You Out There, Al?

     Al has been gone a week, and to my great regret, I never taped him fulminating about whatever or whomever upset him at that moment. Al had a gentle, understanding side, of course, but it was his ability to combine anger, disgust, common sense, humor and an endless supply of expletives into marvelously pithy, off-color diatribes that made him such an unforgettable character. 
     Covenant Woods is filled with whiners and complainers whose bellyaching is beyond boring. Al, however, did his griping with brio, elan, dash, and spirit. He was never boring. But in those moments when I am bored, I would love to be able to press a button and listen to Al lambasting the fools du jour.  
     Al also had a very analytical mind. He was always searching for meaning in life. "What are we here for? What are we supposed to be doing?" he would ask. As a teenager, Al read Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, and he told me I should, too. I never did. 
     On a more concrete level, Al analyzed even the simplest but frustrating tasks. One evening a couple weeks ago, I visited Al. We talked for a bit, then Al said he was going to bed. In the process, he managed to get his oxygen tube entangled with the wire to the controls for the hospital bed hospice had provided him with. When he saw that they weren't going to separate easily, Al sat up, put the mess on the floor, took a good look at it, and set about the task at hand. It was a slow, frustrating task, which Al accompanied with some color commentary: "Son of a bitch. You bastard. Come on, Al, don't be a shit ass." 
     The whole time, though, he was focused on the problem, trying to figure out what he needed to do to untangle the mess. He never resorted to my preferred method: wildly pulling and tugging on the wires until they separated or, more likely, became detached from their respective machines, thereby creating a bigger problem. It remains to be seen if I learned anything from his example. 

Good-bye, Al

Al turned ninety-two on Friday. Early Sunday morning, he died.

He had had a difficult week. Except to use the toilet, Al  stayed in bed nearly twenty-four hours a day. From time to time he would mumble, "Goddamn, I hurt. Why do I have to put up with this shit?" One morning Donna and Amanda, both hospice nurses, were there. Donna was getting Al's vitals, while Amanda clipped his nails. A year ago, Al would have been either telling the nurses to "get the hell out of here," or suggesting they get in the bed and roll around with him. That day, however, all he said was, "They're cleaning me up."

Saturday morning, Penelope, Al's nephew Harry, who came down from New York, and I spoke with the nurse from Columbus Hospice in order to get Al on to their rolls and off Hospice Advantage's. The problem with Hospice Advantage had nothing to do with the nurses and others from there who visited Covenant Woods to tend to Al's needs. But the facilities and care Al received at River Towne, where Hospice Advantage had sent him for a few days to get him hydrated, get his meds regulated and check for a possible urinary tract infection, concerned all those who visited Al while he was there.

The Columbus Hospice nurse got Al's vitals, asked for our observations of Al's condition, and got Harry's signature on the various forms. When all that was done, she said she would review the information with the doctor. She felt that Al was in the final stages. If the doctor agreed, they would have Al transported to their place on Macon Road. At two o'clock Saturday afternoon, the EMTs transported Al to Columbus Hospice. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, Harry got the call that his uncle had passed.

I miss him.

Notes from the Home - February 7, 2016

 

Al has been sleeping almost constantly for the last two weeks. Most of the time he looks nearly dead, lying on his back, his mouth open, his face blank. Saturday, though, he was on his side and had the look of a crusty old man thinking about all the people who had pissed him off lately. That's the Al I know, and that's the Al I want to remember. And should he recover and find out I took this picture, I'll be one of the people who pisses off the crusty old man. "God damn it, Tom. Why the hell did you take this fucking picture. I look like shit," he'll say. 

     Al is slowly fading away. His ninety-second birthday is a few days away, and he has no desire to be around for it. "I'm almost ninety-two," he says. "Why do I have to put up with this shit?"
     One morning a little over a week ago, I found Al on the floor when I brought him his morning muffins and coffee. He mumbled something about not knowing how he got there and not knowing how "the hell" he was going to get up. "I'm so goddamn cold," he said. That explained why he had a jacket covering his head.
     James, Lucas and Juan answered the call for help and got Al off the floor and into bed. A short while later, a hospice nurse arrived to take Al's vitals, which were normal, and to look at his left shoulder and hip, which he said "hurt like hell." The nurse didn't find any marks, though.
     The next morning, hospice had Al transported to River Towne, a nursing home. Al spent five days there. The hope was the nursing home folks would get him hydrated and find out if he had a urinary tract infection. Whether they did either is anyone's guess. Penelope, Annie, and Chelsea visited Al during his stay, and not one of them had single good word to say about the facility. Neither did Donna, the hospice nurse who came to see Al when he returned to Covenant Woods, nor did Daniel who has known Al for twenty years and who now works for hospice in an administrative capacity.
     Since his return, Al has slept and slept and slept. And when he's awake, Al has been disoriented most of the time. He has had his moments, though.
     A couple months ago, Al was having trouble remembering Chelsea's name. "Oh come on," Chelsea said, "You know my name. I'm Chelsea. I'm the sweetest one." Several of us, including Chelsea, were visiting Al Monday evening. When Chelsea said her good-byes, Al looked at her with his I-didn't-hear-a-goddamn-word-you-said look.
     "I said, I have to go," Chelsea said. "I'll come by tomorrow to see you."
     "Oh, please do. You're the sweetest one."
     "Mr. Park, that's so sweet. Thank you."
     "Well, you told me to say that," Al said.
     Donna, the hospice nurse, was checking Al's vitals one morning when I delivered his muffins and coffee. Al took a bite out of a muffin and then stared at it for a moment. "What's in these?" he asked Donna. She said they looked like raisins or maybe blueberries. Al took another close look and said, "I think it's rabbit shit."
     There were nuts in the next morning's batch. As Al was chewing on a bite of one - chewing is hard work for Al, who hasn't worn his dentures in several months - he picked up the wastebasket and spit into it. The pinging noise that followed led me to believe it was one of the nuts. Al confirmed my suspicion when he said, "Goddamn nuts. I think they're bigger than mine."
     Friday, Amanda, another hospice nurse, was taking Al's vitals and asking him how he felt, did have any pain, etc, etc. Al, who was in bed at the time, announced, "I'm going to have a movement."
     "Do you mean you have to go number-two?"
     "I'm having a movement right now."
     "How can I help? Do you want me to help you get into the bathroom? Is that potty seat still in your closet? You tell me, what we have to do." Amanda said.
     "What should I do when I go number-two?" Al replied.
     Amanda found the potty seat in the closet and put by the side of the bed. Al pushed the covers to one side, revealing the entirety of his body, save the part covered by his T-shirt. With Amanda's help he transferred to the potty seat and did his business in less than five minutes. Oh, that my 1948 model bowels were as expeditious as his 1924 model.
     Once Amanda had helped Al clean his butt and get back into bed, she got on her knees to ask Al a few questions. Now, Amanda is an attractive woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and she seems very competent. She also seems to prefer stretch pants, very tight stretch pants, so tight and form fitting that when she knelt down by the bed, her pants had nowhere to go but down. I tried to pay attention to her questions and Al's answers, but I kept getting distracted by eight inches of trouser cleavage.
     I haven't talked to Al much today or yesterday. He was awake this afternoon, although almost completely oblivious to the four gentleman who were in the room when I got there. Ken, an old friend of Al's and the man who purchased his house when Al moved to Covenant Woods twelve years ago, was there, along with three of Al's friends from Savannah.
     After Ken introduced me to the Savannah contingent, I went over to the bed, where Al was eating some soup. He looked up and said, "Oh, hi, Tom." "At least he recognizes you," the four visitors said almost in unison.
     When Al finished the soup, he laid down, pulled a sheet up to his chin and went back to sleep. When I went to see how he was doing a few hours later, he was still sleeping. I'm certain he hopes he won't wake up.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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."