Disinhibited

It's a good thing Randy warned me about this, although even with the warning, and understanding what's behind it and how common it is, it's getting increasingly hard to cope. After all, I was raised in a very inhibited era. Back then you said things like "darn" and "dang", "phooey" and "fudge", and kept speech topics to those suitable for polite company, including children. I've grown up and changed, of course, but most of those inhibitions still hold.

The anecdote Randy tells to illustrate the concept keeps me giggling, sometimes when little else does. It's set in a nursing home, with the fairly rare elderly gentleman resident. It also involves a rather prim lady, the do-gooder kind who serves others and her own self-esteem by visiting with shut-ins and the sick. Randy claims to be a witness. The aforementioned lady gets motioned to by the elderly gentleman, coaxing her to get closer, closer. Despite Randy's efforts to warn her off, she does, thinking perhaps that he's hard of hearing or just deprived of genteel company. Finally close to him, leaning over his wheelchair, she sees him point at his crotch, and hears, "Hey, honey, I've got seven inches for you!"

I've not heard whether she ever came back, but if she did, she no doubt avoided him again. She wasn't ready for the disinhibited state of many of the elderly. No longer held to the standards of polite conventions, they use words they kept out of polite company, and make suggestions and offer invitations suitable for any respectable brothel worth of its name.

Watching Daddy over the last two years, I've seen the walls falling one by one. There's the lack of modesty regarding bathroom needs. Of course, this is born of necessity, when one makes a mess one is unable to clean up alone. Back when he was still drinking, and over-indulging in the wake of Mom's death, the language barriers started to fall. The person I'd never heard swearing was now using language to make a sailor proud. He was also saying nasty things to one of his aids, including calling her a prostitute. Things got so nasty, I finally confronted him with his behavior. He was still in a state that, when sober, he was capable of shame, and quit drinking by his own will. (After several days of that, we reinforced his will by ridding his apartment of alcohol. Just in case. After all, his memory already was imperfect, even sober, nevermind the near-blackouts caused by drinking.)

Things improved greatly, and stayed that way for a while after moving him in up here with us. However, the last several months have seen quite a change again. Mostly it's at night, or at least started that way. I still try to hush him when he's swearing, and most times he's obedient, for a bit. I tried the what-would-your-mother-think-if-she-heard-that bit a couple times, but it was only effective at first.

A recent ploy has been used in the morning when I get him up for the day. He seems to have reverted to about a six-year-old level when he plays this game, and you can see the conniving in his eyes behind the I'm-so-innocent expression he puts on for it. When I happen to mention either the words "sit" or "shirt", he coyly asks how I spell it. He wants me to know both that he hasn't either said or spelled the word "shit", but just maybe he'll luck out and trick me into doing so. What glee if he succeeded! I mock-scolded him, letting him know I knew his game, by emphatically spelling the word I used, almost pretending I simply thought he was hard of hearing, but conveying in tone the true message. After a few weeks of that, I switched to answering his question with "i-t" or ''t-h-a-t", depending on how he asked his question.

He stopped playing.

I almost miss it.

Almost.

It's much more fun than fielding his invitations to join him in bed. Lately, he'll invite almost anybody, including his aids, nurses, physical therapist, even his grandsons. Sometimes he'll say they're for company, but many times they'll be much more explicit. My answer is always the same, aiming not to scold him but to put the question to rest. At least for the time being, since he'll repeat it next time, and next time. I simply tell him that his bed is too small for both of us. I can't physically get in it. It's a hospital bed with side rails, just big enough for him and him alone. After a while, he gets the idea. If it's company he's after, he switches to asking if I'll stay in the chair next to his bed all night, but I then remind him that I need sleep since I have to work in the morning.

I'm really glad that the people who care for him all have been trained in what to expect and how to nicely brush off the advances. I'm also glad they all knew him before this all stated. It helps that they respect the man he was, and genuinely came to care for him then. That carries through, helping all of us deal with the changes.