The Feral Truth About Having To Repeatedly Prove You Know Your Own Person

The Feral Truth:

Nothing — and I mean NOTHING — prepares you for the absolute psychological rage of having to repeatedly explain your loved one’s medical reality to doctors who met them approximately 14 minutes ago.

Especially when they confidently decide to change medications that have been stable for years.

So let me tell you about this week’s episode of:

“Why Is Caregiving Basically A Hostile Group Project?”

After surgery, Paul was NPO.

No food.

No drinks.

No pills.

Totally understandable.

The problem?

Nobody clearly explained that several of his long-standing psych medications had ALSO quietly disappeared from his medication schedule because the doctors decided they were “excessive.”

And I didn’t realize it immediately because when you’re in the hospital:

• nobody sleeps

• nobody eats correctly

• time loses all meaning

• and your brain is functioning like a haunted toaster oven.

  
  

So the second morning after surgery, the nurse starts reading his medication list aloud and I immediately realize:

“Wait. Hold on. ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

The important meds were missing.

Including the psych meds.

Which, for people who don’t live this life every day, may not sound like a huge deal.

But when someone has been on medications long-term?You cannot always just suddenly yank them away like you’re canceling Netflix.

So I start asking questions.

And immediately get the classic hospital shuffle:

• “That wasn’t us.”

• “You’ll need to talk to the doctor.”

• “Someone will come by.”

• “We’ll leave a note.”

  
  

Ah yes.The internationally recognized healthcare system of:

“Not My Department.”

Meanwhile the day goes on…and Paul starts spiraling HARD.

We’re talking:

• body spasms

• agitation

• confusion

• neurological weirdness

  
  

And then suddenly:he becomes convinced he’s being arrested.

At one point he was staring at his own reflection in the hospital window thinking cops were outside the room waiting to take him to jail.

Now listen.

AFTER THE FACT?Objectively hilarious.

At the time?Absolutely terrifying.

Because this wasn’t:“haha weird anesthesia confusion.”

This was:

“Something is medically WRONG and nobody is listening to me.”

Which is a very specific type of caregiver panic that instantly turns your nervous system into an emotionally unstable attack raccoon.

So eventually the doctor FINALLY shows up late in the day after things have already escalated significantly.

And THANK GOD I had my full medication list.

Not just:“these are his meds.”

I mean:

• every medication

• every dosage

• every schedule

• exact times taken

• 
  

Because at this point I’ve learned:if you don’t bring documentation into the hospital, suddenly everyone starts acting like your lived reality is merely a fun suggestion.

So I hand over the list.

And the doctor immediately starts pushing back about the psych meds being “excessive.”

Sir.

With respect.

You have known my husband for THIRTY MINUTES.

I have known him for TWENTY-TWO YEARS.And I have been managing his medical reality full-time for the last three.

Do not confuse:

“having a degree”

with:

“understanding this specific patient’s day-to-day functioning.”

Those are not the same thing.

At this point I fully entered:

“absolutely-the-fuck-not” advocacy mode.

I told them very clearly:

if we did not start addressing this immediately, I would be contacting the ombudsman’s office.

Which apparently triggered:

“Send In The Chaplain.”

And honestly?

The fact that the hospital response to strong caregiver advocacy was:

“Would you like spiritual support?”instead of:“Perhaps we should reassess the medication situation”was not exactly calming.

To be fair:

once things escalated, they DID agree to restart one of the medications because it was available by IV.

The other had to wait because it only existed in pill form.

Okay. Fine. Reasonable.

BUT.

I very specifically said:

“The second he can swallow again, that medication needs to go right back on schedule.”

Everybody verbally agreed.

Everybody nodded.

Everybody acted aligned.

And then shift change happened.

Which meant:

WELCOME TO GROUNDHOG DAY: HOSPITAL EDITION.

Because every new doctor that rotated in suddenly acted like:

• this was brand new information

• I was overreacting

• and we all needed to re-debate medications from the beginning again.

Over.And over.And over.

And honestly?

I think this was the most frustrated I’ve been in the entire three years since his diagnosis.

Not because doctors can never question medications.

That’s fair.

But because there’s a HUGE difference between:

carefully evaluating medications

and:

dismissing the lived experience of the person who manages the patient every single day.

Those are not the same thing.

The Part I’ll Be Honest About

Could I have communicated more calmly at certain points?

Probably.

But here’s the thing nobody talks about:caregiver advocacy often happens AFTER:

• sleep deprivation

• fear

• adrenaline

• frustration

• being ignored repeatedly

• and watching someone you love deteriorate in real time.

So eventually the filter just…leaves your body.

And suddenly words are flying out of your mouth like raccoons escaping a dumpster fire.

Not ideal.

But also?

Very human.

What I’d Recommend Instead Of Going Full Feral Immediately

(LEARN FROM MY CHAOS.)

Here are things that MAY help before you reach “ombudsman and rage” stage:

• Stay extremely specific:

  “These medications were stopped suddenly and he is now experiencing X, Y, and Z symptoms.”

• Use timelines:

  “Symptoms escalated after medications were discontinued.”

• Bring written medication lists.

  
  

  ALWAYS.

  
  

• Ask:

  “Can you document in the chart why these medications were discontinued?”

  
  

• Ask:

  “What withdrawal risks are being considered?”

  
  

• Ask for:

  • attending physician

  • charge nurse

  • pharmacist consult

  • patient advocate

    
    

BEFORE going nuclear if possible.

• Frame concerns around patient safety:

  “I’m concerned about abrupt discontinuation and the significant neurological changes we’re now seeing.”

  
  

That language tends to get farther than:

“WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS HAPPENING.”

Even if emotionally…that second sentence feels way more accurate.

The Feral Truth

One of the hardest parts of caregiving is that eventually you realize:you are not just caring for someone.

You are also:

• translating

• documenting

• remembering

• monitoring

• defending

• repeating yourself

• and sometimes fighting to make sure the people with temporary authority fully understand the person you’ve loved for decades.

And that is EXHAUSTING.

Because caregivers are often expected to remain perfectly calm and professionally articulate…while watching terrifying things unfold in real time.

Which is honestly a ridiculous expectation for human beings running entirely on stress hormones and hospital coffee.

And that’s the Feral Truth.

Yours in chaos,

Kari, The Feral Caregiver