Part 3 (Friday): Eating a Salad in the Upstairs Bathroom
I woke up to mom crying. I was dreaming I was being shot out by terrorists at some kind of Buddhist temple and that had a tiny city growing out of my forehead. Mom had been up all night with daddy, who is losing control of everything you specifically need control of if you want to maintain your dignity in your twilight years. She’s slept an hour. She was searching for an index card with all of the phone numbers she needs, and I woke up and re-wrote them down for her.
If there’s one thing I have learned, you don’t give an imminent-widow the only copy of critical paperwork that she needs. You just give her note cards to lose over and over and keep shit organized on your own.
I hugged her and then called UAW Local chapter 862, who are getting a decent reputation by me thanks to a fellow named Adam. She is, of course, solely focused on getting his retirement paperwork done and in a complete panic. I am not since Adam and I have it under control.
The hospice nurses came back this morning while I was on the phone working through the bureaucratic process with Adam. I came out of the bedroom to find Nancy standing in the upstairs bathroom eating a salad in a nightgown while the nurses asked her questions. Nancy is doing a *wonderful* job of entertaining hospice by:
- Using dad’s new walker and pretending to be an old woman.
- Sitting on the portable toilet kicking her legs around.
- Joking about how she is going to super glue daddy’s stomach wound back together with the Lydicane she “took from a hospital.”
- Telling stories of our insane grandmother who hit on a 20 year old neighbor the other day by telling him she preferred black men.
- Making fun of my dad for calling the nurse Trisha instead of Tosha.
I announced it would be fun to take the portable toilet outside to traumatize the neighbors. I am not sure the nurses were in agreement. The women informed us that most families were either crying, angry or indifferent and so they seemed to be amused. Maybe they were not, but I appreciate that they pretended to be.
We had to decide whether to send dad to the hospital to get his pick-line fixed. If he doesn’t have it done, his blood pressure will drop quickly and he will likely die in a week. If he does have it fixed, he will likely live an additional week. I decide to stop mincing words and explain this point-blank to my father.
“Daddy, what do you want to do?”
“What is going on with that paperwork.”
“Mom is panicked about it but she doesn’t need to be. Pretend the paperwork doesn’t matter. What do you want to do?”
“But the paperwork does matter,” mom says.
“I know mom,” I tell her. “Just hold on a second. Let’s find out what daddy thinks.”
He is overwhelmed. “Geez. What does…”
“Daddy, it’s okay. What do you want?”
“I’d rather just get this over with.”
When mom leaves the room I assure him it’s going to be okay and that the paperwork is going to be handled. He then wonders when my husband is coming and I tell him it’s okay, we will rush him out.
It is 11:15 am.
