Dad declines to get out of bed again today. He's wallowing in a pity party that's gone on four days now. The first week at his new home in Texas he tried pretty hard to figure things out, but then he shut down. He figured out they will serve all his meals in bed if he acts helpless and hopeless.
This afternoon I couldn't sit there any longer while he pretended I didn't exist. I talked to the director of nursing, and turned it over to the professionals. They can cajole him and emphatically encourage him to get up in his wheelchair and out to the dining room, and it won't be all my fault.
Among the many things Dad doesn't want--photos of family, a radio, the tv on, to look out the window, to have the light on, a warmer shirt, to go outside, activities, therapy, zucchini--pictures on the wall stands out. Okay, then, Mr. I-Am-Not-Depressed! I'm going to hang toy airplanes, mobiles, papier mache butterflies. and wire sculptures from the ceiling. If that won't get him out of bed, I'll take the last surviving trapeze artist from The Flying Pig Circus over to Dad's room.
Excuse me while I pull my hair out. Putting Led Zep in the cd player.
© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder