ST TIMMY'S IN WINTER
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ST TIMMY'S IN WINTER
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It's raining buckets today. The water running off the roof
splashes heavily when it hits the porches/patios outside the
rooms. There is enough roof overhang for George to go outside to
smoke when he wants to hide from Spastic Lady. There are times
when he hangs with her for hours in the dining room. At other
times they go off together and hide in her room doing what you
think. Yet other times he comes back here to be alone. In
better weather he will go out the sally port and sit in the
parking lot, just to be alone. Aloneness is something hard to
find here.
Last night I ran a Grade B movie about a stupid man who spends
all his money on hookers. When the hookers came on and played
with their tits or ground their snatch, George was all eyes.
George may have said I'm a bitch, but now I think I have him
completely confused. Rochelle got moved back to this wing in the
monthly shift of job assignments. She saw George and me looking
intently at the television. She asked, What are you boys staring
at and grinning over? I told her it was nothing she would want
to watch. Rochelle declared it must be bad then.
Lydia just finished putting Cyborg Daddy to bed. She poked her
head around the corner and looked at the video. She said, I
should bring you one of my videos to watch. Afterward Lydia
thought better of it saying, If I did that they would fire me for
turning you guys on. With that, she went in to change Pablo.
Lydia pointed at him and said, Now here's a nasty man -- The good
Lord done took away his leg, then he took away the other leg --
This man fights us no matter what we try to do for him -- But now
he can only fight with one arm cuz the good Lord done paralyzed
that one -- And the nasty mouth on this man, calling us
motherfucker and stuff -- Pretty soon the Lord gonna fix his
mouth so it won't work neither!
I think I will keep Lydia on my good side. Pablo was braying
away at half past four this morning, wanting water. But he can
hardly speak now. Only a few days ago he could yell over and
over, HHHEEEEELLLPPP with the best of them and be heard all the
way to the other side of the building. He sounds like a hoarse
crow now and can't get up much steam. I don't miss his noise
because, for the time being, I can get more sleep. But I have to
wonder if what Lydia pronouces comes true...
I browsed my chart again to see what new inaccuracies had been
added to it. I must have passed over the optometrist's report
from when he examined me for new glasses. (The lenses are great
but the frames suck; I kept and wear my old ones.) I've had what
are called floaters in my eyes for several months now. He noted
on his report sheet that I have begun cataracts. I wonder if
floaters are a kind of cataract or if he noticed what I have been
noticing, a slight frostiness in the vision of my right eye.
Hmmm. Like I don't have enough systems breaking down.
A friend is in the unhappy circumstance of having to care for an
elderly relative at home in preference to putting the old lady in
a nursing home. Her observations on love and duty gave me a new
perspective--
I asked, Howcome you don't put Gramma in a home? She sounds an
awful handful for you.
The answer: Several reasons. If she were not "lucid" I'd
consider it, but her marbles are all there... chipped, but all
there. The atmosphere of a nursing home would destroy her mind
and soul. Also, my religion teaches that we owe our primary debt
to our family and parents. To care for our own rather than
relying on others. After all... Mama didn't put ME in an
orphange when I was a handful.
Also, they would take every red cent she has. She has saved a
scrap of money and all the programs I have heard of want you to
sign your entire estate, et cetera over to them. The insurance
company has stated in so many words that they are giving her NO
care unless she signs "hospice". Hospice care is care for the
dying. The cunt with the clipboard (is it me or does a clipboard
automatically confer 'asshole' status on a person?) actually said
right out "If you sign onto hospice, you will no longer get
curative medicine and care, only palliative. If you have a heart
attack, you don't call 911, you call US!" I damn near crapped my
pinafore when she said THAT! It's rationed medical care. She's
90, they reason, why spend anything to keep her alive?
Mama says she doesn't want to sign onto Hospice because, for her,
that's admitting defeat and just "Laying down to die". She has
NO intention of crawling out onto the ice floe quite yet. So we
rattle along, me giving her the nursing care the insurance
company won't spring for. The only outside 'help' we have now is
a family friend (wonderfully tasteless woman) and the meals on
wheels program. That's it.
While I do feel a tad cramped just now, I KNOW that I will never
regret this decision to care for my own grandmother, to make her
comfortable and loved and make her last months or years secure is
the finest and best thing I can do for my life path.
* * * * *
Lydia is here to put me to bed. Basically all she does is bring
a hospital gown which covers my tits and not much else. She is
on hand to witness my fall to the floor if the bed decides to
take off when I am in mid-slide or if the board should come along
with me. She's quite good about washing me up in the evening.
Most CNAs don't bother. By the time she's finished with me I am
kissing sweet. Everywhere. Consequently, I am fungus-free at
this time -- no unsightly red patches on my playpen.
Lydia is perturbed. She throws the pad down on the bed as though
it were an Altzheimer's victim who had put her through changes.
It turns out this is exactly what happened. Nice little old
grandma Jenny decided to finger paint. Jenny is yet another
digger. Jenny painted the bed. Jenny painted a mural on the
wall. There was a big argument about whether it would be Lydia
or the maintenance guy who dealt with the wall. Lydia lost.
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