Page 33 of Faking it for Gran's Sake

Gran waves a hand. “He’s a doctor in demand and doesn’t often make call-outs. It’s very kind of him to meet us here.”

Dad frowns. “Who’s been taking you to appointments?”

“The nurses at the retirement home take care of me. But I requested a doctor's visit last week and had my blood taken. I know it in my soul. My time is nearly up.”

“Gran. Don’t say that. Please.” I rub the back of my neck.

“But it’s true. You both need to face the facts. Today was just indigestion, but I know without a doubt—I’m leaving this earth soon.” She announces it as if she’s looking forward to a vacation. Like it won’t matter to us. I’m glad she’s not in fear. I hope I’m as ready as Gran when it’s time to meet my maker.

The curtains wrinkle. “Hello.”

Dad shoots to his feet. Dr. Carmichael enters and gives us all a friendly smile. How can the guy smile at a time like this? Is he trying to settle our nerves before he gives us bad news? What’s the point?

I shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming to see us. There’s not much room in here. Pick a seat.” I point to two chairs I’ve set up near Gran’s bed.

His relaxed demeanor remains intact. The doctor has it mastered. “Thank you.” He smooths a hand down his white button-up shirt. He adjusts the swivel table to the same level as the bed, and Dr. Carmichael places a manilla folder on top, opening it to a report of some kind. He winks at Gran. “I’m pleased to say your blood tests have returned unchanged from the last time we tested.”

He meets my dad’s gaze. “Did she tell you how many times she ordered tests? And that was before she moved into the nursing home.”

Dad creases his brow. “No. She’s quite independent when it comes to these issues.” He crosses his arms. “I wish my mother would include me more. Is there a way to have medical reports sent to me as next of kin? My mother keeps her cards close to her chest, but it’s high time she shared the responsibility.” Dad lifts a brow at Gran.

“That’s why I’ve been asking your mother for a family meeting.” He raises a brow at Gran. “Can we proceed?”

“Fine.” Gran huffs.

“She’s reluctant to involve family, but she doesn’t have the mental capacity to understand the situation. But now we are all here.”

Gran taps the table. “You’re speaking as if I’m not in the room. I’m still very capable.” She points to her temple. “All my marbles are still circling. I haven’t lost my mind yet.”

Dr. Carmichael closes his folder and folds his hands. “That’s yet to be decided,” he mumbles. His lips flatline as he turns to Dad. “Your mother seems to show symptoms of mild paranoia. It’s an early sign of dementia, but her memory remains sharp. I want to treat the paranoia symptoms with a small dose of medication.

“I told you, doctor. I am not paranoid. I’m dying.” Gran raises her voice on the last word, and my nerves shake.

Dr. Carmichael remains calm, and his voice slows. “As I’ve told you for several months now, you are perfectly well, other than arthritis.”

Snap, crackle, pop. My hand flies to my forehead.

“What are you talking about?” Dad yells. “Why is she in a nursing home then? Didn’t you say she needed 24/7 care?”

The doctor sits taller. “Not me.” He darts a glance toward Gran and back to Dad. “This is all your mother’s fears. She thinks she’s dying, but her blood results are clear. She could live another five to ten years.”

“Mom.” Dad’s voice turns angry. “You’re not even sick!”

Dr. Carmichael clears his throat. “Mr. Brooker. Your mother isn’t physically sick. This you can be relieved about.”

Dad blinks. “Of course. Sorry, Mom.” He slumps in the chair and rubs his cheek.

The doctor clears his throat. “It’s not her fault she believes she’s dying. It’s real to her. The mind can play tricks. Not unusual at her age. Her aches and pains could be symptoms of something serious. But she won't believe me, despite the number of negative test results. Therefore, I thought it best to involve the family and encourage Jean to take mild medication to alleviate her stress. Or she might make herself physically ill.”

My mind is all over the place. Gran isn’t sick? Well, not dying anyway. She doesn’t need to live in that box she calls home. Does she need the wheelchair?

“Excuse me, Dr. Carmichael.” I inch my chair forward. “Can we backtrack a moment? What’s the extent of her physical ailments? How is arthritis affecting her lifestyle?”

“She’s taking medication for arthritis. It’s not rheumatoid arthritis, so that’s good.”

I frown. I don’t know much about arthritic pain. “Is the wheelchair necessary?”

Gran slams the table, and it wobbles. “You’re not taking my chair from me. I need it.”

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