I eavesdrop shamelessly on elevator conversations. If they wanted privacy, why chat there?
Yesterday, the discussion was on the cold weather we'd been having. (High yesterday 3 above, wind chill brutal.) One woman noted that our June brides were not dressed like the ones in the fashion magazines. Her companion responded, "You're talking about the mink coats and the leg warmers?"
Hmmm, now there's a thought for a Valentine's day wedding!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Momentary Panic
I do admit my little Nokia is not much of a cell phone. There's no camera, none of the fancy smart phone features. No qwerty keyboard. No apps. No internet. I even had texting disabled after I had to pay for my first spam text. There's wear showing on the face where rubbing occurs, and scratches on the view window. It's so old that when the battery wore out, I actually went on eBay to find a replacement - the only source I could find - rather than replacing the phone like last time. The "zero" key has to be pushed several times hitting just the right sweet spot in order to register the stroke, something a bit tricky when navigating through voicemail systems. Since zero is also the key that works as the spacebar when typing text (still used when adding to the phone directory) it can get really interesting. It falls out of my shirt pocket in the summer when that's my only layer of outerwear and I bend over to pick up something from the floor. I can't put it in a pants pocket if it's on, because the keys and detritus in that picket will dial out for me: there's no flip piece to protect the keys.
It is just a phone. It's practically an antique in today's world. But it does carry 1500 minutes a month for a very reasonable price. As a phone it functions very well. While it can be depended upon to drop calls on a particular 12-mile stretch of Hwy. 95, that's along the river valley and I figure all phones do that there.
It is also my connection to the world. Everybody's phone number is in there whom I might want to talk to again. My take-out Chinese place is there, my pharmacy, my post office, my dad's doctor, my... well, everybody. I gave up memorizing phone numbers years ago when I had known some people long enough that they'd changed their number for the fifth time. Somehow the brain memory is no longer there for that kind of thing. I don't even know Steve's phone number. The only one I really know these days is under the heading "home".
Some of those numbers just aren't anywhere else. So last week when I reached to my shirt pocket and found it empty, having made a call an hour earlier so I knew I hadn't just left the phone home, I panicked. I was driving, and spared a hand to check the floor on either side, looked at the floor in front at a stoplight, checked out the passenger seat where I lay the work Nextel.
Nada.
It must have been put back next to the pocket instead of in the pocket, and slipped out the bottom of the sweatshirt at some point when I got out of the car. I'd had several stops since I'd used it.
The implications start to sink in, contingency plans form rapid-fire in my brain. Do I take off work? Where do I go to get a new one? Will I relent and get a camera phone this time?
Suddenly the brain kicked into gear. There was one last chance. Next time I pulled over, I texted my dispatcher to please call my cell so I could see if it was still in the car. I could hear the ring and know where to hunt. Within a minute the tinny sound of Pachelbel's Canon sounded, to my great relief, from my lower right side. Not on the seat, not between the seats... IN THE PANTS POCKET!
My relief greatly outweighed my humiliation at such a boneheaded move, as I answered dispatch with, "Oh thank God!" I didn't bother to mention where I'd found it, just thanked him for his assist. And since I still wasn't fully recovered from whatever bug had laid me low, I chalked it up to that and forgave myself for putting me through the stress.
After all, it ended well.
It is just a phone. It's practically an antique in today's world. But it does carry 1500 minutes a month for a very reasonable price. As a phone it functions very well. While it can be depended upon to drop calls on a particular 12-mile stretch of Hwy. 95, that's along the river valley and I figure all phones do that there.
It is also my connection to the world. Everybody's phone number is in there whom I might want to talk to again. My take-out Chinese place is there, my pharmacy, my post office, my dad's doctor, my... well, everybody. I gave up memorizing phone numbers years ago when I had known some people long enough that they'd changed their number for the fifth time. Somehow the brain memory is no longer there for that kind of thing. I don't even know Steve's phone number. The only one I really know these days is under the heading "home".
Some of those numbers just aren't anywhere else. So last week when I reached to my shirt pocket and found it empty, having made a call an hour earlier so I knew I hadn't just left the phone home, I panicked. I was driving, and spared a hand to check the floor on either side, looked at the floor in front at a stoplight, checked out the passenger seat where I lay the work Nextel.
Nada.
It must have been put back next to the pocket instead of in the pocket, and slipped out the bottom of the sweatshirt at some point when I got out of the car. I'd had several stops since I'd used it.
The implications start to sink in, contingency plans form rapid-fire in my brain. Do I take off work? Where do I go to get a new one? Will I relent and get a camera phone this time?
Suddenly the brain kicked into gear. There was one last chance. Next time I pulled over, I texted my dispatcher to please call my cell so I could see if it was still in the car. I could hear the ring and know where to hunt. Within a minute the tinny sound of Pachelbel's Canon sounded, to my great relief, from my lower right side. Not on the seat, not between the seats... IN THE PANTS POCKET!
My relief greatly outweighed my humiliation at such a boneheaded move, as I answered dispatch with, "Oh thank God!" I didn't bother to mention where I'd found it, just thanked him for his assist. And since I still wasn't fully recovered from whatever bug had laid me low, I chalked it up to that and forgave myself for putting me through the stress.
After all, it ended well.
Correction
OK, so maybe not the chicken.
Whatever the bug was, Paul had it later the same weekend. Steve asked me on Monday how he could have caught it over the phone, since we hadn't seen each other inside of any reasonable incubation period. Neither of them had my chicken. And my dad's home health aids report several of their other patients have had it as well.
My daughter says her friends think there's some kind of Norwalk virus circulating.
Whatever it is, however it's spread, at least my dad and Richard missed it. I'll quit being amused by Richard's spraying Lysol over every bathroom surface for several days and just be grateful for his diligence.
I came down with it on a Thursday, with overt symptoms lasting over 24 hours, finally clearing up with judicious applications of Immodium AD. I felt like a limp dishrag with little appetite through the weekend, catching up on a lot of sleep. Monday I returned to work, not sure if I'd make a whole day, though I did last nearly till 5. I finally feel now back to some kind of normal energy level, even after having worked Saturday (auction) and driven out to Steve's and back on Sunday, a grand total of 310 weekend miles.
Oh, and Friday night I went back to KFC. Hotwings, Yummmmm!
Whatever the bug was, Paul had it later the same weekend. Steve asked me on Monday how he could have caught it over the phone, since we hadn't seen each other inside of any reasonable incubation period. Neither of them had my chicken. And my dad's home health aids report several of their other patients have had it as well.
My daughter says her friends think there's some kind of Norwalk virus circulating.
Whatever it is, however it's spread, at least my dad and Richard missed it. I'll quit being amused by Richard's spraying Lysol over every bathroom surface for several days and just be grateful for his diligence.
I came down with it on a Thursday, with overt symptoms lasting over 24 hours, finally clearing up with judicious applications of Immodium AD. I felt like a limp dishrag with little appetite through the weekend, catching up on a lot of sleep. Monday I returned to work, not sure if I'd make a whole day, though I did last nearly till 5. I finally feel now back to some kind of normal energy level, even after having worked Saturday (auction) and driven out to Steve's and back on Sunday, a grand total of 310 weekend miles.
Oh, and Friday night I went back to KFC. Hotwings, Yummmmm!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Another Helpful Sign
After finally having some time to sit and relax and think, I remembered seeing this last week in Edina. It was one of those huge commercial buildings with the double sets of double glass front doors, so handy as an airlock for temperature control in this state. The door with the wheelchair symbol had been locked in the open position and had another sign on it with smaller print that I could not read until I got closer:
"Door closed. Use other door."
"Door closed. Use other door."
Saturday, January 29, 2011
TMI! Really, Don't Read This!
I blame the chicken.
Well, myself a little too, due to the snow, but in fairness to me, it hadn't started when I made the decision. I bought a $5 special 7-piece bucket at KFC Wednesday night, all legs. Of course I couldn't eat it all, so I saved half of it for the next morning's breakfast. Being January, and the low anticipated to be well below freezing, I figured leaving it in the car overnight was just as good as putting it in the fridge, and save me a few extra movements in a busy morning. To speed cooling, I left the car door open an extra couple minutes as I left to chase out the warm air. If it was frozen in the morning, well then lunch would become breakfast instead while the chicken spent the morning thawing.
As they say, best laid plans.... About three inches of fluffy white insulation fell shortly after I parked the car. By morning the chicken was cold but not frozen. It was delicious.
Then, anyway. Not so much later, but we're getting ahead of the story. But KFC has perfected the art of saving pennies by cooking their chicken to the very minimum amount needed to bring the temperatures up to what's necessary, at least where they test it. I've found pink along the bones on occasion. That's not really a problem if it's consumed immediately. It could be if my method of refrigeration failed.
Mid-morning I stopped at a gas station to, among other things, indulge my daily chocolate craving. I found a lovely display of Andes cookies and bought a box. I love the Andes mints and decided to give these a chance. And, oh, my, yummmm! About an hour later I was developing a headache, and thought the chocolate might be the most likely suspect. I tucked the box away. Maybe the boys would like to try them.
About two in the afternoon I decided to have lunch. I wasn't really hungry, but I was feeling a little off, still headachey, and thought some protein might help. I'd packed some off-the-shelf beef spaghetti, never wonderful but usually acceptable, and a nice slender serving of calories, premeasured and work-free.
It had been a dreadfully slow day. About three o'clock I was parked at a meter outside a building in Minneapolis that - luckily - had nice public restrooms. I caught an hour nap while waiting for work, my second such of the day, and woke up feeling a little worse than I had. Crampy. I hit the restroom again, returned to the car, and a band started tightening across my stomach. I started thinking about everything I'd eaten that day, and started getting nauseous, especially when I thought about that chicken. I was going to be sick!
I hastily logged out, and started driving north. By Roseville I knew I needed to pull off and find a parking lot. I didn't want to be sick in the car. I live in that thing! Having parked, I open the door and leaned out.
Nothing.
Cold as it was, I closed the door again, and took a drink of water. Yep, that worked.
First, there was the never-wonderful spaghetti. Lots of it. Then bile. Plenty of that too. Several people were leaving that particular business at that time, and drove past me, tucked way by my lonesome in the corner as I was. It was the corner near the exit, of course. Nobody stopped to ask if I needed help. I spared a moment to wonder if they thought I was sick or drunk or what? Lovely image of the courier in the marked vehicle, heaving all over the parking lot. I bet nobody parks there for a while!
I was also very relieved that nobody stopped. Every heave to empty the stomach also worked very efficiently on the promotion of what has been colorfully described as "Hershey squirts". No stopping it. Not in the slightest, not with the most effort I could provide.
When that happens to you in the car, there is nothing at all to be done except to drive home. You can't run to a gas station restroom. First there's the telltale mess, leaving a very big blob for any and all to see. And if they hadn't noticed that, being intent on their own business as most folks are at the end of the work day, there would have been that awful, penetrating smell! No, it didn't smell like poo. It had the reek of week-old dead fish guts! And trust me, I know what those smell like!
When I was finally able to, I phoned Rich at home and asked him to put my pajamas in the bathroom for me. I was sick, coming home in an unholy mess, and would be needing the space to myself - trust me! - in about 45 minutes. Longer if I had to pull over again. He assured me that Daddy had used the bathroom just a bit ago, and it would be clear for me. That was good, for when my dad needs to go, he really really needs to go. Sometimes five minutes ago.
I grabbed a handful of the napkins that are usually in plentiful supply in my car, and stuffed them between my back and the car seat back. I sit on a small pillow because the upholstery in this car has nubs in it that are abrasive to my skin when I'm wearing shorts and driving all day. The pillow sits there all year round, having the added advantage of lifting me an inch or so and giving me greater visibility. It also protects the seat upholstery from spills. And stuff. By the time I got home and left the car, I threw the well-soaked napkins into the litter bag, and threw it and the pillow into the garbage can. They had plenty of "stuff" in them.
I'm thinking Febreze when I'm ready to go stick my head back in the car again. And finding another pillow.
I made it into the bathroom, emptied out my pockets, and mostly stripped down before getting sick again. And again. And again. Fortunately we keep extra buckets in the bathroom next to the toilet, mostly for emptying Daddy's catheter bag into. Thursday night one got extra use. During a break in the action, I managed to mostly rinse out my undies. Lucky for me I picked the brown pair that morning. There won't be any stains. I had planned on rinsing out everything, but ran completely out of steam after showering, dressing in pajamas, cleaning off the toilet seat, wiping surfaces down with Clorox wipes, and heaving, and heaving, and heaving...
God! That recycled spaghetti tasted awful! I won't be having any of that in the near future, that's for darn sure!
The semi-dry heaves are the worst. You think the stomach has to be empty, but it apparently knows better than what logic dictates. I found that a good glass of water facilitates emptying things out and bring up enough that the stomach relaxes between heaves and you can actually breathe. Aspiration was a worry a few times. That, and fainting.
One time back in Georgia when the kids were little, I was so sick that I took my pillow and camped out on the bathroom floor. I hadn't the strength to keep going back and forth from bed to toilet, and besides, that would have wakened Paul Sr. No, he slept quite well through the whole thing, thank you very much. There is one point where I think I must have passed out, because I do not remember the transition from toilet to floor. Thursday night I felt like this might happen again.
One of the things we've done for my dad in our bathroom is put in a support bar next to the toilet. I hooked my elbow through that during the worst of it and hung my head as low as I could, still keeping the bucket in front of me. One of the last things I wanted was to have to have the boys come and and get me up off the floor in that condition. I still had a single shred of dignity left.
Again, water helped. One thought was that I was in danger of dehydration, but the real concern was avoiding dry heaves. If I was starting to cramp up again, and if I was capable, I'd get up off the toilet long enough for another sip or two.
(Hey, are you still reading? Well, don't say you weren't warned.)
Eventually I was able to leave the bathroom. I intended to go to bed, but after stopping to tell Paul that he had baby-monitor duty that night and to go fetch it from my room, made it only as far as the futon in the living room. I asked Richard for a real pillow to put over the cushion pillow, and to bring the bucket out in case, and to cover me up. I was starting to freeze. It was no wonder, as I'd been sweating like crazy the last ten minutes or so. My hair was soaked, and not from the shower, which I'd hand-held where it'd do some good.
He brought the queen comforter, satin-covered, doubled over. That wasn't enough. He added the heavy hand-knit tan afgan. Still not enough. Finally he went and got the double-layer polar fleece throw I keep in my room. I still shook hard from the chills for about twenty minutes or so before drifting off, listening to the animated Hell Boy he'd recorded on the DVR. My left pajama leg, normally knee length, had crept up to about mid-thigh and was leaving me cold. I was too ennervated to reach an arm down to do anything about it. I just shivered and shook.
Bless him, he gathered up my dirty laundry and ran it through the cycles, bringing me a full basket of clean clothes Friday morning. No complaints that it wasn't in the condition I'd originally promised him it would be. When his program ended, he went out for a smoke. That woke me enough to throw up again. I'd stolen a diaper from my dad, ripping up the sides and loosely stuffing it into the pajamas, so I didn't worry about making it to the toilet. It seems that at least that part of me was emptied out for the moment, anyway. I rolled over and half the blankets slid off the satin comforter. Now I remember why it's been tucked away in the linen closet for years.
When next I woke, I again tried water and was finally able to keep it down. This seemed like distinct progress, so I got up and took the bucket with me to my own bed. It's so much more comfortable than the futon. Rich brought out a bottle of water for me to sip from during the night.
By midnight, I actually needed to pee! By then there was competition for the bathroom, since Daddy had picked that time to fill up his bag and needed some relief. Both boys were in helping him, trying to convince him that he didn't need to get up, that they just needed to empty his bag and he could go back to sleep. I won, of course. Richard was standing waiting outside with the bucket waiting his turn when I emerged.
Friday I really was intending to return to work. After all, I hadn't thrown up since about 10:30 the night before. Yahoo!
At the usual time, I woke up Daddy, started getting him dressed, and found I had absolutely no energy. Not only that, a little movement made me break out in a sweat. I called work, made sure Richard knew he was on full day duty and what hadn't yet been done, and put in my own order, after Daddy's breakfast, for some chicken noodle soup. Half a can of the Campbell's Chunky I'd bought a few days earlier should be enough to start, along with a half dozen saltines, and a repeat in a couple hours. I went back to bed.
Richard woke me with something that in no way should be dignified with the label of chicken noodle soup. He couldn't find the can I knew I'd bought, but located a generic label that some idiot brought into the house. It could even have been me, but we all should know better. This was colorless broth with thickening, a few bits - really tiny - of noodles to be found in it, and no chicken anywhere! HEY, DOESN'T THERE AT LEAST HAVE TO BE ONE PIECE IN IT TO QUALIFY?
I had no energy to argue, slurped it down, munched the crackers, and went back to sleep. After informing Rich that I'd just bought the real soup, and what it looked like, I was optimistic that the next meal would be better.
Silly me. Rich had followed my original instructions and first served me only half of the first can. The next bowl was the second half. We don't waste food. Apparently, not even under the most trying circumstances. Note: "Sure Fine" brand isn't.
Immodium, I had decided, was not a good idea when one is trying to recover from food poisoning. The goal is to void everything, not retain it. So I hadn't even bothered with it on Thursday. Friday I decided that it was worth trying after all. While the stomach was OK, well, ...you get the idea.
Mid afternoon I finally emerged from my bedroom for more than a bathroom stop. This time I insisted on that can of real chicken noodle soup. It took an hour, but I finally got it all down. By supper time I was ready for crackers, and before bed some peanut butter. I even took the baby monitor back in my room last night. After all, I'd mostly slept the clock around, so who else would be better able to tolerate interrupted sleep? And hey, he only needed attention three times, the last of which he'd been dressing himself at 4AM to go out to his chair in the living room.
Without help.
In the dark.
Without his O2, which he'd removed to blow his nose.
Yeah, I don't think so.
By the time it was really time to get him up, I decided that it's a good thing today is Saturday. And not an auction day. A little exercise still makes me all sweaty.
I need to consider breakfast soon. It won't be KFC, or chocolate cookies, or spaghetti. Not for a long time. A really really really long time!
Well, myself a little too, due to the snow, but in fairness to me, it hadn't started when I made the decision. I bought a $5 special 7-piece bucket at KFC Wednesday night, all legs. Of course I couldn't eat it all, so I saved half of it for the next morning's breakfast. Being January, and the low anticipated to be well below freezing, I figured leaving it in the car overnight was just as good as putting it in the fridge, and save me a few extra movements in a busy morning. To speed cooling, I left the car door open an extra couple minutes as I left to chase out the warm air. If it was frozen in the morning, well then lunch would become breakfast instead while the chicken spent the morning thawing.
As they say, best laid plans.... About three inches of fluffy white insulation fell shortly after I parked the car. By morning the chicken was cold but not frozen. It was delicious.
Then, anyway. Not so much later, but we're getting ahead of the story. But KFC has perfected the art of saving pennies by cooking their chicken to the very minimum amount needed to bring the temperatures up to what's necessary, at least where they test it. I've found pink along the bones on occasion. That's not really a problem if it's consumed immediately. It could be if my method of refrigeration failed.
Mid-morning I stopped at a gas station to, among other things, indulge my daily chocolate craving. I found a lovely display of Andes cookies and bought a box. I love the Andes mints and decided to give these a chance. And, oh, my, yummmm! About an hour later I was developing a headache, and thought the chocolate might be the most likely suspect. I tucked the box away. Maybe the boys would like to try them.
About two in the afternoon I decided to have lunch. I wasn't really hungry, but I was feeling a little off, still headachey, and thought some protein might help. I'd packed some off-the-shelf beef spaghetti, never wonderful but usually acceptable, and a nice slender serving of calories, premeasured and work-free.
It had been a dreadfully slow day. About three o'clock I was parked at a meter outside a building in Minneapolis that - luckily - had nice public restrooms. I caught an hour nap while waiting for work, my second such of the day, and woke up feeling a little worse than I had. Crampy. I hit the restroom again, returned to the car, and a band started tightening across my stomach. I started thinking about everything I'd eaten that day, and started getting nauseous, especially when I thought about that chicken. I was going to be sick!
I hastily logged out, and started driving north. By Roseville I knew I needed to pull off and find a parking lot. I didn't want to be sick in the car. I live in that thing! Having parked, I open the door and leaned out.
Nothing.
Cold as it was, I closed the door again, and took a drink of water. Yep, that worked.
First, there was the never-wonderful spaghetti. Lots of it. Then bile. Plenty of that too. Several people were leaving that particular business at that time, and drove past me, tucked way by my lonesome in the corner as I was. It was the corner near the exit, of course. Nobody stopped to ask if I needed help. I spared a moment to wonder if they thought I was sick or drunk or what? Lovely image of the courier in the marked vehicle, heaving all over the parking lot. I bet nobody parks there for a while!
I was also very relieved that nobody stopped. Every heave to empty the stomach also worked very efficiently on the promotion of what has been colorfully described as "Hershey squirts". No stopping it. Not in the slightest, not with the most effort I could provide.
When that happens to you in the car, there is nothing at all to be done except to drive home. You can't run to a gas station restroom. First there's the telltale mess, leaving a very big blob for any and all to see. And if they hadn't noticed that, being intent on their own business as most folks are at the end of the work day, there would have been that awful, penetrating smell! No, it didn't smell like poo. It had the reek of week-old dead fish guts! And trust me, I know what those smell like!
When I was finally able to, I phoned Rich at home and asked him to put my pajamas in the bathroom for me. I was sick, coming home in an unholy mess, and would be needing the space to myself - trust me! - in about 45 minutes. Longer if I had to pull over again. He assured me that Daddy had used the bathroom just a bit ago, and it would be clear for me. That was good, for when my dad needs to go, he really really needs to go. Sometimes five minutes ago.
I grabbed a handful of the napkins that are usually in plentiful supply in my car, and stuffed them between my back and the car seat back. I sit on a small pillow because the upholstery in this car has nubs in it that are abrasive to my skin when I'm wearing shorts and driving all day. The pillow sits there all year round, having the added advantage of lifting me an inch or so and giving me greater visibility. It also protects the seat upholstery from spills. And stuff. By the time I got home and left the car, I threw the well-soaked napkins into the litter bag, and threw it and the pillow into the garbage can. They had plenty of "stuff" in them.
I'm thinking Febreze when I'm ready to go stick my head back in the car again. And finding another pillow.
I made it into the bathroom, emptied out my pockets, and mostly stripped down before getting sick again. And again. And again. Fortunately we keep extra buckets in the bathroom next to the toilet, mostly for emptying Daddy's catheter bag into. Thursday night one got extra use. During a break in the action, I managed to mostly rinse out my undies. Lucky for me I picked the brown pair that morning. There won't be any stains. I had planned on rinsing out everything, but ran completely out of steam after showering, dressing in pajamas, cleaning off the toilet seat, wiping surfaces down with Clorox wipes, and heaving, and heaving, and heaving...
God! That recycled spaghetti tasted awful! I won't be having any of that in the near future, that's for darn sure!
The semi-dry heaves are the worst. You think the stomach has to be empty, but it apparently knows better than what logic dictates. I found that a good glass of water facilitates emptying things out and bring up enough that the stomach relaxes between heaves and you can actually breathe. Aspiration was a worry a few times. That, and fainting.
One time back in Georgia when the kids were little, I was so sick that I took my pillow and camped out on the bathroom floor. I hadn't the strength to keep going back and forth from bed to toilet, and besides, that would have wakened Paul Sr. No, he slept quite well through the whole thing, thank you very much. There is one point where I think I must have passed out, because I do not remember the transition from toilet to floor. Thursday night I felt like this might happen again.
One of the things we've done for my dad in our bathroom is put in a support bar next to the toilet. I hooked my elbow through that during the worst of it and hung my head as low as I could, still keeping the bucket in front of me. One of the last things I wanted was to have to have the boys come and and get me up off the floor in that condition. I still had a single shred of dignity left.
Again, water helped. One thought was that I was in danger of dehydration, but the real concern was avoiding dry heaves. If I was starting to cramp up again, and if I was capable, I'd get up off the toilet long enough for another sip or two.
(Hey, are you still reading? Well, don't say you weren't warned.)
Eventually I was able to leave the bathroom. I intended to go to bed, but after stopping to tell Paul that he had baby-monitor duty that night and to go fetch it from my room, made it only as far as the futon in the living room. I asked Richard for a real pillow to put over the cushion pillow, and to bring the bucket out in case, and to cover me up. I was starting to freeze. It was no wonder, as I'd been sweating like crazy the last ten minutes or so. My hair was soaked, and not from the shower, which I'd hand-held where it'd do some good.
He brought the queen comforter, satin-covered, doubled over. That wasn't enough. He added the heavy hand-knit tan afgan. Still not enough. Finally he went and got the double-layer polar fleece throw I keep in my room. I still shook hard from the chills for about twenty minutes or so before drifting off, listening to the animated Hell Boy he'd recorded on the DVR. My left pajama leg, normally knee length, had crept up to about mid-thigh and was leaving me cold. I was too ennervated to reach an arm down to do anything about it. I just shivered and shook.
Bless him, he gathered up my dirty laundry and ran it through the cycles, bringing me a full basket of clean clothes Friday morning. No complaints that it wasn't in the condition I'd originally promised him it would be. When his program ended, he went out for a smoke. That woke me enough to throw up again. I'd stolen a diaper from my dad, ripping up the sides and loosely stuffing it into the pajamas, so I didn't worry about making it to the toilet. It seems that at least that part of me was emptied out for the moment, anyway. I rolled over and half the blankets slid off the satin comforter. Now I remember why it's been tucked away in the linen closet for years.
When next I woke, I again tried water and was finally able to keep it down. This seemed like distinct progress, so I got up and took the bucket with me to my own bed. It's so much more comfortable than the futon. Rich brought out a bottle of water for me to sip from during the night.
By midnight, I actually needed to pee! By then there was competition for the bathroom, since Daddy had picked that time to fill up his bag and needed some relief. Both boys were in helping him, trying to convince him that he didn't need to get up, that they just needed to empty his bag and he could go back to sleep. I won, of course. Richard was standing waiting outside with the bucket waiting his turn when I emerged.
Friday I really was intending to return to work. After all, I hadn't thrown up since about 10:30 the night before. Yahoo!
At the usual time, I woke up Daddy, started getting him dressed, and found I had absolutely no energy. Not only that, a little movement made me break out in a sweat. I called work, made sure Richard knew he was on full day duty and what hadn't yet been done, and put in my own order, after Daddy's breakfast, for some chicken noodle soup. Half a can of the Campbell's Chunky I'd bought a few days earlier should be enough to start, along with a half dozen saltines, and a repeat in a couple hours. I went back to bed.
Richard woke me with something that in no way should be dignified with the label of chicken noodle soup. He couldn't find the can I knew I'd bought, but located a generic label that some idiot brought into the house. It could even have been me, but we all should know better. This was colorless broth with thickening, a few bits - really tiny - of noodles to be found in it, and no chicken anywhere! HEY, DOESN'T THERE AT LEAST HAVE TO BE ONE PIECE IN IT TO QUALIFY?
I had no energy to argue, slurped it down, munched the crackers, and went back to sleep. After informing Rich that I'd just bought the real soup, and what it looked like, I was optimistic that the next meal would be better.
Silly me. Rich had followed my original instructions and first served me only half of the first can. The next bowl was the second half. We don't waste food. Apparently, not even under the most trying circumstances. Note: "Sure Fine" brand isn't.
Immodium, I had decided, was not a good idea when one is trying to recover from food poisoning. The goal is to void everything, not retain it. So I hadn't even bothered with it on Thursday. Friday I decided that it was worth trying after all. While the stomach was OK, well, ...you get the idea.
Mid afternoon I finally emerged from my bedroom for more than a bathroom stop. This time I insisted on that can of real chicken noodle soup. It took an hour, but I finally got it all down. By supper time I was ready for crackers, and before bed some peanut butter. I even took the baby monitor back in my room last night. After all, I'd mostly slept the clock around, so who else would be better able to tolerate interrupted sleep? And hey, he only needed attention three times, the last of which he'd been dressing himself at 4AM to go out to his chair in the living room.
Without help.
In the dark.
Without his O2, which he'd removed to blow his nose.
Yeah, I don't think so.
By the time it was really time to get him up, I decided that it's a good thing today is Saturday. And not an auction day. A little exercise still makes me all sweaty.
I need to consider breakfast soon. It won't be KFC, or chocolate cookies, or spaghetti. Not for a long time. A really really really long time!
Conversations II
"What time is it?"
"Nearly 2:00 in the morning."
"Oh crap!"
"What time is it?"
"Still just two in the morning."
"Oh crap! ... How old am I?"
"You are 96, and pushing 97 really hard."
"OK, so how old am I in real years?"
What, at two in the morning I'm going to convert to dog years? "You're still 96, Daddy."
"Oh, crap!"
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Conversations With Dad
Ring.
"Hello." ....
"Oh, Hi, Steve, how are you?" ....
"Oh, I had a good morning. Went out hunting and got half a deer." ....
"Yeah, then I went out again this afternoon and got a faun. It was three days old." ....
Eavesdropping on my dad's conversations with my brother during one of his daily phone calls can be quite entertaining. On this particular day, he'd just spent three hours in his chair with his nose up to the TV, watching the Packers trounce the Bears. When asked a question or otherwise engaged in conversation, he was quite lucid. But as soon as the game ended, he returned to his lift chair, stretched out, closed his eyes....
It's as if a shut-off switch had been thrown in the minute or so it took before the phone rang. Sense. Then nonsense. Since my dad takes lots of naps through the day, and Steve often gets his call in just as my dad is waking, or in fact wakes him with the call, I have to wonder just how much weird crap he has to listen through before anything starts making sense again. I have personally sat right next to my dad when he tells Steve that he's all alone in the house. Often he goes on about hunting, an activity he hasn't indulged in for years, much less as he described it the other morning.
But no matter how weird it gets, Steve still calls again the next day. And no matter how weird he sounds, when I ask him about the call later, my dad not only remembers that Steve called, he answers questions about how things are up with Steve's family that appear to make perfect sense, knowing what the weather's like, when they are on vacation or about to be, etc.
On the other hand, he seems to be getting more lucid during my conversations with him in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning. I no longer hear questions about who was partying in his room overnight. He seems to know I'm Heather and not some mysterious nurse. Most times he knows this isn't the middle of WWII, at least lately.
If only that all meant he didn't need quite so much attention during the night.
"Heather!"
Two minutes later as I stumble into the room: "Hi Daddy, what do you need?"
"Oh hi. What time is it?"
"It's 1:30 in the morning. What do you need?"
"Nothing."
"OK, Daddy, have a sip of water and go back to sleep. I'll see you at 6:30 when it's time to wake you up."
"Promise?
"I always do, don't I?"
"Yes."
"OK, good night then."
....
"Heather!"
"Heather!"
"Hi Daddy, what do you need?"
"What time it is?"
"It's 2:00 Daddy, about half an hour since you last called me."
"Oh damn!"
"What do you need, Daddy?"
And on it goes. By the fourth time he calls in the same night, I'm much more likely to greet him with, "Now what?" Especially on those night when I have to drive the next day. Last Thursday was one of those. (I wound up staying home Friday, getting some sleep.) By the fourth call, I was scolding him.
"I'm a bitch." Then he turned and look at me and said, "You're a bitch."
I was in no mood to dispute him at that point. I just tried to remind him that I needed to get some sleep and I couldn't when he kept calling me. By Sunday night I unplugged the baby monitor in my room after four wake-up calls. It wasn't just those, but his need to sing and talk all night as well. By 4AM I rebelled. I was not about to lose another day of work.
Last night before he went to bed, Richard and I worked on refreshing his memory that he has a talking watch on his arm, and if he pushed the right button it will tell him what time it is. I know he uses it sometimes. I can hear it. But he'd rather wake me and ask.
We're working on it.
"Hello." ....
"Oh, Hi, Steve, how are you?" ....
"Oh, I had a good morning. Went out hunting and got half a deer." ....
"Yeah, then I went out again this afternoon and got a faun. It was three days old." ....
Eavesdropping on my dad's conversations with my brother during one of his daily phone calls can be quite entertaining. On this particular day, he'd just spent three hours in his chair with his nose up to the TV, watching the Packers trounce the Bears. When asked a question or otherwise engaged in conversation, he was quite lucid. But as soon as the game ended, he returned to his lift chair, stretched out, closed his eyes....
It's as if a shut-off switch had been thrown in the minute or so it took before the phone rang. Sense. Then nonsense. Since my dad takes lots of naps through the day, and Steve often gets his call in just as my dad is waking, or in fact wakes him with the call, I have to wonder just how much weird crap he has to listen through before anything starts making sense again. I have personally sat right next to my dad when he tells Steve that he's all alone in the house. Often he goes on about hunting, an activity he hasn't indulged in for years, much less as he described it the other morning.
But no matter how weird it gets, Steve still calls again the next day. And no matter how weird he sounds, when I ask him about the call later, my dad not only remembers that Steve called, he answers questions about how things are up with Steve's family that appear to make perfect sense, knowing what the weather's like, when they are on vacation or about to be, etc.
On the other hand, he seems to be getting more lucid during my conversations with him in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning. I no longer hear questions about who was partying in his room overnight. He seems to know I'm Heather and not some mysterious nurse. Most times he knows this isn't the middle of WWII, at least lately.
If only that all meant he didn't need quite so much attention during the night.
"Heather!"
Two minutes later as I stumble into the room: "Hi Daddy, what do you need?"
"Oh hi. What time is it?"
"It's 1:30 in the morning. What do you need?"
"Nothing."
"OK, Daddy, have a sip of water and go back to sleep. I'll see you at 6:30 when it's time to wake you up."
"Promise?
"I always do, don't I?"
"Yes."
"OK, good night then."
....
"Heather!"
"Heather!"
"Hi Daddy, what do you need?"
"What time it is?"
"It's 2:00 Daddy, about half an hour since you last called me."
"Oh damn!"
"What do you need, Daddy?"
And on it goes. By the fourth time he calls in the same night, I'm much more likely to greet him with, "Now what?" Especially on those night when I have to drive the next day. Last Thursday was one of those. (I wound up staying home Friday, getting some sleep.) By the fourth call, I was scolding him.
"I'm a bitch." Then he turned and look at me and said, "You're a bitch."
I was in no mood to dispute him at that point. I just tried to remind him that I needed to get some sleep and I couldn't when he kept calling me. By Sunday night I unplugged the baby monitor in my room after four wake-up calls. It wasn't just those, but his need to sing and talk all night as well. By 4AM I rebelled. I was not about to lose another day of work.
Last night before he went to bed, Richard and I worked on refreshing his memory that he has a talking watch on his arm, and if he pushed the right button it will tell him what time it is. I know he uses it sometimes. I can hear it. But he'd rather wake me and ask.
We're working on it.
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