Mom, the Call Button, and My Own Bad Example

I’ve been hanging out with Mom at the skilled nursing facility for about four hours. Since I’m on disability due to my awesome health—please read that with the intended sarcasm—I have some time.

While I’ve been here, she has used the call button at least four times. Eventually, I had a conversation with her about it.

My first reaction came from how I behaved when I was in the hospital. I hardly ever used the call button. I thought that if I kept calling, people might respond more slowly.

That was my assumption. No one ever told me that would happen.

In fact, I’ve been told that my reluctance to call can create its own problems because I sometimes wait too long. And I have a pretty good example of that.

During a hospital stay here in Mount Pleasant, I felt my blood sugar dropping. I thought maybe it would bounce back on its own.

So I waited.

And waited.

Eventually, I realized I was in trouble. I pressed the call button and could barely get out the words that my blood sugar was low.

A nurse arrived with a glucose monitor and checked it with a finger stick. If I remember correctly, the reading was somewhere in the high 40s.

Then came the orange juice, graham crackers, peanut butter, cheese—the nurse brought what felt like every available food item.

When I called, the nurses’ desk understood that I needed help urgently. At the time, I took that as evidence that they rarely called unless I was serious.

Looking back, I can’t say that my previous silence had anything to do with their response. What I do know is that I waited until I could barely explain what was happening.

That is not exactly a success story about being a low-maintenance patient.

So, while I may have opinions about Mom pressing her call button, I also need to remember that my approach wasn’t necessarily better. Four calls in four hours doesn’t tell the whole story. What she needed matters more than the number.

There is room to be considerate of busy staff and, when practical, ask for several things at once. There also has to be room to ask for help without feeling like a nuisance.

After writing about advocating for Mom, I suppose I need to apply that same thinking when she advocates for herself.

Apparently, I’m not just spending time with her. I’m getting a refresher course in my own contradictions.