Good Morning Everybody!
picunurse, I realize that it’s much too late for this advice to do any good now, but I’m with Swampy, (well not really, that wouldn’t work at all, and would annoy my husband and ACBG), if you’ve got loss of consciousness (did I spell that right? Does it matter here?) and cracking open of heads it’s time to call 911 no matter what the patients wants. They can’t haul him off without permission, but they might be able to convince him that he needs to be checked immediately, you’ve done all you can at that point, and you can deal with the fall-out after the crisis. You’ve got the best excuse ever for disregarding his wishes! “I was scared for you, I don’t want to lose you!” Who can argue with that once they are back in their right mind?
This weekend I learned how not to recover a footstool. I keep calling it an ottoman, but apparently an ottoman has storage. I didn’t know that before. I think I’m spelling that wrong too. It’s not done yet, because every staple in the world was used to hold on the cheap a** fabric that did not hold up. If they’d been as careful about the quality of the fabric I wouldn’t be learning how not to re-upholster a footstool. My own fault. My mom complained that it was wearing out, from all the weary putting the feet up at the end of the day, (which is genuine, my mom is 80. She can run rings around me, but I am sure she is weary at the end of the day), and I opened my big mouth. “I watch HG-TV, I watch Trading Spaces, I can recover your ottoman!” She knows I’ve never done this before, so hopefully she’ll be kind. I’m wishing now we had gone with the more expensive fabric, rather than the nice looking (and less expenisive) but still fake leather. OK, it’s vinyl, I know that, you know that, who do I think I’m kidding?! Corners are hard. And I’m making it up as I go along. We did buy the trim that has the nails already spaced, and most of them are fake too, so once I’m done stapling I won’t have as much nailing to do.
I’m really ready to get back to Vancouver, but the US gov’mint must not think so, because they have not sent my passport yet. Time isn’t up, but I really really want them to hurry. I really, really miss my husband and I’m done with my reversion to adolescense and want to move back out of my parent’s house. I haven’t lived with them since I was 17 and I was right that time. I love them dearly but they make me crazy! Especially my dad who is 85 and needs to take diuretics (I know I didn’t spell that right!) but won’t take as much as he needs or on the schedule he needs because he has an enlarged prostate and it takes him too much time to pee, (and yes that is more than you need to know about my daddy, it’s more than I need to know about my daddy but if I can take it, so can you!) This is bad because he has fluid pooling in his legs and now he has open sores. He has pneumatic boots to try to get the fluid moving, and he’s supposed to keep his legs elevated, (but he doesn’t) and he should drink more water (at this point I’d say he should drink more anything, but he’s diabetic, so sugar is bad) and he won’t. I don’t think he tells his doctors anything much, and my mom doesn’t say as much as she should, but doesn’t (although she does say more than my dad does). Dad had a stroke 21 years ago, and the left side of his body is weak, but up until a year ago or so he still drove, and could do some traveling, but then he went into the hospital because of diverticulitis or diverticulosis (whichever one is worse with inflamtion and pain) and his fluid problems became much worse, and he had to go into a nursing home for awhile because he was much weaker than before he went in, and he’s home now but definitely failing. He used to say he was going to live to be 100 but now he can’t drive and I don’t think he cares anymore. Driving was very important to my dad. He used to go to Phillies games, and his credit union board meetings (he was the president, and the treasurer, these old coots kept voting each other into revolving positions year after year), and on a million little made up errands, but now he can’t do that. He only leaves the house for dr.'s appts and haircuts. It’s sad, but if he doesn’t listen to the doctors and get rid of that fluid, and the sores which won’t heal, he’ll wind up in a nursing home and that will be more sad. He is a big man, so my mom can’t lift him, even with the help of my brother, who lives with them, and is in his early 50’s so he aint as strong as he used to be. Plus, my brother works, so of course during the day if he falls, as he frequently does, she either has to call her brother (who lives across the street but is in his 80’s too!) or the ambulance. It’s not good, and if I try to talk to them about plans, or anything, I get the “You don’t live here, you shouldn’t tell us what to do!” lecture. Well, of course I don’t only a lunatic would live there. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care, and don’t want to help and playing ostrich is not going to help! By the way, I don’t tell them what to do. I ask if they have plans, and then make suggestions based on my experience with the failing years of my ex-husband’s grandparents. It’s my sister who says everything as if it was the only solution. I am much more diffident. But my sister is often right, and they should at least listen to her. And me, and everybody else who wants them to stop pretending they have everything under control and make some bl***y plans!
Wow…didn’t mean to unleash all that on you…didn’t even know it was in me! Sorry for the rant and thanks for listening. All this from an ottoman…footstool…hassock…whatever the damn things called!
