Amid spate of family health problems, I’m worried sick

It’s happened again! I got another phone call that shocked me to my core, so soon after I got the one that my son, Cheetah Boy, had been in a terrible scooter accident and was in intensive care.

This voicemail was left on my phone at 4:58 p.m. yesterday, two minutes before the case manager left for the day. Obviously, this made it impossible for me to call him back and discuss the situation.

Now, I want to remind you, since some of you have actual lives, that Cheetah Boy has been in the hospital for nearly three weeks after he was hit by a car while riding his scooter.

He broke his pelvis in two places; he needed surgery to put his wrist back together and to repair his collapsed lung; he has a broken shoulder, broken ribs and more.

The physical therapists at the Kaiser Permanente hospital in Harbor City have been teaching him how to get in and out of a wheelchair by himself.

Just the other day, he learned to ease a board under his tush and slide himself on and off his bed, although when I saw him last, he needed help from the nurse.

So that part is good, right?

The part that is not good is that Kaiser, in its ineffable wisdom, has decided that my son can now come home and be cared for in my house.

My little old house that is not wheelchair-friendly. My house that has narrow doors and halls. And five steps to get up to the front door.

Cheetah Boy has been told he will be in a wheelchair for four to six weeks because he can’t walk until his pelvic fractures heal.

The original plan was for him to go to a rehabilitation facility where they would continue to work with him until he can walk and resume his normal activities.

However, apparently, the all-knowing people at Kaiser have decided that should not happen. Instead, he should move back into my house, where there is no one to take care of him. His temporary case manager told me this morning that they could not find a rehab or a skilled nursing facility that would accept him, due to his young age and the gravity of his injuries.

As you know, I have stage 4 cancer. And, right now, I’m going through high-dose radiation treatments that are making me sick and tired. I can’t even drive myself right now. My friends are driving me to Anaheim Hills for treatments every day. And then I come home and sleep.

Yesterday afternoon, the regular case manager (who had solemnly promised me that they wouldn’t send my son home) sent over a wheelchair for my son to use here before leaving on vacation. I refused to accept it. There’s no point in having a wheelchair when none of your doorways or halls are wheelchair-friendly.

My son told me he thinks he can take care of himself at home. Right. I asked who was going to feed him. He said he’d just microwave frozen stuff. Well, he can get into the freezer, but the microwave is over the stove. So how is he going to reach it?

Apparently, Kaiser will send over a home nurse every day. Well, is this individual going to help him go to the toilet? How about getting him a drink of water? Giving him a bath? Changing his sheets? Plugging in his laptop? Brushing his teeth?

Don’t get me wrong. I adore my son. If I were well, I would want him home and I would want to care for him. I miss him every day.

But I’m not well. I can’t even take care of myself right now while they’re nuking me every day. I’m having meals delivered so I don’t have to cook. My friends are driving me where I need to go.

I am gone half the day at radiation treatments, which means my bedridden son will be in the house alone.

I broke down and cried last night when I got the message that they are sending Cheetah Boy home when he needs to be in rehab where they can help his body heal. I was promised this would not happen.

But, really, it’s an HMO. You’re just a cog to be managed.

But now I’m eligible for Medicare, and I can’t wait to switch. I don’t know what will happen by the time you read this.

Meanwhile, the good news is that my wonderful boy is healing fast. The kid is a wonder of nature. He’ll make a full recovery, though with a plate in his wrist, I don’t know if he’ll be able to go back to being a massage therapist.

Come back next week. I promise to be funny. And give a hug to your loved ones. You never know what will happen.