not English but a different ...specific... nationality I shall not mention.

Okay,  this woman is having a stressed day, clearly. Is she talking to us three? Probably not. Because that would be rude, wouldn't it? To interrupt. I forget about it. Although, I notice Carlos looks up. His face is graced with concern but remains calm and I see him look above my head and explain with only his hands that he is busy and will attend to her when he's finished with us. Mother is beside me and I see her look behind at this loud woman in slight shock. 

I cannot see what's going on behind me but my ears are alert.

 
"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY NOT GOING TO LET ME ASK JUST ONE QUESTIONNNNNN???" 
 

Okay. The lunatic is right behind me now. 

"You're just talking about TVs I have one question about a car radio oh my GODD!"

I can hear her jangly gold jewellery. I can also, unfortunately, feel my ears shattering a tiny bit because she's yelling. Right behind me. Literally. 

Carlos is perplexed at this... mental case in front of him. 

Mother politely smiles at her and quietly says; "Look. Don't shout at me, it's not my problem. Go and complain to Media Markt about the wait."

"IT'S JUST ONE QUESTION FOR GOD'S SAKE OH MY F**KING GOD" 

Oh great, she's even louder. Her pitch has risen by like... a hundred, too. 

Carlos is silent. I see him observe the jungle scene behind me with concern. He looks at me and tells me not to worry. Bless him.

The crazy hyena is moving in. She's moving in and I can feel her behind me. 

Mother calmly says; "Please remove yourself from my vicinity" and turns back to Carlos.  (what? what? calmly? Yes, I know - I don't know how this has happened but evidently, today our roles reversed and Mother has zero rage.)

"Are you f**king seriously not going to let me ask one question???? I'VE BEEN HERE AN HOUR OH MY GOD ARE YOU JOKING OH MY GOD YOU ARE ---" 

This b*tch is now screaming like a wild animal at my Mother... and poor Carlos!

All of a sudden, I lose it. I whip my steaming head right around to face this Gucci-padded, turnip of a bleached-blonde Barbie. 

"EXCUUUUUUUSE ME?!?!?!?" I actually yell at her with my beetroot-face. 

"EXCUSE MEEEE?! DON'T YELL AT HER!!!!!" I aggressively point my finger to Mother whilst growling at this crazy brat.

"AND HE DOESN'T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH!!! HE DOESN'T SPEAK ENGLISHHHHHH!!!!!!" I roar at her, whilst pointing at Carlos.

"BACK OFF!!!!!!!" I shout at her. 

"I DON´T CARE HE DOESN´T SPEAK ANY ENGLISH! I DON´T CARE!" This woman is psychotic. And stupid. Very, very stupid.

I feel like I have just exploded 24 years-worth of rage! 

Mother then bends down to hold my giant, red face. "Darling, don't get stressed" she says to me, before turning to the hyena and saying; "she can't get stressed, it makes her worse!!"

Which - disclaimer - is 100% true. The stress tenses up my muscles and locks my neck and jaw, trapping nerves and all sorts. 

Then, as if my mind hadn't already been blown by this tantrum-adult, Barbie arrogantly huffs;

"Oh, she'll live!"

I nearly choked.

I hear her turn on her heel, defeated. As she turns, she says;

"She's only in a f**king wheelchair."

....

With this, my jaw drops. I have no words. What? Is she joking????

Carlos doesn't really understand what has happened but he is very sympathetic. He is so lovely. Mother is worried about my blood boiling over and out of my ears as she bends down and comforts me. I can't believe how calm Mother is, I am impressed. I can't believe I flew off the handle. The medication must have transformed me.

Oh, also - just N.B. - upon leaving the store, I notice Barbie and her dopy drip of a fiancé asking way more than "just one question" to Carlos.

Oh my God I feel like I've been in a warped episode of TOWIE without the margaritas.

xoxo