"Heather."
Maybe if I ignore him, he'll forget whatever it is and I can get some sleep.
"Heather!"
No such luck. Forcing open my eyelids, I note that it's 2:45 AM. Sure, I'm happy to get up. Uh huh. Right away.
"What do you need, Daddy?"
"You."
"What do you need, daddy?"
"What time is it?"
"It's not quite 3AM. Would you like a drink of water?"
He does, as always, and tries to engage me in conversation about how the war's going. I try to convince him it's been over for 65 years. He's not sure he believes me.
"What time is it?"
"It's nearly three. Everybody's sleeping."
I check his oxygen to make sure it's feeding into his nose. Sometimes he removes it. I even find it around his neck blowing into his pillow some nights. Tonight it's fine. As he continues to complain about not knowing what time it is, I pick up his wrist and press the appropriate button on his talking watch.
"The... time... is... 2:54.. A.M."
"Oh, that thing is worthless!"
I'm not in the mood to comment, just get up and leave the room, returning to bed.
....
"I want a clock!"
Rolling over, I wake hearing that, find myself mentally answering, "so who doesn't?" Maybe he's just talking to the people who aren't there again and I'm not needed. This will be my third night (of four, so far) with badly interrupted sleep.
"I want a damn clock! C. L. O. C. K!"
Yeah, and not much anybody's going to do about that at - I again force open eyelids - 3:30 AM. I drag myself down the hall yet again and inform him of that fact as gently as I'm currently capable of under the circumstances. Meaning not very. This is not the night I raise my voice to get through to him that I need him to stop yelling so I can get some sleep because I have to work. That was the previous night. I again address his talking watch, demonstrating it for him. He insists that it's never been helpful. I retort that he's relied on it for years, but now he's an old man and getting forgetful. I wonder aloud that he can't tell by how dark everything is that it's night and everybody is trying to sleep. His response is that his nightlight makes everything so bright that he can't tell whether it's day or night. Fine, I'll remove it. Better? I also tell him that I'm going to unplug my end of the baby monitor so I won't be able to hear him the rest of the night. He will need to stay in bed and rest, try to get more sleep. I promise to get him up in the morning when it's time. By 6:30 I can manage cheerful again.
On my way home from work I stop at the store and look for a clock with large lighted numerals that he might be able to read at night. I find one with 3" characters, and we plug it in at his bedtime. Oh such foolish optimism! He forgets it's there. He can't read the numbers. Basically, he's lonely and just needs the company. He's bumped the control for his bed and his knees are up higher than his head. He wants to be moved to the bed over in the corner. All these women are visiting him....
My going to bed two hours before my usual bedtime just isn't helping, either. I can be dead-on-my-feet tired, but not ready for sleep yet. Thank heaven for weekends. I can sleep during the day when he does. Ready for another rocky night.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
New Shoes
Some days shopping comes close to being a pure pleasure. Of course, it can take a bit to get to that place. Take Thursday.
I decided it was time for new shoes. After all, by this time both my regular shoes were splitting tops off soles around the toes, after a winter's worth of abuse from snow, slush, and salt. (We won't mention dirt and grime and bad smells.) Since I had the time after work, it being a miserable day for having any work, I decided to head up to North Branch to the Tanger outlet mall. They have a Bass outlet there where I've found many a pair of good shoes over past years.
Things have changed a bit. First, it's barely a shoe store anymore. Oh, there's a central shoe section in both the men's and women's sides, but about 4/5 of the store is for other clothing these days. On the good side, it doesn't take too long to decide there's nothing they have on this day to offer me, including customer service. The closest they come to what I need is a shoe with all kinds of cut-outs through the uppers, making the style a sandal mimicking an athletic shoe. Definitely not a work shoe. The few I can find come only in medium width, and at this point in my life are just not wide enough, even though I'm starting my search in the men's section.
On my way out of the store, I stop at the front counter and inquire whether they still sell wide shoes? I get back the incomprehensible answer that's it's the wrong season.
What? Did feet start to grow and shrink according to season now and somebody forgot to tell me? Why do they always forget to tell me? Why?
I've already been standing and walking on my knees too long, and put this store down on my list of only-come-back-dragged-kicking-and-screaming shopping places.
But, hey, I passed a Nike store on my way to this one, and decide to pop in there. I used to buy Nikes exclusively, until they did a major style and price change years ago. Let's try them now.
There's an immediate difference. I'm greeted instantly, asked if they can help, and directed, no, actually guided, to the person who knows my desired area. And this store is still devoted over half to shoes. Already it looks promising. Further, once I explain my parameters, I am immediately set down and brought a box of shoes that are so exactly what I'm looking for and on sale besides, that after trying them on I order two pair. I find they actually have two pair in my size in stock. None of this let's-see-what-our-other-branches-have, can-you pop-over-to-the-Albertville-branch? They're taken right up to the cashier for me.
I'll be back.
I decided it was time for new shoes. After all, by this time both my regular shoes were splitting tops off soles around the toes, after a winter's worth of abuse from snow, slush, and salt. (We won't mention dirt and grime and bad smells.) Since I had the time after work, it being a miserable day for having any work, I decided to head up to North Branch to the Tanger outlet mall. They have a Bass outlet there where I've found many a pair of good shoes over past years.
Things have changed a bit. First, it's barely a shoe store anymore. Oh, there's a central shoe section in both the men's and women's sides, but about 4/5 of the store is for other clothing these days. On the good side, it doesn't take too long to decide there's nothing they have on this day to offer me, including customer service. The closest they come to what I need is a shoe with all kinds of cut-outs through the uppers, making the style a sandal mimicking an athletic shoe. Definitely not a work shoe. The few I can find come only in medium width, and at this point in my life are just not wide enough, even though I'm starting my search in the men's section.
On my way out of the store, I stop at the front counter and inquire whether they still sell wide shoes? I get back the incomprehensible answer that's it's the wrong season.
What? Did feet start to grow and shrink according to season now and somebody forgot to tell me? Why do they always forget to tell me? Why?
I've already been standing and walking on my knees too long, and put this store down on my list of only-come-back-dragged-kicking-and-screaming shopping places.
But, hey, I passed a Nike store on my way to this one, and decide to pop in there. I used to buy Nikes exclusively, until they did a major style and price change years ago. Let's try them now.
There's an immediate difference. I'm greeted instantly, asked if they can help, and directed, no, actually guided, to the person who knows my desired area. And this store is still devoted over half to shoes. Already it looks promising. Further, once I explain my parameters, I am immediately set down and brought a box of shoes that are so exactly what I'm looking for and on sale besides, that after trying them on I order two pair. I find they actually have two pair in my size in stock. None of this let's-see-what-our-other-branches-have, can-you pop-over-to-the-Albertville-branch? They're taken right up to the cashier for me.
I'll be back.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Watching Eagle Cam
I've been enjoying stealing a few minutes every day to watch the Decorah eagles. All three eaglets have survived so far, though the youngest is appreciable smaller than its two older siblings. All have started sprouting pinfeathers, making them look like they're sporting some bad skin rash. They're a long way from getting their balance on their feet. The most amusing one this morning was an older eaglet who was exercising its wings, and every time it unfurled and flapped them, it fell over on its beak.
For a moment both parents were on the nest, though the returning parent came back empty-handed, or empty-taloned if you wish. It rearranged a large stick and dug out an old carcass, striping off bits to eat. Littlest eaglet came over hoping for a bite without competition from siblings, who were busy being fed by the other parent. It looked like it scored one, but it must have been disappointing, as it turned back around to rejoin the main group. By this time, of course, the first parent who'd been feeding the others had flown off to hunt.
Without poor timing it might have no timing at all. I'm hoping for good hunting for the parents.
For a moment both parents were on the nest, though the returning parent came back empty-handed, or empty-taloned if you wish. It rearranged a large stick and dug out an old carcass, striping off bits to eat. Littlest eaglet came over hoping for a bite without competition from siblings, who were busy being fed by the other parent. It looked like it scored one, but it must have been disappointing, as it turned back around to rejoin the main group. By this time, of course, the first parent who'd been feeding the others had flown off to hunt.
Without poor timing it might have no timing at all. I'm hoping for good hunting for the parents.
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Worst Christmas Ever
All day yesterday my dad kept thinking it was Christmas. We told him it was Easter. Over and over.
It didn't seem to matter that it was warm and sunny outside, and we could finally (he and I together) go out on scooters up and down the city bike path. It didn't matter that snow was gone, yards greening up, frogs singing, daffodils and scillas blooming. He kept thinking it was Christmas.
We kept the day low key. I've got enough on my plate these days. There was no company, no colored eggs, no baskets of grass that winds up spread over everything. There was, however a turkey roasted in the oven, along with au gratins and mixed veggies, and just for him some cranberry jelly left from a recent meals-on-wheels lunch.
Just before heading off to bed, he made his displeasure known. This was the worst Christmas he'd ever spent. Everybody'd ignored him, nobody'd made a fuss, and he felt disrespected by everyone.
I tried to rise to my own defense. First, it wasn't Christmas, so if he was expecting presents, it wasn't going to happen. Did he remember having a nice breakfast and lunch? How about our nice ride in the scooters to enjoy the nice day? Did he remember talking to Steve about the ice clearing their bay of their lake in Bemidji and it being time to set out the loon nest? Or the nice turkey dinner he'd just finished, with him getting drumstick meat since that was his favorite? And that I'd sat next to him and the boys next to us both at the dining table?
Well, yes, he remembered all that.
So who could possibly have disrespected him? It was all those soldiers who came and went through the house, in their armor, ignoring him, helping themselves to the food, and making noise.
Oh-h-h-h-h. He'd had a very short nap. I got it now. It was a dream. But try to convince him that those rude soldiers weren't real, much less that it still wasn't Christmas. I've had to tell him so many times and in so many ways that what he thinks is reality has been just a dream, I'm convinced he doesn't trust me much any more.
On the positive side, by morning there was no recollection of any disappointment with Christmas, Easter, or any other holiday. It was just another Monday morning... after a particularly restless and noisy night, but that's another tale.
Yaw-w-w-w-w-wnnnn!
It didn't seem to matter that it was warm and sunny outside, and we could finally (he and I together) go out on scooters up and down the city bike path. It didn't matter that snow was gone, yards greening up, frogs singing, daffodils and scillas blooming. He kept thinking it was Christmas.
We kept the day low key. I've got enough on my plate these days. There was no company, no colored eggs, no baskets of grass that winds up spread over everything. There was, however a turkey roasted in the oven, along with au gratins and mixed veggies, and just for him some cranberry jelly left from a recent meals-on-wheels lunch.
Just before heading off to bed, he made his displeasure known. This was the worst Christmas he'd ever spent. Everybody'd ignored him, nobody'd made a fuss, and he felt disrespected by everyone.
I tried to rise to my own defense. First, it wasn't Christmas, so if he was expecting presents, it wasn't going to happen. Did he remember having a nice breakfast and lunch? How about our nice ride in the scooters to enjoy the nice day? Did he remember talking to Steve about the ice clearing their bay of their lake in Bemidji and it being time to set out the loon nest? Or the nice turkey dinner he'd just finished, with him getting drumstick meat since that was his favorite? And that I'd sat next to him and the boys next to us both at the dining table?
Well, yes, he remembered all that.
So who could possibly have disrespected him? It was all those soldiers who came and went through the house, in their armor, ignoring him, helping themselves to the food, and making noise.
Oh-h-h-h-h. He'd had a very short nap. I got it now. It was a dream. But try to convince him that those rude soldiers weren't real, much less that it still wasn't Christmas. I've had to tell him so many times and in so many ways that what he thinks is reality has been just a dream, I'm convinced he doesn't trust me much any more.
On the positive side, by morning there was no recollection of any disappointment with Christmas, Easter, or any other holiday. It was just another Monday morning... after a particularly restless and noisy night, but that's another tale.
Yaw-w-w-w-w-wnnnn!
So Much for Optimism
"Well, you're wearing the perfect kind of pants."
Huh? Not that I thought to question what the radiologist was saying at that moment. I was busy taking in the information that I didn't have to remove them for my new set of knees X-rays, and busy moving into this position and that for each successive shot. Finally, though, I had to ask, "Just what are the wrong kind of pants?"
Turns out they'd be jeans or other heavy materials, stuff that might actually show up in the films, if films is the right term these days. They've gone digital, and that format is more sensitive to certain things, like jeans.
Today was my visit to the orthopedic clinic to see what might be done for my knees short of surgery. I didn't know going in what that might cost, but I was pretty sure it wasn't in the budget yet. My regular doctor had told me about cortisone injections and some other type of injections that might buy me some time. That translates roughly to having more months or years of minimal pain so I could stand to put off surgery and still live a semi-normal life, meaning better than I'm doing these days with no treatment. So I arrived with my forms filled out, my insurance cards, my photo ID, and a small dose of optimism.
My pictures were interesting. Even more interesting if they were somebody else's, but they were mine. The doctor pointed out several things. There is no longer anything keeping the knee bones from rubbing against each other. In fact, they're wearing each other down, and it's happening indentically in both knees. One may have had a several year's head start but the other one's caught up. They're so evenly matched that you could flip one X-ray over, reversed left-to-right, and lay in on the other and not tell them apart.
So. Options.
I could do nothing, just like now, and take pain killers and walk/stand as little as possible.
Cortisone injections might buy time with reduced pain, but they carry a side-effect that I can't deal with right now. Maybe in a few months.
The stuff you inject into the joint has finally been studied, and results show what my doctor suspected from his own observations and patient feedback: they work about 4% of the time. 4%! (Are you feeling lucky today?)
Surgery would mean a front incision, folding the kneecap back, shaving off the rounded bone ends to something flat, and capping with metal. Then a plastic disc would be set between them and I'd be sewn back together. Expect about 6 weeks recovery time, not till I'm all better, but until the nerves recover enough that I can safely drive again, as in moving the foot fast enough and hard enough from the gas to the brake and vice versa. About a year to full recovery, if I do my exercises religiously despite the pain. Repeat with the other knee.
Oh yeah, and figure about $30,000 per each. Plus unpaid time off work.
So yeah, I'll go right out and buy that winning lottery ticket that'll make it all feasible. Uh huh.
Needless to say, I left feeling a trifle less optimistic.
Huh? Not that I thought to question what the radiologist was saying at that moment. I was busy taking in the information that I didn't have to remove them for my new set of knees X-rays, and busy moving into this position and that for each successive shot. Finally, though, I had to ask, "Just what are the wrong kind of pants?"
Turns out they'd be jeans or other heavy materials, stuff that might actually show up in the films, if films is the right term these days. They've gone digital, and that format is more sensitive to certain things, like jeans.
Today was my visit to the orthopedic clinic to see what might be done for my knees short of surgery. I didn't know going in what that might cost, but I was pretty sure it wasn't in the budget yet. My regular doctor had told me about cortisone injections and some other type of injections that might buy me some time. That translates roughly to having more months or years of minimal pain so I could stand to put off surgery and still live a semi-normal life, meaning better than I'm doing these days with no treatment. So I arrived with my forms filled out, my insurance cards, my photo ID, and a small dose of optimism.
My pictures were interesting. Even more interesting if they were somebody else's, but they were mine. The doctor pointed out several things. There is no longer anything keeping the knee bones from rubbing against each other. In fact, they're wearing each other down, and it's happening indentically in both knees. One may have had a several year's head start but the other one's caught up. They're so evenly matched that you could flip one X-ray over, reversed left-to-right, and lay in on the other and not tell them apart.
So. Options.
I could do nothing, just like now, and take pain killers and walk/stand as little as possible.
Cortisone injections might buy time with reduced pain, but they carry a side-effect that I can't deal with right now. Maybe in a few months.
The stuff you inject into the joint has finally been studied, and results show what my doctor suspected from his own observations and patient feedback: they work about 4% of the time. 4%! (Are you feeling lucky today?)
Surgery would mean a front incision, folding the kneecap back, shaving off the rounded bone ends to something flat, and capping with metal. Then a plastic disc would be set between them and I'd be sewn back together. Expect about 6 weeks recovery time, not till I'm all better, but until the nerves recover enough that I can safely drive again, as in moving the foot fast enough and hard enough from the gas to the brake and vice versa. About a year to full recovery, if I do my exercises religiously despite the pain. Repeat with the other knee.
Oh yeah, and figure about $30,000 per each. Plus unpaid time off work.
So yeah, I'll go right out and buy that winning lottery ticket that'll make it all feasible. Uh huh.
Needless to say, I left feeling a trifle less optimistic.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tire Pressure
This is a head scratcher. It starts out with my getting my oil change at Valvoline late last week. They do all sorts of other checks and fills, including a tire pressure check. I know the guy did it. I watched him.
Yesterday I started the car and my tire pressure sensor light came on. I got out, ran - OK, walked slowly - around the car to see which tire was low. I could still have Richard change it for me while I took care of Daddy. I used to do those myself, but not these days with my knees. There's a whole lot of kneeling and jumping on the tire iron to loosen or tighten. All of me works better for leverage than anything I can do with my arms. I'm the one who taught the boys how to change tires, so I know they're competent.
But there was nothing to change, not that I could see. So I went on to work.
It was a very busy day yesterday, and periodically I walked around the car at stops to see how the tires were holding up. All day, perfect. Getting home late after 400 miles, I ignored the issue until today, and today they still looked fine. But since I ended my day near the Valvoline which had done the oil change, I decided to drop in on them for a "fill". This may not be exactly what they mean when they talk about their top-off policy, but I decided it fit my bill anyway. I can do this myself, and have, but again this requires more exercise to my knees than I felt like. Plus I wasn't sure where my tire pressure guage is. My glove box is a mess.
It wasn't a long wait. When I pulled in, I asked the guy to please let me know which tire was off so I could continue to keep an eye on it. In answer to his inquiry, I asked for 35 lbs. of pressure in each tire, standard on my vehicle.
The driver front tire was... 45 lbs pressure! He let some out. The passenger front was 28! He added air. The passenger rear was 30, so he added air to that too. The driver rear was 40. He fixed that as well, and I thanked him as I drove off. Neither one of us bothered to comment on the complete incompetence of whoever it was who'd worked on them days before. It was completely unnecessary. Had it been one tire low, I could well believe there might be a slow leak needing attention. But there's no way that air magically jumped into the two over-filled tires, and no excuse I can see for pressures being totally inconsistent. Just because the pressure averages to 33 lbs. per tire doesn't make them right. Besides I doubt that the guy who filled them the first time was math-savvy enough to try for that excuse. Just guessing.
I also did not hear any excuses offered or apologies rendered by the fellow who corrected the situation. Then again, maybe I ought to have the pressures rechecked by somebody else in a day or two. Could be the fix isn't. But it was enough of one that the sensor light went off after about a mile down the road.
Yesterday I started the car and my tire pressure sensor light came on. I got out, ran - OK, walked slowly - around the car to see which tire was low. I could still have Richard change it for me while I took care of Daddy. I used to do those myself, but not these days with my knees. There's a whole lot of kneeling and jumping on the tire iron to loosen or tighten. All of me works better for leverage than anything I can do with my arms. I'm the one who taught the boys how to change tires, so I know they're competent.
But there was nothing to change, not that I could see. So I went on to work.
It was a very busy day yesterday, and periodically I walked around the car at stops to see how the tires were holding up. All day, perfect. Getting home late after 400 miles, I ignored the issue until today, and today they still looked fine. But since I ended my day near the Valvoline which had done the oil change, I decided to drop in on them for a "fill". This may not be exactly what they mean when they talk about their top-off policy, but I decided it fit my bill anyway. I can do this myself, and have, but again this requires more exercise to my knees than I felt like. Plus I wasn't sure where my tire pressure guage is. My glove box is a mess.
It wasn't a long wait. When I pulled in, I asked the guy to please let me know which tire was off so I could continue to keep an eye on it. In answer to his inquiry, I asked for 35 lbs. of pressure in each tire, standard on my vehicle.
The driver front tire was... 45 lbs pressure! He let some out. The passenger front was 28! He added air. The passenger rear was 30, so he added air to that too. The driver rear was 40. He fixed that as well, and I thanked him as I drove off. Neither one of us bothered to comment on the complete incompetence of whoever it was who'd worked on them days before. It was completely unnecessary. Had it been one tire low, I could well believe there might be a slow leak needing attention. But there's no way that air magically jumped into the two over-filled tires, and no excuse I can see for pressures being totally inconsistent. Just because the pressure averages to 33 lbs. per tire doesn't make them right. Besides I doubt that the guy who filled them the first time was math-savvy enough to try for that excuse. Just guessing.
I also did not hear any excuses offered or apologies rendered by the fellow who corrected the situation. Then again, maybe I ought to have the pressures rechecked by somebody else in a day or two. Could be the fix isn't. But it was enough of one that the sensor light went off after about a mile down the road.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Another Scooter
One of the few remaining joys in my Dad's life is getting out on his scooter on warm days.
Yes, I said warm days. Thus far, spring has not been cooperating. He did venture out once, with Paul accompanying him on foot, and turned around and headed home halfway through his usual route. That was the one nice day of spring so far. Two days ago he tried again, so frustrated at being penned up in the house that he was willing to ignore our inputs on the temperature outside. This time he changed his mind at the end of the driveway.
Our growing concern about his excursions, once it warms up, is that his cognition is highly variable. He can be perfectly lucid at one moment and completely loopy two minutes later. In fact that happened on his first ride, where he headed home early convinced that he had to go pick up somebody from the airport. Paul was with him, and nothing happened. He found his way back OK. But what about next time?
We've expressed these concerns to him, and while seeming to take them under advisement, he in no way indicated that he shared any of our concerns. It's not that we suggested he need to curtail his excursions, but that he needed some company on them, just in case. This would mean getting another scooter. Paul in the only one in the "family" of daytime caregivers who can keep up with him without a scooter. Rich has a bad knee, and both Steve and I have two. With a second scooter, it didn't matter who was taking care of him that day. He could still go out and he'd have company. Heck, he might even be persuaded to try other routes with someone along to guide him there and back again, and call for help if needed.
We started looking for scooters, even though he'd never officially endorsed our concerns or solution. Or so we thought, until one day his physical therapist casually mentioned that Randy (county nurse) had commented to her that Daddy had mentioned his concerns about venturing out alone to her.
I had one in mind. When Steve and I were in Florida a couple years back, we had a long conversation with a lady in line next to us who was on one. What kind was hers, how did she like it, what kind of distance did it have, how portable was it? She informed us hers was a "Go-Go" and she liked everything about it. I had looked it up in the internet after we came home, and found out that they sell for less than half of what Daddy originally paid (via Medicare) for his scooter many years ago. Cool!
Now, researching more carefully, I discovered that it's made by the same company that made his old one, Pride, and thought this said something good about lasting power. They offer a variety of options, in terms of weight capacity, weight of individual pieces, distance on a charge, price.
We also noticed a new Scooter Store in Forest Lake. I tried to stop by after work one day, but they keep bankers hours. I guess all their customers are not working, or so they think. Couldn't some of their potential customers be the working family members of someone needing a scooter?
I guess not. With those hours, I wasn't going to become a customer. However, Paul offered to stop by on his day off to see what they had, what prices were, and get information on the options so we could make a decision. They had the Go-Go, although in a sturdier model than we had thought about buying, and Paul was enthusiastic about how easy it would be to take apart and reassemble for travel in a car. However, prices were close to double what was being offered on line. He'd called the internet supplier before leaving home and found out that delivery would take about a week. With the weather forecast, we thought that would be plenty soon enough.
It should be here Friday.
Yes, I said warm days. Thus far, spring has not been cooperating. He did venture out once, with Paul accompanying him on foot, and turned around and headed home halfway through his usual route. That was the one nice day of spring so far. Two days ago he tried again, so frustrated at being penned up in the house that he was willing to ignore our inputs on the temperature outside. This time he changed his mind at the end of the driveway.
Our growing concern about his excursions, once it warms up, is that his cognition is highly variable. He can be perfectly lucid at one moment and completely loopy two minutes later. In fact that happened on his first ride, where he headed home early convinced that he had to go pick up somebody from the airport. Paul was with him, and nothing happened. He found his way back OK. But what about next time?
We've expressed these concerns to him, and while seeming to take them under advisement, he in no way indicated that he shared any of our concerns. It's not that we suggested he need to curtail his excursions, but that he needed some company on them, just in case. This would mean getting another scooter. Paul in the only one in the "family" of daytime caregivers who can keep up with him without a scooter. Rich has a bad knee, and both Steve and I have two. With a second scooter, it didn't matter who was taking care of him that day. He could still go out and he'd have company. Heck, he might even be persuaded to try other routes with someone along to guide him there and back again, and call for help if needed.
We started looking for scooters, even though he'd never officially endorsed our concerns or solution. Or so we thought, until one day his physical therapist casually mentioned that Randy (county nurse) had commented to her that Daddy had mentioned his concerns about venturing out alone to her.
I had one in mind. When Steve and I were in Florida a couple years back, we had a long conversation with a lady in line next to us who was on one. What kind was hers, how did she like it, what kind of distance did it have, how portable was it? She informed us hers was a "Go-Go" and she liked everything about it. I had looked it up in the internet after we came home, and found out that they sell for less than half of what Daddy originally paid (via Medicare) for his scooter many years ago. Cool!
Now, researching more carefully, I discovered that it's made by the same company that made his old one, Pride, and thought this said something good about lasting power. They offer a variety of options, in terms of weight capacity, weight of individual pieces, distance on a charge, price.
We also noticed a new Scooter Store in Forest Lake. I tried to stop by after work one day, but they keep bankers hours. I guess all their customers are not working, or so they think. Couldn't some of their potential customers be the working family members of someone needing a scooter?
I guess not. With those hours, I wasn't going to become a customer. However, Paul offered to stop by on his day off to see what they had, what prices were, and get information on the options so we could make a decision. They had the Go-Go, although in a sturdier model than we had thought about buying, and Paul was enthusiastic about how easy it would be to take apart and reassemble for travel in a car. However, prices were close to double what was being offered on line. He'd called the internet supplier before leaving home and found out that delivery would take about a week. With the weather forecast, we thought that would be plenty soon enough.
It should be here Friday.
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