About two weeks ago, my
mother’s internist decided to add Zoloft to her daily cocktail of medications
in an attempt to alleviate her frequent bouts of crying and thoughts of dying. I
quickly reminded him that he’d tried prescribing Cymbalta for her a couple of
summers ago with disastrous results. He assured me that Mom would be fine with
this new drug, wrote the prescription, and sent us on our way.
That Monday, Mom took
her first 25 mg. dose, and she did seem less tense in the afternoon. On
Tuesday, she didn’t cry even once during the day. However, that night she had
the worse episode of insomnia I’ve ever witnessed! She not only kicked her feet
back and forth, but also continually threw her pillow and blankets to the
floor. She would pull herself into a sitting position by grabbing ahold of her
wheelchair, and then fling herself back onto the bed. This went on hour after
hour. Finally, after receiving her morning doses of her medications, she fell
asleep.
When Mom woke up around
noon on Wednesday, she couldn’t speak at all. She could only manage to grunt in
response to my questions. I tried to feed her by spooning scrambled eggs into
her mouth. She clumsily shoved the food around, her tongue lacked coordination.
She couldn’t swallow the soft food. Once I noticed she couldn’t even suck
on a straw, alarms sounded. I began making calls to Mom’s internist—leaving
messages on the voice mail because it was their lunch hour. Each time I called,
I added another symptom to Mom’s growing list. Finally, I reached someone and
was told to take Mom to the ER right away.
By this time, her body
had grown completely rigid. My son and I muscled Mom into the car and drove to
our neighborhood hospital. She’s already in their system, so it didn’t take
long to get the preliminary paperwork done.
“As soon as we have a
bed ready in the ER, we’ll get your mother back. It should only take a few
minutes.” I felt a little calmer with the assurance that Mom would be bumped
ahead of the other patients in the waiting room.
Then a teenaged girl
rushed in, followed slowly by a young man on crutches. The bandages on his foot
couldn’t begin to sop up the flow of blood that gushed from him. A river of
blood trailed from the sliding glass doors, across the floor, and to the nurses’
station. Someone rushed up with a wheelchair, and the blood pool continued to
grow under the chair. Two nurses dashed to his aide, and the security guard
fetched a custodian, who calmly began cleaning the area.
“I’m sorry,” a nurse
came over to us, “we’ll see your mother as soon as the area is cleaned.”
So the promise of seeing
my mother immediately ended up taking about forty-five minutes.
Eventually, we wheeled
Mom back into a room where the usual ER triage began. Blood pressure, heart
rate, oxygen level, EKG, blood work all started quickly at that point. The
doctor ordered a CT scan, x-rays for her lungs, and a urine test looking for
any reason for Mom’s condition.
I think I asked everyone
I saw, “Could this be a reaction to Zoloft? She just started taking it. Could
she be having some kind of reaction to it?”
No one wanted to make a
committal to anything until every test returned—all with normal results.
Finally, the doctor came
to talk to us. To my question about the Zoloft, he answered, “I’ve never seen
anyone react to Zoloft in this way. I think you need to talk to your mother’s
doctor tomorrow.” However, by this time it had been twelve hours since Mom’s
dose, and she had regained her ability to answer simple questions.
“Do I continue to give her
the drug?” I asked.
“That will be up to her
doctor.”
I made one of my
executive decisions that I wouldn’t give Mom another dose without having a long
conversation with both Mom’s internist and her neurologist.
On Thursday morning, I
called the internist as soon as his office opened. He returned my message
quickly and said that he didn’t think the Zoloft had anything to do with Mom’s condition
the previous day. Because I expressed so much concern, he agreed to have the
dosage cut in half “for a few days.” My gut screamed that it was too much of a
coincidence that Mom had this horrible HD incident within three doses of a new
medication, but I couldn’t seem to get anyone else to make the connection! That
is, not until Mom’s neurologist called.
“Don’t put her back on
the Zoloft. She’s having an overdose reaction,” he warned.
“Both Mom’s internist
and the ER doctor seemed to think it was okay, but I kept feeling that
something wasn’t right,” I told him.
“For most people, adding
Zoloft wouldn’t have this affect,” her neurologist explained. “But for your
mother, and the way HD’s hit her brain—along with the other medications I
already have her taking, well—it’s good that you stopped the dose. Bring her in
on Monday so I can check her over.”
Exhaustion forced Mom
into a deep sleep almost all of Thursday, and I fretted because she didn’t eat
any food or drink any fluids for another day. On Friday, she could drink and
eat again, but I had to feed her and hold her mug for her. During the weekend,
Mom slowly regained more of her ability to move and to speak. By the time her
neurologist saw her on the following Monday, she was speaking in short phrases
again and could raise her arms up to shoulder level briefly.
Recovery comes slowly,
though. Before the incident with Zoloft, Mom occasionally couldn’t remember me
or David, especially after she had a round of insomnia. Now it’s almost daily
that she’ll ask one of us who we are. She’s fixated on wanting me to take her
home, forgetting that she’s lived here for eighteen months. The optimist in me
clings to the hope that she’ll get more recovery as each day passes. My sister
just left after helping us for the past four days, and Mom seemed to improve a
little. Maybe she’ll be closer to normal once my brother arrives on this coming
Friday.
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
How stressful for you...hope returns to normal soon x
ReplyDeleteThank you for you kind thoughts!
ReplyDelete