The following day, we all met at the hospital.
Our mother, whom I’d informed about the appointment after gathering everyone, sat beside me.
“What specialist?”
Then Dr. Harris called us in.
He reviewed the charts. “I have gone through your mother’s records. The decline you’ve observed isn’t as advanced as you believed.”
Confusion spread across the room.
“What does that mean?” Jack asked.
“It means,” Dr. Harris continued, “that many of the symptoms were caused by medication mismanagement. Margaret’s been taking incorrect doses for months. Some medications were overlapping. Others were taken at the wrong times.”
He reviewed the charts.
“So… her behavior wasn’t all from her condition?” Nancy asked.
“Not entirely,” the doctor said. “Part of the issue wasn’t the illness itself, but how it was being treated.”
Dr. Harris explained the adjustments, the new plan, and the monitoring.
He said that with the right care, things could improve.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
By then, our mother was living with me in my two-bedroom apartment.
The changes began quickly, and within days, the difference showed.
Dr. Harris explained the adjustments.
My mother was more present and aware.
The confusion that once lingered faded, not completely, but enough to notice.
“You seem different,” Nancy said one afternoon when she stopped by.
“I feel it,” our mother replied.
Nancy glanced at me. “You’ve done a good job.”
It caught me off guard.
“Thanks.”
