When I got to Dad's room he was hollering for help. He was cold, he was wet, he was hysterical. He was channeling Gene Wilder in "The Producers".
"What do you need, Dad?"
"I need all sorts of help!"
Kicking into hyper drive, I remove Dad's dinner tray and clean up the spilled milk without crying. He has spilled a whole carton. I mop the floor with the sleeveless undershirt previously reserved for cleaning spectacles ... pull off the wet bedding ...get supplies from the linen closet down the hall to change Dad's bedding and hospital gown, and manage to adjust his thermostat. The a/c is blasting cold air on a wet codger who prefers tropical temps.
"Sit down and take a load off," Dad orders. Okay, I sit, wishing he would use his oxygen. The aide tells me Dad's been agitated all day, pushing his call button again as soon as she checks in on him and turns off the call light.
"Did you get out and about today, Dad?"
"No. I couldn't. Oprah was here, and she wouldn't leave. She kept promising food, but not delivering."
"What was Oprah wearing, Dad?"
"Something red. Purple." Was Oprah real? Since when did Dad watch Oprah? Since when did the remote control go missing? I do a major search of Dad's room, even crawling on the floor to look under his bed.
Dad's favorite aide, "The Lady in Red," tells me she found him trying to get out of bed this afternoon because he "needed to find something to throw at the tv". Dang, that happens to me nearly everytime I turn it on.
The remote is found. Long live the remote.
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder