Well, I'm sure little tribes of humans will survive in some out-of-the-way places, on some remote islands tourists can only dream of visiting. I won't make it. I can't even afford to drive to the beach. I won't be a survivor of whatever disaster comes this way, certainly, and that's okay. I don't mind, as long as my end is not too messy.
Speaking of messy ends, hooboy. Last week, I took Mom to the doctor for a case of conjunctivitis. What us normal folks call pink eye. Her eyes were definitely glowing.
“I feel fine,” Mom said. She didn't remember that she'd been scratching her itchy eyes just three minutes earlier.
Getting there was no problem. The doctor's office is about a half-mile away from the care facility. We were there early, carrying our gear, ready for anything. Well, I carried the gear, ready for anything. Extra pull-ups, wet wipes, and an extra pair of pants. Good thing, too. Before we saw the nurse practitioner, Mom had to use the restroom three times. Fortunately, it was right across the hall and plenty big enough for both of us. Mom can no longer use the bathroom by herself. So in we went. Two times, no problem. However, the third time, as they say, is the charm.
“Oh, dear,” said Mom. “There it goes.” It, in this case, was the gusher of you-know-what in her pull-ups. I grabbed her walker and she hustled stiffly into the hall. Wouldn't you know, someone was using the restroom at the moment of meltdown. It wouldn't have mattered, I guess. The damage was well and truly done. The staff pointed me down the hall and around the corner to another restroom.
I won't bore you with details I'm sure are way more interesting in your mind than they are in mine. Let's just say, lucky for me, it was stocked with extra rolls of toilet paper. I did a lot of mopping up. I will never set anything I care about on the floor of a restroom again.
Mom went into the restroom wearing elastic-waist blue jeans and came out wearing bright red sweat pants. Her shoes were on her feet. The blue jeans were rolled up, stinky side in, and stuffed in my bag. She doesn't care anymore how she looks, and I have to admit, I don't either. I would have chosen another pair of blue jeans, but the red pants were the only pants left in her closet. She's been having more meltdowns. At this rate, I need to get her some more jeans.
Oh, how about her eyes? Thanks for asking. The nurse practitioner eventually found us. The eye exam itself took about five minutes. Very shortly, we were out the door. We spent three times as long in the restroom as we did in the doctor's exam room.
Last week, I made the mistake of taking Mom down the hall to visit her former smoking partner, Jane. Jane reported that she has started smoking again. “I only have one a day!” she hastened to reassure Mom. Then she looked at me. “Don't blame me if your Mom wants a cigarette.”
Mom looked at me. “Why can't I have one a day?”
I harrumphed a bit and said, “Let's talk about it in your room.” As we walked back, I crossed my fingers that she would forget about it, and my prayer was answered.
Or so I thought. Last night, Mom said, “I want to go outside for a cigarette.” I was surprised. She can't remember what she had for dinner ten minutes ago. I couldn't believe she remembered visiting Jane.
“I saw Tina walking outside today,” Mom said. Tina is the Med-Aide. Last I heard, Tina had been trying to quit smoking. Wonder how that's going. Maybe not great.
“I'm sorry, Mom. Your brain isn't working so good these days. Remember when Dr. Sho notified the DMV and they rescinded your driver's license? This is sort of like that. We have rescinded your license to smoke.”
Her glare made me queasy. I am biologically programmed to cringe when I see that glare. That evening, I consulted with my siblings and two out of three responses indicated I should man up and be the parent. So, backed by the siblings, I feel confident I can now say, request denied, Mother. No cigarettes for you. Not now, not ever.
Another fresh hell. Going and coming, payback sucks.
