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...
************************************
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!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
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!"
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!"
Monday, August 23, 2010
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:
******************
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.
****************************
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.
******************
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.
****************************
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.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
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.
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.
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