Bring the Caddie around

Dad had a haircut Monday.  That meant he had to don pants to ride in his wheelchair to the onsite beauty shop. That took a lot out of him as did seeing his reflection in the big mirror. It has been a couple months at least since he had that experience.  His hair is still a lovely billowing white straight out of a milkweed pod.

The chaplain called me Thursday, just delighted with himself  now that Howie listens to Psalm 23, mouths the words to the Lord's Prayer, and says "thank you" out loud.  Chaplain Bob spoke to Dad about heaven this week, and about how the Lord has a house there for Howie to live forever. I hope the Lord has doors on the bathrooms. 




Friday evening Dad was all scratched up.  The nurse and I worked together to cut his fingernails.  Next time I will bring Madge and her dishwashing liquid for a soak.  Those nails were shooting around the room like shrapnel.


Spent an emotionally and physically exhausting hour with Dad Saturday. Found him half off the bed.  Went to find help, and we got Dad situated back in bed.  The nurse said Dad had been agitated all day. Wondering if the pants are the mischief makers. I explained to the weekend team that they do not need to dress Dad in pants since he never gets out of bed. Pants are a lot of extra work, and maybe the pants make Dad think he is going somewhere.


I got Dad sitting up in bed enough to feed him.  All he wanted to do was point at the window.  I closed the blinds because of the glare.  I reopened them.  Raised them.  Lowered them.  Nothing was right for Dad.

He had some chicken broth, coffee with milk through a bendy straw, potatoes, applesauce, and something that might have been quiche. After the usual round of coughing, Dad started saying "first floor windows".  I raised the blind and pointed out the day care center, the other senior home, the cars in the parking lot.  He started getting out of bed again.  I put him back in twice more.  He was holding my hand so tight he was crushing my fingers.

Dad told me to "drive the Cadillac up."  Then I was to boost him out the first floor window into the Caddie.  

Right!  Right, as Bill Cosby would say to God, what's a cubit?  What Caddie? 

We went round and round about this.  I told Dad I would not open the "first floor window", and encouraged him to get ready for sleep.  He kept pulling himself half out of bed.  I kept putting him back in.  Took the darn pants off, then his shirt, and dressed him in his hospital nightgown.  Kissed his forehead and told him "nighty night".  






Dad was still ordering me to open the window.  Finally told him if he was going out the window he would jolly well have to do it himself because I was going home.  I briefed the weekend supervisor.  She asked where Dad thought he would go once he got out the window.  I told her I blamed it on Chaplain Bob talking to Dad about heaven.  Howie is either going to fly out the window with angels or take the highway to hell.  It says right there in my owner's manual that you can't drive a 1996 Buick Skylark to either extreme.



Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death from near to far, I would rather take a car!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder