What We Don't Remember (Doesn't Hurt Us)

October was intermittently hellish, but a lot of progress was made, nonetheless. (I'll have to search my email confidentials to retrace those steps, and publish in arrears, if ever... But this is how today is starting):

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Hearing kitchen noise at 6:40AM, I went in to find Hunk carrying his bowl of porridge back to their bedroom. I follow, noting that he was wearing sweat pants -- a sign that maybe he'd gotten changed already. Yea!! Checking out his bathroom wastebasket I found two pairs of sopping wet Depends and thought, great, Bitchy actually pulled it off (for once in a long while!).

"So, you got him changed already, huh?" I asked as I carried the plastic bag past her, once she was settled on her side of their king-sized bed, ready to eat the breakfast she made, and watch election returns.

"Yeah," she answered cheerfully.

"Great. And it looks like you managed fine last night, while I was at Stitch&Bitch?" Her happy demeanor made me hopeful.

"Yes, well, no... I have a feeling it was a terrible night, but I can't remember!"

"Ah, well, that's a blessing then, huh?" I sighed, greatful (again) for her impending dementia...

Rejeuvenation?

I'm back now, arrived after they were well asleep, and got my computer back together and hooked up. Don't know what my reception will be tomorrow, but for now I'm thinking that I've had a great week of going and doing and being free of obligations beyond my own choosing. And that will change somewhat, with the resumption of my care-giver responsibilities. But I will retain the expectation of "time off" daily -- between the hours of 4 to 7, when my mother's behavior turns alcoholic -- and will use that time to focus on my career choice, my own identity. The lucky part is, they can afford to hire a replacement for me, if they recognize that help is needed then.... as I hope SHE will.

Stay tuned.....

I'm Leaving ... P.S.

Tomorrow I head off for a week of necessary recuperation. I'll leave Bitchy a note to remind her why I'm not coming in with their meds, and what could be happening if she actually "sends me packing."

I want her to know what's driving me away for a week. Here is what I want to say:

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Mom,

"Don't put your shoes on, you're getting back in bed."

"What?"

(a little louder) "Don't put your shoes on, you're getting back in bed."

"What?"

(louder still) "Don't put your shoes on, you're getting back in bed!"

"What?"

(loudest) "Don't put your shoes on, you're getting back in bed!!"

"I'm not"

"What are you doing??"

"I'm pulling them over."

"Ok."

I hear versions of this over and over during the day... and night... last night I put something in the kitchen just after lights out. Then, it went like this:

"Oh damn, I have to pee."

"What?!"

"I have to pee."

"You do not!"

"Yes."

"You do NOT!! You just got in bed."

"I have to pee."

"Well go ahead then! Do it yourself, I'm tired!" (then, bitterly) "Call me if you need my help."

The worst comes without your immediate input, in the early morning, around 6:20.

(tap, tap, tap) "Hellooo?"

"Unh, huh? Dad? That you? What's up, what's happening?" (I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes awake.)

(he totters into my room) "Can you help me?"

"Sure! What do you need?"

"Well, your mother's on a rampage. She refuses to help me. I... I don't know what I've done. I want to get dressed and she just berates me and won't help."

"Oh dad, I think she just doesn't like getting up so early? But you haven't done anything wrong. You just want to get dressed, yeah? And you need help with it now. So. I'll help you."

"Alright, dear, thank you, dear." (The worst part is he gets choked up saying this.) "I just don't know what I've done wrong."

"It isn't you, dad. It isn't your fault. I'll come help you get dressed, just give me a second to put on my robe and I'll meet you in your bathroom and give you some help. Ok? I'll meet you there."

"Thank you, daughter." (and he totters out)

Breakthrough?

Today I went to the post office, to mail the birthday cookies to my son, when who should I spot sitting on a bench in the sun, with her husband, and her doggie, but Gee!!!!

Last night, Bitchy had said she should not bother coming here again! But bless her, Gee told me she'd be back at about 6:30 today.

When I got home I went right to work in the shop, taking advantage of Bitchy's tentative agreement to give me my 3 hours "free-time" from 4-7. Did my best to stay downstairs without interruption (except for b.r.b.) until 6:30 came around and she flashed the lights, calling down to say that Gee was here! (She did NOT sound happy about that.)

Reluctantly I went up to greet her, thinking there would be a confrontation. Instead there was silence, with H&B sitting at the dinner table eating, so I had Gee come in my room to make the plan. She said she would just go into dad's bathroom and start preparing the Depends for overnight use (laying the extra pad inside each one). "Ok," I said, "I guess I'll ... go in an say..."

"Don't say anything. Just go back downstairs." She was confident and reassuring.

I said alright and went on down. Back to the lathe, and my audiobook, continuing to work as I wanted, thinking that everything up above would be just fine.

Finishing up my day at precisely 7 PM I went upstairs to put away my finished turnings and to see what I could do to help. Hunk and Gee were in his bathroom and Bitchy was doing some cleaning in the kitchen. I was upbeat, not commenting on Gee's presence, but offering to finish up in the kitchen, and give them their meds.

She stopped soon after, pouring her whiskey digestif to enjoy with Inside Edition. (Oh, yes, she must stay current on the girl who threw acid in her own face. Just the kind of story that people with dementia should plant in their brains before bed...)

While she took her meds, I prepped Hunk's, and finished cleaning while I waited to hear him ready for bed. Went in to give him the pill/pudding mixture and Gee said everything went great. (She even got to clean "between his legs" so all was good!)
I cajoled him into removing his hearing aid ("just to let it dry out overnight, and let he ear dry out, too") and then he wanted Bitchy to come in.

Gee and I left, and B went in. I overheard dad say something like, "The girls took care of me!" Oh! That made my heart sing.

I'm so confident, now, that things will turn out fine. I just hope nothing big goes wrong while I'm gone, and that Gee will be able to pull things together so I can really enjoy my short vacation!

(Until this evening, I was expecting to kind of sneak off in the wee hours Wednesday morning, to start without any uncomfortable fanfare. But maybe I'll take a minute to say goodbye -- especially to my dad, who will undoubtedly miss me the most. I hope he doesn't change too much in my absence...)

My Father's Fungus

Last Tuesday night the first paid helper lady came for the 2 hours I go to stitch&bitch. It was a hellish beginning to the day -- can't summarize it, but suffice it to say when she came in and asked how my ma was doing her answer was "I've been better! I'm mad at 'daughter.'"

But I got to leave and never think back.

Only now I am back and she called today (Wed) to say that, during the shower she gave my dad, she discovered an... ahem... infection in his penis, and now BITCHY has to deal with that, 'cause I've decided, as long as she is alive and physically able, THAT is her domain. period.

(Then my friend MCary misunderstood another comment I made, so I corrected it)

Oh, I'm sorry if I misdirected you. He is not bowel-incontinent yet. And he still totters into the bathroom during the day to pee -- I know, because he doesn't remember to flush.

But he doesn't clean himself at all well, obviously, IF he's got a UTI. When I finally "took over" the job of helping him dress in the morning and at night, I'd get to the point of changing the Depends and would hand him the "baby wipe" and say, "Ok, now dad, you use this to clean your private parts while I go get fresh underwear, ok?"

When I'd come back in he'd be dabbing absently on his knees with the wipe. Then I would chicken out, and seeing that mom was nearly "asleep" in bed already (having consumed her daily 3-5 ounces of vodka, maybe some wine, and a shot of whiskey before bed), I'd just have him step into the clean Depends.

When mom first wanted someone to help him shower, she stated clearly she wanted to hire a male nurse/helper. When I said I could certainly help she insisted no, "You shouldn't have to do that." Which meant (to me) that she didn't want his daughter handling his private parts!

Although later, when it came down to being too expensive to hire someone (e.g., Home Instead charged only ~$14/hour, but they required a 3-hour minimum), I got pro-active and purchased a shower seat and installed the hand held sprayer, and she devised a means of privacy whereby he would wear jockey shorts to shower with my help, and then to finish his private areas, she would come in.

This worked ok for a while, but I became a little concerned listening to her "help" him, thinking she wasn't being thorough or careful enough with slippery/safety issues. So I butted back in a little and she got exasperated with me, huffing, "Oh for God's sakes, you've seen a man's penis before!!"

A very true statment, and as an individual striving for enlightenment, I should be able to rise above my inhibitions and just help the man clean his body! After all, he NEEDS the help, and it's not like HE is exhibiting any discomfort with this... But for some reason, I'm feeling that -- as long as mom is alive and "well" -- this should be HER responsibility! God knows she doesn't hesitate to proclaim dominion over everything else to do with dad... why should she pass on this very intimate task?

As for his current "condition," who knows how long he's had this (probable) urinary tract infection. I haven't noticed any behavior hinting at pain, and he never complains, so maybe it's new? (At the ER on Aug 17, his urine sample came back clean...but, don't know what they looked for...)

In any event, BITCHY said (just now) that she doesn't think he EVER cleaned "that area" (I assume she means under the foreskin), and says that he does not remember! She thinks it just shouldn't matter. "What difference does it make, and anyway, he's not in any pain."

Still, we're going to the doc today, and I hope I can be present to at least HEAR what he has to say. Maybe I'll still be unable to bridge that comfort zone and will leave it to others for his hands-on treatment. Whether mom or hiring Gee to do the task, if mom balks.

Flashlights

Hunk has a passion for flashlights. Maybe it goes along with that "Energizer" thing just discussed, but since I got here --now TWO YEARS ago-- he has always had a flashlight within reach. Even during the day.

At night, he would not settle down until the little mag light was tucked safely in the breast pocket of his pajamas. (Along with his wallet and keys in the pants pockets!)

Of course, BITCHY was fit to be tied about it all... "What the hell do you need those for? You're going to bed, for Christ's sake, not shopping!!"

But I saw them as his security blankets and indulged his near-desperate need to find all the items (which often got misplaced during the day) and put them safely in their places for his overnight "passages." What harm does it do to let the man have his way with this?? They do not wake him -- he sleeps like a log until morning.

Thankfully, he's forgotten about the keys and wallet, and they are not an issue any more. (For him OR especially for her!)

But the flashlight is of paramount importance, even though I leave a nightlight on in his bathroom, in case he manages to make it there when "nature calls" (he rarely does anymore). He still wants one within reach.

The little old mag light doesn't work well since he tends to unscrew the thing trying to turn it on, and then wonders why it won't function.

The push button models are no better, since his grip has become so weak he cannot get it to "click" fully on or off.

Finally, after buying batches of several types to try out (and returning them when they failed), I resorted to the old sliding-switch variety, which is overall sized much bigger than the tiny mag or pen light styles. But at least the movement required to make it work is one long-ingrained in his muscle memory, and he can turn it on!

Now, if only he would "go to the light" some night, he won't have any more worries!!!!

Energizer

When I first arrived, nearly two years ago, Hunk still had enough of his faculties to be eagerly testing any and all batteries he came across. Primarily his hearing aid batteries -- "modules" he called them.

As a retired electrical engineer, Hunk was closely familiar with electrical currents and such, and he owned a somewhat complicated (to me, anyway) device that would allow him to test things like ohms and voltages and current and whatnot. Many places to plug in wires, dials to be clicked around, gauges to be read. Even with the manual, I was struggling to understand what it was he was measuring, but, once he began to show confusion himself, we managed together to take readings and make comparisons, and decisions. "This battery didn't make that arrow move and that battery did, so that is the good battery! Yea."

He has all but forgotten about his charge-measuring capabilities. In fact, for a while he was replacing his hearing aid battery nearly every day, it seemed. Just because he could, I suppose. That was when I noticed that he really didn't remember how to operate the meter.

But soon enough he forgot about testing or replacing the batteries. (Something that probably saves the penny-pinching seniors a fair chunk of change.) But the development is bittersweet. Now, it's more likely for him to pick up a battery pack and somehow think that it is his dental plate...

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He also used to be obsessed with closing the windows on the porch. Not just at night. Any time there was the slightest chance of rain. Or wind. In the last two months he has forgotten about that obsession, for the most part. Occasionally Bitchy will tell me that Hunk wants the windows checked, but he doesn't focus on the task himself.

And I'm grateful for that, because they provide me with a little cross-ventilation in my tiny 10'x13' 'apartment.' I know it's their house, and I don't abuse it, but really... nothing on that porch would be damaged by a little moisture now and then, and people's comfort should come before furniture. Especially outdoor furniture!

Is This Motivation?

Hand to God ...

In discussing with Hunk how the Physical Therapist is due to arrive at 9 today, hearing him balk at participating in any more of "that crap," and trying to explain the benefits -- how it was basically just directed exercise, designed to strengthen and improve his balance so that he is less prone to having a fall and breaking a bone -- Bitchy got fairly bitchy arguing that he was too "going to do whatever they tell you!"

Furthermore, she said, "I'm not going to be burdened by having to wheel you around in a wheelchair or anything like that. You're going to move yourself!"

why vegetarian?

In reading a blog post of Simple Savvy, I was prompted to answer the question of whether I care about animals' feelings. This was my response:

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Yes, I care about animals' feelings!!

Although, for about 25 years I did not, very much. Never pulled the wings off a butterfly or anything, but I ate every bit of meat my mother put in front of me, without a second thought about 'who' it really was... Even when that meat came from lobsters boiled alive.

Then I went with an older friend to a grad school summer picnic. Into the Connecticut countryside, through the gates of a long driveway, past a sweet baa-ing sheep (tied there to welcome us), to the farmhouse where I mingled with his ivy-league friends awaiting some yummy shishkebab-to-come. When it arrived I was horrified to learn that the lamb on the skewer was the very one who'd said 'hello' to me earlier.

I could not eat it, though my sensitivity did not persist beyond that afternoon.

Until a few years later, when I met another man -- one who'd been raised on a ranch in New Mexico, where they slaughtered their own chickens, pigs, and cattle for meat -- but one who grew up to be a vegetarian! Since I anticipated a lengthy association with him, I instantly became a vegetarian myself.

This was not a difficult transition at all. As simple as closing one door and opening another.

I envisioned looking into a cow's gaze and realized I did not want to take its life for food.

Now, he did eat fish, and because I was accommodating, I ate fish, too. But only for a few decades. I remember one winter we cleverly pried a salmon out of a stream in the Sierras, and clubbed it to death with tree branches. Blood everywhere. Cooked it over a campfire... but I couldn't eat that either.

Funny thing was he didn't actually like vegetables (no squash, no onions, no cooked tomatoes) so my kitchen repertoire was limited, and though I now live without him, I'm not the most informed or creative vegetarian cook. (Complicated by the fact that I now 'share' my parents' kitchen, and they've remained staunch carnivores.)

But I'm grateful for his initial influence and I cannot see myself ever losing sight of my aversion to eating animals.

We also kept a few chickens once we moved to a country house that had a coop. I learned how the egg industry is villainous to its chickens and we adopted several rescue birds whose beaks were cut off, and who had lived their lives in a space the size of a breadbox. Now I buy eggs only from small family flocks who are allowed to roam outdoors at will, and I only eat unfertilized eggs.

So I would say that my caring about animals --which includes even escorting most ants out of the house alive-- is the foundation of my vegetarianism. I do not see humans as supreme beings in the animal kingdom, and though I have no compunction against killing animals that try to eat me -- swatting mosquitos and such, I try to follow a live-and-let-live attitude regarding my food choices.

I am saddened, appalled, and enraged by modern methods of ranching and the 'mass murder' of sentient beings for food, especially when eating meat is unnecessary for human health.

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Perhaps one day I will find the gumption/time/resourcefulness to practice some great vegetarian cooking in Hunk and Bitchy's kitchen. Until then, I'll just be sure to close the door to my little room BEFORE they starting frying up the T-bone steaks.

hand me the white flag

After that near miss on Tuesday (see the "Dress Rehersal" post), we're both a little on edge about the state of Hunk's health. But it turned out to be a simple case of dehydration, so really there's not much at risk, immediately... Nonetheless,

Bitchy burst into my room at 5:30 to say Hunk was looking "funny" and she was fairly agitated. I said ok, let's go see, and I followed her into the living room where "they" had been watching a tv retrospective on swing music. (That's their era, and while he might be enjoying the music privately, she is the one who sings along and makes comments... his eyes rarely even gaze toward the screen.) She re-entered the room saying "Dear, how are you feeling?" in an anxious voice, barely giving him a nanosecond to respond before asking again.

His eyes were open, and his face looked drawn and tired, as it always does now. I asked him, "Dad, how's it going? You doing ok?"

He said in his slow, quiet way (a product of his Alzheimer's and Parkinson's diseases), "Yeah, I'm ok, I just want to go to bed."

"No!" Bitchy insists. "It's too early for that."

"Dad, don't you want some dinner first?" I suggested. He nods and says yes, that would be ok. So I turn to Bitchy and suggest that she focus on finishing making his dinner. (She had been fixing herself another vodka soda.)

My parents are members of "The Greatest Generation" who developed their routines in days of war and roses. All during my formative years they hosted raucus parties with loads of friends who smoke and drank and made lewd jokes and laughed very loudly. I've seen photos of myself dressed up as a serving maid, no more than 10 years old, circulating among the crowd, probably delivering food or emptying ashtrays. I can still hear the sounds I fell asleep to, shrill and boisterous, or quiet, slurred speech later on .

Once us kids were gone on our own, and Hunk was nearing retirement, they turned their interest to sailing, hosting raucus parties on the water with a small group of sea buddies. Their one unbreakable rule was that, at five o'clock wherever they were, the anchor went down and the cocktail flag went up. They might have been drinking martinis at that time...

They did give up smoking cigarettes, long after I'd been hooked. So nowadays they do not indulge in that stinking habit. (And I gave it up after about 12 years.) But drinking is sacrosanct. I've been to many, many doctors visits with them in these last two years, and invariably Bitchy will state with pride that she intends to keep her cocktail hour intact until the day she dies.

Of course, it's no longer just an hour. Now she puts the big bottle of cheap vodka on the counter precisely at 4:00 and pours them both their first shots, with club soda and ice. And she continues to "freshen up" their drinks until about 6:00 when she starts to cook or sometimes serve their dinner. At which point the jug wine comes out of the cupboard and accompanies the microwave heated meal. Then, up until about 8 months ago, when they both started running out of steam before Wheel of Fortune, they had snifters of cheep Canadian brandy as a "nightcap."

Now I've been noticing that Hunk never asks for any of this stuff, it's always Bitchy's serve. And even though the doctors and the nurses all confirm that alcohol is dehydrating, and even though she's been cautioned that both she and Hunk are not getting enough fluid, and even though she starts behaving in a depressed way after about an hour and a half, making lackluster efforts at preparing their meals, and making comments that are maudlin or slurred speech, she does not tolerate any suggestion that they reduce their intake!

So tonight, when she came in all upset about Hunk's "state" and I saw it was fairly good, I suggested that maybe the problem was really a little too much vodka. "Ridiculous!" she hollered. "He's hardly had any!!"

My response was "No, no, not him.... you! maybe you've had too much, and you can't see that he is actually in pretty good shape, considering. His voice is loud, his sentences are coherent, he's doing fine."

"The hell," she shouted back. "How dare you say that to me! You just get the hell out, talking to me that way," (or words to that effect) etc, etc, etc....

...

So I retreated to my room, as Hunk called her to his chair to soothe her feathers. About 15 minutes later I tiptoed out to get their evening meds ready. With a cheery voice (don't think it sounded artificial...) I said "Ok, here are your nighttime meds! Dad, here's the one that's been cut in half... Mom, here are yours." I put the cups of pills down next to the glass of water, and went around the island into the kitchen to start cleaning.

"How about some of this nice Boston Cream Pie for dessert?" I asked. Mom in her grouchy/depressed voice said "alright." So I cut some and brought it over with their tea. I was cleaning as I heard her directing his every move, "Don't take such a big bite, have some tea, take your pills, no, put them all in your mouth." I look over and she has her hand on his, forcing the little cup up higher into his face, trying to tip in the pills. It's not working, but she keeps pushing.

I go over and say "Here Dad, can I pour these pills in your hand, and you can pop them all in your mouth, like usual?" He gives it up, I pour them, he pops them, and drinks a little sip of water. Been having trouble swallowing the larger pills recently, so she said to just stop giving them. Luckily they were vitamins, not prescription meds. I say to keep drinking the water, ok? and go back to cleaning.

"Hey, did you know there were potatoes in this pan on the stove?" Bitchy said oh, just put them in a box in the fridge. I said ok, I could fry them up in the morning with some onion for breakfast. Then I see the toaster oven is on and comment. "Hey, what's in here?" Bitchy said it must belong to me. "No.... I don't have anything cooking in here," and I look -- it's the pork chops I thought she was heating for their dinner. "What did you guys eat? This is your meat." She gets up and looks, "No that's potato," she insists. "No, it's meat," I tell her, "taste it."
We go back and forth a bit with her insisting it's potatoes and me knowing it was meat, until I finally suggest that maybe she is starting to lose it.

"Yes," she agrees, but with a lot of rancor. "So don't push me!" "Ok, fine," I back off....

Then dad starts coughing and clearing his throat a lot and she starts badgering him to tell her what's the problem now. I go over to suggest he take another sip of water, assuming that he's still having trouble swallowing the pills. She sees him gesture around his mouth and assumes he is complaining about something in his teeth. So now we start disagreeing about that, but with her insisting that my "job" here is to help dad, and my insisting that was exactly what I was trying to do, and her saying I wasn't very good at it -- and of course, dad confirms that yes, it was the pill caught in his throat, but not until after Bitchy really loses it and tells me to shut the hell up and get out. Or words to that effect.

Dad says he wants to talk to me for a minute and she voluntarily leaves the room. He tries to convince me that a good sailor will ride the rough seas and not fight it, and will come out the winner. Or words to that effect. Primarily, though, he wants there to be no yelling and if that means I should agree when I have a different opinion, then that's what I should do.

I ask, what about this physical situation, where she thinks it's something in your teeth and I think it's a pill stuck in your throat... one of us will be right and one will be wrong. What do I do in that situation? He says I should just leave.

Leave the state? Leave their home? Is that what he wants? No. Just stop letting it get to the yelling stage... Or words to that effect.

sigh.

Somehow we get through the rest of the evening with me trying to help him with the usual tasks of getting his teeth cleaned with his Waterpik, power toothbrush, and rinsing his bridgework. Then getting him in his pajamas, after she got him changed into a new Depends, with the booster pad that I recently purchased, to try and belay the overnight leakage that is starting to become a routine.

sigh.

Then I came in here to sit and think about how I can leave (find them another care-giver and leave) without feeling awfully guilty.

Dress Rehearsal? No!

To begin with, after she first rejected all Hospital Home Care (HHC) assistance --that their family doctor recommended (actually their favorite nurse set it up)-- I finally convinced Bitchy of the idea that Hunk might actually benefit from some Physical Therapy and Occupational Therapy. So she allowed me to set up the appointments again.



Mike the Visiting Nurse came on July 29 and pronounced Hunk's vital signs to be excellent. Evaluation visits from the Occupational Therapist (OT) and Physical Therapist (PT) happened on Monday, 8/16. They both took Hunk's vitals (which were good) and said he would definitely benefit from therapy. (His engagement and enjoyment of life would improve, and Bitchy and I would learn how to continue those benefits.)



The next morning (THIS morning) the OT returned to give Hunk a shower (to evaluate his needs and show me how to assist him). She also took his vitals, and his blood pressure was good (132/68 supine and 132/70 sitting). He showered well with her help, and was resting comfortably in his l.r. chair, enjoying his Ensure concoction when she left around 9am.



Now last night was a little out of normal, as Bitchy came in to my room around 10pm to say that Hunk had taken off the (last) Depends and she needed me to get another pack from the basement. He did not normally change them in the "middle" of the night like that, but fine...



Then this morning around 7am she came to my room all upset to say he had wet the bed two or three times since getting up. (Since she decided to let me help him shower --only in the last few weeks-- she wanted to have him sit on the shower seat in his jockey shorts. I would help him wash most of his body, and she would take over to do his private parts.) She had put him in jockey shorts in anticipation of the shower appointment, but he had been incontinent a couple times after that. She was almost beside herself with concern over the sheets getting wet and him not being ready for his shower!!



I took it all in stride (as much as possible with her freaking out over it), got him back in his pajama bottoms like she wanted, and stripped the bed down for laundering. She only has/wants one set of sheets, but today she says she's ready "to go to WalMart" and find another set -- which she will evaluate for softness before purchasing!!



Did the laundry and had it back on the bed before she went in for her nap around 10:30. Hunk was dozing on his chair in the l.r. and I was in "my room" at the computer when the doorbell rang about 11:30am. Bitchy answered and it was "Lee" -- the case worker head nurse.



She had called Bitchy earlier (shortly after the OT left, probably prompted by her) in order to check in. Lee was not expected back here until Thursday, but when she spoke with Bitchy, who was in tears, she decided to stop in today, around noon.



She arrived early and Hunk was still asleep in the chair. Lee wanted to check Hunk's buttocks, which Bitchy said had a red spot on it. (She never allowed me to see this red spot -- I think Bitchy is uncharacteristically modest about this, but I am Hunk's daughter.... she doesn't want me to help him with anything of a very personal nature!)



During the discussion in the l.r., Hunk started getting up from his chair. "Where are you going, dear?" asked Bitchy. (No answer.) Well, we all allowed Hunk to go where he wanted -- which turned out to be into the bedroom to lie down on the bed. Before letting him lay down, Lee had Bitchy drop his pants so she could see the red spot, which she thought might turn out to be a pressure spot. I peeked into the room and saw the red area on his left buttock, but also, as Lee was turning him, what looked like a serious case of "diaper rash" all across his bottom.



From dealing with Bitchy and her reluctance all along to take Hunk's growing incontinence seriously or openly, I figure it's a result of his sitting in damp Depends! He has only been in them since his birthday (early July) and she has fought against checking for wetness, and even against changing him into dry ones at night. ("Oh, they aren't that wet, daughter!!!") And she won't let me be proactive on monitoring it myself... Grrrrrrr!!!!!



So anyway, when Lee got him down on the bed and took his blood pressure, she was shocked to see it register at 68/44 with a pulse of 48. She was concerned that he was dehydrated and that was the cause of the low bp. She thought he should go to the hospital and called the doctor for an ambulance.



One arrived in just a few minutes, and Hunk was monitored on the bed first. The paramedics saw the low bp and what they called an "atrial flutter" -- which means his heart rhythm was irregular and could have gone into a regular sinus rhythm or defibrillation. They decided to take him to the hospital and hook him up to an i.v.



Bitchy was freaking even more, of course, even though Lee had told her this was mostly a cautionary move and that he would probably be fine once he got some fluids pumped in him. She was sobbing about how he was such a good husband, etc., and how he had never been like this before.



I was sitting on the bed with him while the paramedics were around, talking quietly to him that they were here to help him feel better and they were just going to do some checking and monitoring, and then take him in their cool ambulance to the hospital so he could get better. That mom and I were going to be there soon as well, and we would see him pretty quick. He smiled a bit and said ok and nodded now and then, but he also looked pretty weak and small...



When we got to the ER and found him he was a snarling tiger. "Get me the hell outta here! This is a nightmare. What the hell are these people doing and why am I here!!!"



The ER doc wanted me to explain why he'd been brought in and I told him all this, basically, and he said that this man did not need to be in the ER. He wouldn't let us just take him home immediately though, because he wanted dad to be quiet and settled first. Plus they had some blood to work up and evaluate, and that would take time.



I had gone to him immediately and said that he should settle down a bit but he would certainly be going home as soon as possible. They brought him a barco-lounger to sit in, and gave him a lunch, and mom and I sat with him while we waited for the boot. At one point he needed to pee, so they got to check his urine.



All his tests came back "normal" with no dehydration showing in his urine (how do they know that??), and all his blood work came back normal. The doctor eventually said he should cut back on the blood pressure meds, as Dr. D. had said earlier this morning when Bitchy got through to her favorite nurse.

full circle?

What do you do when your mother can't tell (or refuses to acknowledge) that your father's "diaper" needs changing? And she blows her stack when you try to intervene...

Back to Basics

Ok, now we have no visitors, so Hunk and Bitchy can interact more naturally again. To wit, after two hours of imbibing their usual concoction of crappy Vodka and soda, Bitchy comes grumblin in to ask if I will make them dinner. Which I do (except for the hamburger) and then she proceeds to eat but three or four bites before heading off to bed.

She doesn't even wait to help her sweet husband into his pj bottoms or so much as say goodnight to him or me.

Basically she passes out on the bed and leaves it to him (and me) to get his water pik used properly, teeth brushed, and nightclothes on (flashlight in pocket and wallet on dresser).

I wish she could see how that alcohol changes her temperament and stamina and ultimately makes her a worse person.

Into the Trash

So, the next morning was a little chilly from Bitchy, though I got up early to give them their meds, around 7. They were still sleeping, which was unusual, but I follow the maxim: Never wake a sleeping octogenarian!

Spying some activity around 8:30 I finally gave their morning pills and she said, "Make your father an egg, I went back to sleep!"

Also unusual, as she takes charge of his eating and normally makes him a slice of some bakery bread and tea. But I said "Sure" and set to it. He tottered out to the dining room to eat, leaving her to stay in bed doing the newspaper puzzle, as usual.

Throughout that day and those following I just did what has become expected of me. Mostly in relative silence, but with a "pleasant" expression on my face. Feed them meds morning, noon, and night. Make their bed when they get up. Pick up newspapers, scattered clothes, dirty dishes and teacups, tv remotes, dad's electric shaver, and copious crumpled, used Kleenex tissues from underneath pillows and sheets, on the floor, on nearly every visible surface and more. This day I took in a tub of laundry to my bathroom (where the double-decker unit is) and was mildly pleased to find nearly no pee-stained underpants!

My other chores I'll mention another time, but that afternoon Bitchy brought out Hunk's tiny bathroom wastebasket and declared that it should be lined hereafter with a plastic bag, to accommodate the disposal of his used Depends. "Great idea," I praised, thinking I should find a slightly larger sized basket since one Depends would just about fill the thing.

...

Today during lunch, I returned the shaver to his bathroom while they finished. Whereupon I noticed the Father's Day card I'd given him, which had been on his bedside table, smooshed down into that little wastebasket.

It Depends...

Aaargh...

Since the landmark day of Hunk's 90th Birthday Bash, when his trousers got soaked with pee three times in twenty-four hours -- which Bitchy missed, though Hunk had been calling for her each time -- life has become more difficult.

That was the day I managed to have "the talk" with Hunk -- explaining how the industry now made underwear designed to help manage those times when one couldn't get a belt buckle undone, or make it to the bathroom in time, but had to suffer changing wardrobes in the middle of the afternoon. And if he sat to pee (as he said so), then he'd already have the technique down!

What a great invention, I enthused, 'cause then he could depend on it to absorb any amount of 'accidental liquid' without showing the world at large!

Plus, how cool is that -- they're even named Depends!! Lots of people use them these days, as I imagine one day I will, too!

(I was hoping beyond hope the idea would fly, so frustrated with Bitchy's uncaring attitude, evidenced by a year of doing their laundry, finding every pair of his underpants urine-soaked! Worse, she did not seem to encourage or help him wash more than once a week -- and my helping him like that was "out of the question!" -- so his delicate skin was assaulted daily as well.)

Thankfully, he was quite on board with the idea, and I got him to put on a pair without any of the humiliation Bitchy expected. However, as she dresses him in the early morning -- none too gently, I might add -- he returned to the norm of jockey's and trousers the very next day.

Surprise, surprise, though... she started to warm to the idea over the next few days, when business required my absence, and she had to deal several times by herself with wet trousers.

Then she said "Buy them in bulk online!" which I did gratefully, hoping all would, finally, be well.

Well, it isn't. Now there are no more pants streaked with pee, and no more underpants soaking in bleach, but she refuses to have him change the Depends more than once a day! The smell of pee in his bathroom is more prevalent, and it follows him around like a cloud.

Tonight I went to help him with the Water Pik (as usual) but this time Bitchy said, "He's in his underpants only tonight" (as it was a warm night) and not to bother with his pajama bottoms!

Well, ok... I suppose that would be fine, but when I went in to his bathroom they were drooping pretty low and the smell was fairly strong. I asked her, "Did you check to see if they were dry?"

"They're fine!" she insisted, annoyed. And she left the room.

"But are they dry?" I came back.

"They're fine, I said!!" she snarled. I got Hunk started with his Water Pik and followed Bitchy out into their bedroom.

"Ok, but "fine" isn't necessarily "dry"... are they dry?" I persisted. Of course, I was thinking if they were even a little wet he should change into dry ones for the night. Never got a chance to suggest that.

We were facing off now, each leaning over one side of their king-sided bed, her with a ferocious glare on her face. "You back off now! This is MY call" and other words that amounted to how dare I question her authority, and how I had better back off and start behaving like her employee, etc. etc. etc., though I am her daughter and present in their home only because they need help.

Having gone back to help Hunk with his teeth, he calmly suggested that while we both were concerned with his behalf, I should probably back off and let Bitchy have her way. I immediately apologized and assured him that I would let her have her way, even if it was wrong, if that was what he wanted. He said it was.

Poor guy. It has ever been thus. (On going past her in the hall I acknowledged "whatever you want, whatever you say" to Bitchy, in her continued fury.)

I am so tempted to encourage her treat me like a bad employee, and give me my walking papers. From the look of it, Hunk will be too much for her (or me) to handle alone soon, and he may be living his last days from the confines of a nursing home... unless she and I can come to terms again... If not for his needs, I would not be here in the first place.

Maybe I'm over-reacting. Will see what tomorrow brings... it depends...

Strap on Your Spurs

That's what Hunk says... going to "strap on my spurs and join the fight."

In spite of the BigA, he has a sense of humor. And he'd better, since living with Bitchy isn't always easy on him, either.

The Smallest Torch

For the second time in recent days, Hunk tottered into my room in the wee hours, the beam of his little Ace flashlight leading the way. Not a necessity, as the sun was on its way up, but that little tool is his special 'security blanket.'

I was sound asleep, of course, my ears filled with foam rubber, but a part of me has been on alert since the birth of my first child, 25 years ago. So I quickly came to and pulled one stopper out. "Hey Dad, what's up? What's going on?"

"It's your mother, she's furious," he says.

I take a deep breath, having witnessed her fury. The digital shows it's only 5:15, and I can imagine the whole, sad scene.

"I was only asking if there's anything I could do for her," he tells me. In the past, he would ask and she would say get her some juice, or something. Now "she just berates me, and I don't know what I've done wrong!"

I sit up and show him the clock. "Here Dad, this is the problem. See? It's 5:15... it's too early for her to want juice. She's probably had a bad night's sleep and she just wants that."

I have him sit on the edge of my bed for a minute, patting his bony back. "And you know, she's probably scared, Dad. And angry... about this disease you have. She doesn't know how to handle it and so she lashes out at you. Or whatever... " I ball a fist in frustration. "It makes me mad that she does, but mostly it's about her wanting a full night's rest."

"Well," he suggests, "I will just go lie down next to her and not say anything until she says something first."

"Yeah, Dad, that sounds good. She will tell you when she's ready for juice, okay? But it certainly won't be before 6:00, you know. So see if you can just relax for a while, okay?"

He sighs. "Ok, but if you think of any way to help, well" and his tiny voice trails off. He maneuvers back to standing and shuffles on out, his little beam lighting the way.

1976

That's how many eBay positive Feedbacks I have today. Lots more overall-feedbacks (100% positive), so I consider this one of my primary sources of income. A flawed source, to be sure... But more on that another time.

The number -- 1976 -- is also significant. It marks the one-year anniversary of my pairing with he-bean, or "HB" for short. We met by chance, in a park, while I was driving solo across the country, and moved in together just a few weeks later. Bad idea, I think, if you want a marriage to last. Better to stay individuals whilst you learn about each other. Better to know what the heart of the man is truly like before giving yours to him... More on that another time, too.

But I got a taste during that summer, on our European adventure. If I'd been a stronger, braver individual, I might have left him afterward. 'Cause it became clear we had some mighty big issues in conflict. So big, in fact, that I took up cigarettes again, in France, to soothe my nerves. (And I'd kicked my seven-year, 2-pack-a-day habit only three months prior, so that was a big disappointment in myself, too.)

Should'a known I was in for a rocky vacation when, early on our first morning in London, we couldn't --actually, HE couldn't-- settle on a restaurant to eat breakfast. I'd just become a vegetarian (because he was one) and maybe all the bangers-and-mash and other meat smells were bothering him, but he kept getting up from each table and leaving, with me trailing behind, bewildered.

I was uncomprehending his problem and getting a little complaining and whiny, with him saying how he gets grouchy when he hasn't had anything to eat in a while, and me snarking back that he probably shouldn't be leaving so many restaurants then, without eating, and we started getting louder and louder, walking along the sidewalk hunting for the next possibility. Until he slapped me right across the face (not too hard) just to shut me up.

Took me so much by surprise it actually worked, for a second. Then I grabbed his hand that slapped me and bit it (not too hard).

Whereupon we really started shouting and causing a ruckus, until a very nice Bobby came up and told us to quiet down -- that's just not how people behaved on their side of The Pond. (I think it might have been the Fourth of July, actually... our bicentennial.)

Well, we found our silent way into another restaurant pretty quick, and I left the table to go downstairs to the loo... for a good cry. A nice elderly British woman was there who suggested, in a roundabout way, that I might have found the wrong man for me!

Over the next four weeks (?) I had cause to agree with her, time and time again... but when we got back on US soil, I didn't make my break for it...

Not until coming here to care for Hunk and Bitchy, 32 years later. And go figure. (Bitchy reminds me SO MUCH of HB.)

Start me up ... or, Moving in with Hunk and Bitchy

This blog is way overdue for me. Gonna treat it like a personal journal, to try and get out of my system some of the angst that's accummulating since I moved in with "Hunk and Bitchy."

Since I'm posting it to the internet, obviously my privacy is sacrificed, but I'll try to remain anonymous. Don't want to hurt anyone...


...I've been here since Sept. 2008. Nearly a year and ten months. Moved myself and everything I owned from California back to New Hampshire, to live with and help my elderly parents -- "Hunk" who is nearing 90 and has Alzheimer's disease, and "Bitchy" who is 85 and enjoys life with what one friend defines as Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

And really, for the most part, I have nothing to complain about. It's been a pretty cushy gig, as they say.

But things are changing quickly now, and I don't know if I'll make it to the final scenes.