Progress?

The wheelchair arrived on Friday. It was supposed to be a good thing, with walking from bed to living room becoming so difficult for my dad. I'm not so sure.

It's not just the practical details like having to lift it and turn it to go through the doorway, or its not fitting at all through the bathroom opening. Or the fact it's so new that it's stiff and hard to move - a perfect match for my dad if you think about it!

The real issue seems to be my dad's perfect willingness to become totally dependent. If you do one thing for him, he's suddenly unable, unwilling, or can't remember how to do it for himself. In some cases that's a safety issue. He doesn't cook any more, for example. So fewer chances to get burned or drop breakables when we do it. But the wheelchair gives him reason to take it a step too far.

So to speak.

Saturday morning I woke up Richard as usual to help get Daddy from sitting on the edge of the bed to his living room chair. I no longer feel competent to prevent a fall if he starts to tilt. I had everything ready I could, from transferring O2 tubing, to emptying his urine bag, to getting his pants over his feet and mostly up his legs. He has to stand up for the pants to come up the rest of the way.

He refused.

After all, he had a wheelchair now. Rich had to both lift him and swing him into the chair. Once of that was way more than too many times. I was called in to swing the chair around to directly behind Daddy so he could sit -plop! - back into it. There was no way to get his pants up all the way.

After Rich maneuvered him to a spot in front of his lift chair, we both tried to explain to him that he needed to help us by standing for a few seconds. We could help pull him up and help him balance, but he actually had to stand.

"Bullshit!"

After ten minutes of coaxing, explaining, and listening to a petulant 2-year-old, I sent Richard back to bed, and told Daddy one last time - I thought - that we couldn't do all of the work for him, and until he was willing to help, he was going to have to sit in his chair. Meanwhile I had things to do.

He was close enough to his nebulizer that I set that up for him to take, and set coffee on the table for him. Then I worked on my taxes for about an hour, hunting down paperwork and doing the necessary math on a year's worth of mileage figures. With a tranny replacement and a Bambi accident, there were several replacement vehicles to sort out and tally separately. And I need three figures for each: total mileage, personal mileage, and commuting mileage. The latter is further complicated by my having an early morning long-distance timecall for a couple months that stretched out the commute on those days.

I periodically asked him if he were willing to stand now if we helped him, so he could get into his comfy chair. His answer was always, "No," and between times he was complaining how uncomfortable his wheelchair was, how cold he was getting, how awful his coffee was today. We were so mean to him!

OK, sure, whatever.

I agreed that his chair must be uncomfortable, and his other chair would be much better. I agreed that it was cold, but unless he stood we couldn't pull up his superwarm fleecy sweatpants. I could add a throw, however. And sorry, but the coffee was the same coffee he'd been drinking here for ages, just now it had the thickening agent in it that the doctor said he needed so he wouldn't choke on it. We'd been having this particular discussion for several days now. But I have years of daycare experience behind me, and have dealt with dozens of occasionally stubborn kids. You can't force them to do what they refuse to do. You can, however, influence their choice by allowing or imposing consequences. If you won't stand, you stay where you are. As soon as you are ready, we're happy to assist. Cold? Here's a blanket. Uncomfortable? There's a better chair, when.... In the process you have to remain as matter-of-fact and cheerful as possible - if possible - and let the insults and abuse roll off your back.

It took two hours, when he finally decided he was willing to assist. I called Paul out of his room to help. He is bigger and stronger, and I wanted him if we had a problem. At first Daddy's version of helping was lifting up his knees and letting his feet cross under him - and off the floor. Paul finally coaxed him by giving elaborately detailed directions (Put that foot over here, put this hand here and push, etc. ) into standing. I pulled up his pants, removed the wheelchair, and Paul coaxed him into turning and sitting.

At last!

Now I could serve breakfast and continue about my day.

A little before noon his physical therapist popped in unannounced. Was this inconvenient? Oh heck no! Perfect timing, in fact. I explained what the morning had been like, and she made that her day's project. Partly it was convincing Daddy that safety issues were involved. He wouldn't hear it from us but listened to her. (Typical kid.) Then she showed Richard how to manage him, made Daddy practice standing and lifting up on to his toes (!), walking down to the bathroom and back, getting in and out of his chair. She took his vitals and was pleased to discover, as Randy had earlier, that his lungs were clear and his O2 levels were good.

There was no reason he couldn't do some exercising.

She spent some time looking over the wheelchair, and decided to order what is called a transfer chair for him instead. What he has is too big, and has "table arms", meaning they fit nicely under the table but do not extend far enough forward for him to get a grip that shifts his center of gravity enough forward to enable him to stand. He doesn't need the footrests which increase its dimensions, regardless of how they are turned, making doorways difficult. He also doesn't need the second outer wheel because he's never going to move himself using his arms.

Eventually her work for the day was completed. Daddy became more agreeable (he slept for a couple hours), the wheelchair has gotten parked in his room, and the walker brought back out. He's since made no complaint about walking from his chair to his bed, or the reverse.

The petulant child has not disappeared, however. Last night he woke at 1:30, insisted that the lights go on because it was really day - somewhere. It had something to do with round being round but it seems I was being obtuse - and when I offered him his usual pills to help him go back to sleep, he refused. After a few minutes of tending, I left and returned with the pills, popped him in his mouth, and offered him water. He drank the water, but took time to spit both of the pills out onto the carpet!