stranglehold

1 08 2008

It’s 7:15 p.m. and they are both on their way to bed. It was one of those days that I felt like I was a bumper pad on a pool table. He couldn’t talk to her without growling, but he’d talk to me and then I’d talk to her – then she couldn’t say anything right to him so it’d bounce back from me to him. When this is bad – it is really really bad.

Somehow at lunch we got on the subject of a certain nursing home here in town. Was it a veiled threat on my part? No, we were just talking about her experience there after a total knee replacement a few years back. “It was pretty nice, I thought. But there is one thing I couldn’t figure out…why are there so many people in wheelchairs parked in the hallways all day long?” OH – Even I know the answer to that one today.

It’s because they can be plopped down in one place and pretty much stay put. End of story. No more fussing. Like time-out rugs with wheels. If I am only dealing with two here and could figure a way to sting them both with an immobilizer gun – you bet your bottom dollar I would.

It all pretty much makes sense to me now – that tone in her voice on the phone at the end, or in the middle or at the beginning of one of “his” days. Torture day. Pure torture. Suffocating. There was NO food that he’d eat, NOTHING that tasted good to drink, pants too TIGHT and on and on – all the stars in the universe in chaotic misalignment. I mean big time.

But today I managed equivilent of the wheelchair trick…he got a haircut. He sat there captive for all of a quarter of an hour – quiet, pained look on his face and too scared to move. Can that be replicated?

Since he officially announced he was going to bed, I’ve shown him how to take off one of the two shirts he was wearing, helped him take off his socks (only to be shocked at the sight of his swollen feet – a given by product of the heart disease that would send you running to the ER), complained that he didn’t want a sheet over him, shown me how he snuggles up to lay right beside the wall (don’t ask me why – but I’m sure there is a reason), gotten up to get his water bottle (which he won’t drink) and gotten up to go to the bathroom one more time…I expect that I might have time for one or maybe two Bravo shows till he’s out of bed again.

He’s not a happy camper and there is no way to help him today…except maybe by just sharing it.

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One response

1 08 2008
Buddy McNiece (only born son!)

Wendy, kind of like being back in Junior High – the lines of communication have a set, certain and distinct path, but rarely the shortest distance between two points.

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