Had My Fill of Phil

Yes, old Phil in Punxsutawney

            Will rise early on Groundhog Day,

            Though why we care is beyond me.

            Yes, old Phil in Punxsutawney

            Thinks he’s smart, but he’s just scrawny,

            And ain’t no weatherman, anyway.

            Yes, old Phil in Punxsutawney

            Will rise early on Groundhog Day.

            I mean, Phil is just a rodent

            Without predictive ability.

            A silly guess, it’s not cogent.

            I mean, Phil is just a rodent,

            Only his smell is really potent,

            He has no creditability.

            I mean, Phil is just a rodent

            Without predictive ability.

            Tom Harris

                February 1, 2016

Notes from the Home - January 5, 2016

Al has not had dinner in the dining room for three weeks, maybe a month. The problem is his legs. He is retaining liquids; his feet are beginning to look like the Goodyear Blimp and his legs resemble huge over-stuffed sausages. The last time he came down to dinner, he struggled, often unsuccessfully, to stay awake. During those few moments when he was awake and aware, he told us his knees were killing him.

I followed him to his apartment that night. Fortunately, he made it without incident; I wouldn’t have been much help had he fallen. “I think I’m going to have a movement,” he said, as he went in the bathroom. Jim came by a few minutes later to drop off two elastic sleeves. He said there was copper in the material, and Al should pull them up over his knees, and the sleeves would ease the pain. When Al came out of the bathroom, he went directly to bed. I put the sleeves on the table, and once Al got covered up and comfortable, I went to my apartment and watched Jeopardy.

The next morning, as I wheeled my way into Al’s apartment, he waved the sleeves at me and asked, “What the hell are these goddamn things?” I told him what Jim had told me. “Do they work?” “Well, Jim said they do?” “What do you want me to do?” I told him to stick his foot through the sleeve and pull it up so it covered the knee. For the next ten minutes, Al repeatedly asked those questions, and I kept giving him the same answers. Eventually, he slipped his bare right foot through one of the sleeves. He managed to get it halfway up his swollen lower leg before it would go no further. He looked at me as if he was about to say, “This is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Ollie.” Instead he said, “What the fuck do I do now? Shit.” I suggested he take it off. He did.

A few minutes passed before I got Al’s oxygen tube and told him he ought to put it on. He stared at it for a while, located the part that fits in his nostrils, stared at that a few more minutes and said, “Am I supposed to stick this up my nose? Or do I stick it up my ass? Tom, I ought to shove this fucking thing up your ass.” He stared at the “fucking thing” for a minute or two, and then slipped it on. Not having to fight quite so hard to breath didn’t greatly improve his mood, but it did help.

Al has had some better days, too. Some days he almost seems like his old self. Other days, though, he says he doesn’t know where he is, or what’s going on, or why he’s still here. This morning, he came very close to crying. “Tom, I can’t even think anymore. What’s happening to me?” he asked several times.

There are times I when wonder if I’m cut out to be Al’s confidant. Many of his struggles are also my struggles. “I can’t hardly move my legs anymore,” he’ll say. “Neither can I,” I say to myself.

“My balance is so damn bad, every time I stand up I’m sure I’m going to fall flat on my fucking face,” he says. And I think, “I’ve felt that way for almost ten years.”

“I’m so damn tired. All I want to do is crawl back in bed and sleep,” he’ll say. “I’m twenty-four years younger than you, and there are way, way too many days when all I want to do is crawl back in bed,” I mumble. “What did you say?” Al asks. “Nothing. Just clearing my throat.”

“All I do is rot away in this fucking chair the whole damn day,” he says. “Me, too.” “What do we do now?” Al asks. “I don’t know.”

Many times I have left Al’s apartment feeling down about my situation. It is hard to believe I’ve boosted Al’s mood, when mine will require some heavy lifting to get it back where it should be. Then I wonder if I’m being whiney, or am I just being honest.

Hell if I know.

Notes from the Home - January 1, 2016

I slept through Christmas. No, really, I slept through Christmas. Honest. Well, most of it anyway. On Christmas Eve I went to bed somewhere between nine and ten. At four-thirty, my bladder roused me. After tending to the anxious urinary tract, I thought, “Might as well get dressed and get going.” So, I put on my socks. Then I thought, “Maybe a little more sleep will do me good.” With that, I crawled back under covers, thinking I’d up by six-thirty, seven at the latest.

Yeah, right. It was nine-thirty when I reluctantly stirred, and then only because that spoiled brat of a bladder was resorting to its usual attention-getting behaviors. I really wasn’t in the mood to get up and cater to its whims, but I was afraid if I didn’t it would get angry and make a mess. Off to the bathroom I went to placate it. When it finished pissing around, I leaned back in the wheelchair and immediately fell asleep.

A few minutes before eleven, the phone startled me. Opening my eyes and finding myself still in the bathroom was even more startling. It was Russ on the phone, and after the obligatory Merry Christmases, he said he’d be over to collect me for Christmas dinner with him and Karen in an hour or two. “Two hours would be better,” I told him. “That’s OK,” he said. “I’ll be there around one.”

I sat on the side of the bed to get dressed. But, I didn’t. I sat a few minutes, feeling as if I might vomit. But, I didn’t. “Well,” I thought, “better lie down for a few minutes. No hurry; I’ve got two hours.” I stretched out on the bed and fell asleep. At twenty-of-one, the phone rang. “Merry Christmas,” a jolly Beth said. “Did I catch you at a good time?” “You woke me up,” I told her. “I need to get ready to go over to Russ and Karen’s.” “No problem. I’ll call you tomorrow.” But, I didn’t get ready to go visiting. Instead, I slept until Russ called, ten minutes later. “I’ll be over to get you in few minutes,” he said. I hemmed, then I hawed, and then I told him I wasn’t ready, didn’t know when I’d be ready, and maybe I’d best stay home. “No problem,” he said. “We’ll do it tomorrow.” Delighted to have such understanding offspring, I slept until nearly three o’clock before finally getting my lazy butt out of bed.

I was up before the sun on Boxing Day. At one that afternoon, Russ rolled me into their apartment, and Molly – either a toy or miniature dachshund, I’m not sure which – greeted me with bubbling exuberance, jumping up on my lap and giving me sloppy dog kisses all over my face. She does this every time I visit, because I’m a soft touch and generously share my dinner with her. Karen had prepared a wonderful dinner of ham, mash potatoes, and green beans, with the best cheesecake ever for dessert. But as Russ pushed me up to the table, Karen said, “Don’t give Molly any ham; it makes her sick.” A few bite-sized bits of roll did pass from my hand to Molly’s waiting mouth, however. I couldn’t let her think I was ignoring her. A grandpa needs someone to get up on his lap and kiss his nose, and cheeks, and forehead, and chin, and leave lip prints on his glasses. But the grandkids are in Idaho, and Molly is the next best thing.

Beth called while I was there and gave me a very special Christmas present. She said that all the Christmas cards received by the Pratts this Christmas season had been hung on the front door. One of them, however, wound up on Hayden’s bedroom door. That card was the one from his grandpa in Georgia. That wasn’t as good as having an excited five-year old bouncing on my lap, but it was close.

Another gift I’ll treasure is the small collage of seven pictures Karen and Russ put together. There is a picture of Russ and Beth on my lap. It has to be thirty years old, probably taken in 1985, when Beth was one, and Russ seven. Next to it is a picture of Hayden, MaKenna, Russ, Beth and me taken last spring when Beth, Debbie and the kids came to Columbus for a visit. Words cannot describe the feeling of seeing two happy, smiling kids on my knees, next to a picture of them as adults, the confident, assured, loving adults we always hoped they would become, along with the next generation of happy, smiling kids.

It was a wonderful Christmas, indeed.

Notes from the Home - November 29, 2015

     The phone rang at eleven o'clock a couple Monday nights ago. I didn't hear it. Or, maybe I heard it just enough that I was more alert when the phone rang again a half hour later. The ring was muffled, though. I had left the phone in my pants pocket. By the time I'd figured out where the phone was and managed to get to it, it had stopped ringing. The phone was kind enough to inform me that Al had made two calls and that there was a voicemail message awaiting me.

     "Tom, Al here. I need your help. I fell and can't get myself up. I called the desk about three times and nobody answered the goddamned phone. Get your ass up here. Now!"

     I opted to call the desk. Warren answered and said he'd check on Al right away. I thought about going to Al's room. Then I thought a little more: It would take me fifteen minutes or more to put on socks, pants and shoes, by which time Warren would have Al back in bed, and I would disturb him. Or Warren would have called the EMTs, and I would be in the way.

     Al was taken to the emergency room. He had gotten out of bed, stood up, lost his balance and fell. He managed to get the receiver for his cordless phone, and dragged himself across the room to the kitchen area, where there was a light on, and he could see to dial. In the process, he had scraped the skin off a large part of his right hand and wrist. His swollen right hand seemed to indicate that he'd also smacked it against something when he fell. And he had a large bump on the right side of his head.
     The next morning, several of us gathered in Al's room to see how he was doing. He was tired, confused, achy, but anxious to talk about his experiences with the medical professionals.
     "Those people don't know shit. They took me into the emergency room, and I told the goddamned nurses they had an hour to take care of me. If they weren't done in an hour, tough shit, I was going home anyway.
     "They asked me what was wrong. I told them there was only one goddamn thing wrong. They asked, 'What's that?' 'I haven't had an erection in thirty years. That's what's wrong. Now, bandage me up and get me the hell out of here.'"
     Whether because the nurses just slapped something on Al's hand and wrist in order to get rid of the old fart in timely fashion, or because Al had been fussing with the band-aids and gauze for several hours, the dressing needed to be changed in the morning. That job fell to Pat, who works in home health here. As she tended his wound, Al told her about the incompetent emergency room nurses. "I'm almost ninety-two fucking years old. I shouldn't have to put up with that shit."
     A while later, a recently hired secretary came by and asked Al if he had pressed the button yet. "What goddamned button?" "The check-in button." "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. What the hell is a goddamned check-in button?"
     The previous week, Covenant Woods had installed new emergency pull-cords in every apartment: one in each bathroom and one next to each bed. On the pull-cord boxes in the bathrooms there is a button marked "check-in". The residents have been asked to push the check-in button each morning before 10, in order to let the home health people know they are up and about.
     The poor secretary tried hard to explain that to Al. Unfortunately, she couldn't get more than four or five words out before a disgusted look spread over Al's face and he'd interrupt with a, "I can't hear a goddamned word you're saying," or "That's bullshit," or "They're trying to spy on us, aren't they," or "If they want someone to press the goddamned button, tell them to get their asses up here and press the fucking thing themselves."
     "Al," I said, "I'll give you a call every morning and remind you to push the button."
     "OK, but I still don't understand why I'm supposed to push the goddamned thing in the first place."
     The hospice nurse came by in the afternoon. She didn't stay long. Al told her to "get the hell out of here, and don't bother coming back." And she didn't come back for a week. Even then, she returned because Chelsea demanded that she come and take a look at Al's hand and wrist. She also insisted that Al allow the nurse examine his injuries.
     Chelsea is Annie's (the assistant activities director) daughter. She is a private caregiver for one of the Nells - there are a slew of Nells here, it must have been the most popular girls name in the South in the 1920s and 30s - and is studying criminal justice at Columbus Tech.
     I think Al is smitten with her. "That Chelsea is an excellent driver," he says. And that is high praise, indeed, from Al. Normally, he is extremely critical of other people's driving. Before Al gave his car away, he and his old Army buddy, Ken, went out to lunch almost every day. Al drove, of course. These days, Ken has to do the driving, so they go out once a month, if that.
     "I don't know about Ken," Al says after every trip with Ken at the wheel, "the son of a bitch is going to get us killed. He's got dementia - bad!!! - and he can't drive worth a shit anymore."
     More than once, he has told me that Penelope can't drive, that Annie can't drive, that Antoinette can't drive, nor can anyone else who has given him a ride. Chelsea is the sole exception. She says Al does point out her driving deficiencies when she's taking him to the bank or the store. But once they're back at Covenant Woods, it's "that Chelsea is such a wonderful driver."
     Al struggled for a week after the fall. His wrist was a bloody mess for several days, and his head ached. Even when he is the picture of health, Al constantly analyzes his aches, pains and discomforts. The knot on his head was a source of great concern. "I think it did something to my brain. I can't remember shit anymore." Of course, he couldn't remember much before he knocked his head.
     He is improving, not back to normal, but heading in that direction. He tires quickly and is often back in bed when I check on him in the morning. I know Al has been up, because the day's newspaper is on the floor next to his recliner, and he is wearing slacks and a shirt.
     Saturday morning, Al was fast asleep when I went to see him. As I eased the wheelchair toward the bed, his eyes opened ever so slightly. "Tom? Is that you?" he rasped. He raised himself up just a bit to get a better look and mumbled, "Gawd, Tom, you're a damned ugly sight to wake up to."  

Tis the Season's Opening Day

Three Word Wednesday - 

This week's words: Habitual; Illustrious; Jumbled

Christmas comes but once a year, which is just as well,

although all the retailers would like to have more

so every single week there would be a Black Friday,

with jumbled hordes of crazed shoppers outside the store

at three-ten in the morning, credit cards in hand.

Christmas: a great excuse for a shopping orgy.

The proudly religious also up and orgy

over “Season’s Greetings,” a term they don’t take well.

And “Happy Holidays” gives the devil a hand,

they say. “And we’ll not shop here, not even once more

unless the cash registers in your godless store

tell the clerks to say ‘Merry Christmas’ by Friday.”

That way, when the saved go shopping on Black Friday

they can revel religiously in the orgy

and shop with wild, untamed abandon in the store,

certain that big spending makes God love them so well.

With every smile and proper greeting, they spend more,

and piles of cash go into the store owner’s hand.

“Merry Christmas:” a small price for cash in the hand.

No wonder retailers so enjoy Black Friday

and hope consumer greed will lead to more.

Shoppers spend money they don’t have to fund the orgy,

pulling buckets of cash from the credit-card well,

forgetting that dunning notices are in store.

A timid person faces danger in the store.

A habitual, Type-A shopper might hit him with her purse.

He’ll leave in an ambulance, and she’ll say, “Oh, well.

Wimps should know better than to shop on Black Friday;

you’ve got to be tough to survive this mad orgy.

He’s out of the way now, and I’m going to shop more.”

The retailer is so glad she keeps spending more;

If she’s got money, she’s welcome in his store.

Illustrious economists watch the orgy

to see if it’s giving business a fiscal hand,

or if it’s just another nondescript Friday,

and, despite the madness, the retailers do not fare well.

The annual orgy, set to begin once more.

To get things going well, you must spend big at the store.

Credit cards in hand, go deep into debt on Friday.

Prompt Responses

   
     The Three Word Wednesday prompt this week is to use the words ragged, threatening and unsightly in a piece of writing.

     With a steady hand on the wheelchair's joy stick, I maneuvered through the dining room of the old folks' home where I live. The management takes offense to the term "old folks home." Their euphemism of choice is "senior retirement community." This place isn't like the old folks homes in the TV commercials of the fifties, where the residents spent countless hours on the veranda discussing their bowels and laxatives. Here, we old folks have those conversations inside in air-conditioned comfort.
     Enough of that. If the management finds out I'm saying such things, I'll get a threatening letter and my rent will be doubled.
    Back to the dining room. Jane waved and said hello, as I approached the table where she was sitting. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to my shirt, I thought. It was a T-shirt with "Beacon's Best 2006" writ large on the front. I started to tell her, the Beacon was the paper for which I once toiled as a sportswriter. The Beacon's Best is an annual softball tournament the paper sponsors. Perhaps she thought the nine-year-old shirt was more than a bit ragged.
     No. Jane reached out, touched my stomach, and said, "I was wondering if it's a boy or girl." Alas, the tummy has become an unsightly expanse.

This week, MadKane's Limerick-Off is asking for limericks using stride as the rhyme word in Line 1, 2, or 5.

Priscilla took it all in stride

When she became young Percy’s bride.

She loved only him,

Until, on a whim,

She took a lover on the side.

His love organ, withered and dried,

Robert could no longer keep stride

With folks young and horny.

Though with Sigourney,

The sly geezer certainly tried.

Notes from the Home - October 12, 2015

     Tuesday began at six-thirty. That's when I woke up after eight hours sleep. Eight restful hours, without so much as a bathroom break. By seven o'clock, I had dressed, taken the daily dosages and started the coffee. At eight o'clock, I had finished breakfast, done two crossword puzzles and was ready to figure out what to do with the rest of day.
     At eight-ten, Al called. "Tom? Tom, get up here immediately, if you're able. Please. Please."
     Al's night had not been pleasant. He held up a towel to show me he had been coughing up blood. His stomach was upset, his head was about to explode, and he didn't know where the hell he was or what the fuck was going on. He had called the desk to tell them he was having difficulty. But when Pat, a nurse's assistant, got there, he told her to "get the hell out."
     "Maybe I should just go to the hospital," he said.
     "Do want me to call downstairs and have them call 911?"
     "What?"
     "Call 911?"
     "Hell, I don't want to go to the goddamned hospital. Here, you hold on to this," he said, handing me a wad of twenties.
     Penelope, the activity director, came to check on Al when she got to work. She urged him to go to the hospital. He refused. He was, however, agreeable to notifying hospice.
     Al made the call. A half hour later, Donna, a hospice nurse arrived. She is a small, thin woman full of good humor and endless patience. When Al told her to "just get the hell out of here and leave me alone," which he did frequently, Donna smiled, rolled her eyes and went on about her business. In an effort to calm Al, she took all the white and yellow towels he had been coughing blood on and gave him a some black ones. Al would have none of that. He wanted towels that would show every drop of blood he coughed up.
     Donna did managed to convince him to take a pill for anxiety and a shot of morphine for his pain. It took an hour, but by the time Donna left, Al was alert, aware and asking, "Tom, why the hell didn't you tell me to shut the fuck up?"
     Friday morning, Al said, "Oh hell, you might as well call hospice. I'm not going to go to the goddamned hospital." Louis, a burly fellow with a crew cut, was the nurse sent to see Al.
     "My whole left lung is gone," Al told Louis.
     "What do you mean, gone?"
     "The doctor said it's gone. Cancer."
     I told Louis the lung is still there. Six months ago, when Al started coughing up blood, the doctors put him through a battery of tests. They discovered cancer in his left lung, and that is where the blood he coughs up comes from.
     Not nearly as worked up as he was Tuesday, Al calmed down with the help of a hydrocodone. As Louis was leaving, Annie came in. Annie is the assistant activity director. She and Penelope keep a close eye on Al and his needs. Annie did her best to dispose of the blood-stained towels, make the bed, and get rid of some of Al's clutter. And she told him she was going to get him a few pairs of sweat-pants type things that would be easier to get in and out of.
     Saturday morning, the phone rang. "Tom, Annie's daughter, what's her name?"
     "Chelsea."
     "I didn't hear a goddamned thing you said. This girl, I think, she's Annie's daughter, just showed up with three pairs of pants. They're the ugliest damn things I've ever seen. She said she's going to shorten them and make a hem. I'll never wear the fucking things. They're goddamn ugly. They've got polka dots and shit all over them."
     Sunday afternoon I went to see Al. "See this," he said, pointing to the plaid pants that were a cross between sweat pants and pajama bottoms. Paired with his dark blue shirt, the old guy looked ready for a round of golf.
     "What's her name, Annie's daughter, did this. She cut them off and made a hem. Boy, she's sharp. She did a great job. I really like her."