My mother’s feet look like stuffed calamari before they get thrown into the gravy on Christmas Eve. The pinkish-white skin is pulled taut over the top of her foot and up past her ankles. They’ve been like this for a month now and though I’ve agreed with all the steps the rest home has suggested, getting my mother to comply is a different story.
The most immediate and obvious potential fix is to get my mother out of flip flops and into sneakers. I purchased the suggested neon white and clunky footwear but one look at them and Ma was having none of it. Who knew she was a footwear fashionista. When I asked the rest home to try their best getting the sneakers on my mother, I got the raised eyebrows. “We’ll try Lisa, but you know your mother.” I certainly do.
So we’ve moved to Lasix. Not much movement in terms of the swelling so the next step is to up the dosage to 20 mgs instead of the 10 mgs she is taking. We’ll see how that works.
Third suggestion, and the one that sends shivers up everyone’s spine - get her into those
death grip hose. The floor nurse and I had a good laugh over that. If we can’t get her into sneakers how could we possibly get her into those? (“You try.” “No, YOU try!”)
And here is one of the many reasons I chose this particular rest home - they will not violate the space or the wishes of the resident unless it is absolutely necessary. They are watching my mother’s feet closely, checking them multiple times a day. Whenever the doctor is in house, he checks them as well. If there is growing concern, the level of adamancy with her will increase. Otherwise, she gets to go sneakerless.
As for me, I avoid looking at her feet as much as possible. I hate stuffed calamari.