Two mornings ago I received a distraught phone call from my mother telling me that my dad, who is suffering with end stage COPD, spine compression fractures, and a distinct lack of proper narcotic metabolism, became flighty, picky and squirrelly to such a point that he was assigned a sitter.
Look, I've been around. I know what can be said about sitters. I know that for every one that understands the amount of sheer effort and work that goes into trying to keep someone in bed, calm and intact, there are several more misguided individuals that think sitting is easy, requires little effort and even less work.
Obviously those individuals need to meet my dad when he is blitzed out of his brain on Fentanyl and Vicodin. Let's just say that when my family decides to lose it, we don't just misplace our minds, we straight up blast them into orbit never to be seen or heard from again.
Maybe it's the southern mentality: go big or go home.
We pride ourselves on hearing the blankets whisper, seeing shadows slip through the walls, and having full out conversations with no one physical. We sing with gossamer birds, swat at oily, ethereal spiders, undress, and boot scoot boogie down the hall, crumpled spine and inability to breathe be damned. We talk back at the television (even though it's off), recite bits of poetry, and try to lick our meatloaf. We load pills in the end of water straws and attempt to "tranq" the "elephants" in our room. And yes, the nurse would just so happen to be the elephant in question. Perhaps wearing grey scrubs in the presence of one no longer operating on this plane of reality was a mistake. Just sayin'.
But regardless of all the insanity, of the wandering, flitting hands that pluck at skin tears, scrape at desperately needed picc lines, and fidget with the oxygen in his nose, and never, ever rest, he is safe, cared for, and, although gently, patiently re-oriented again and again, he is even kept company in his joyful delusions.
I went to see him the other night only to walk up to the room to hear him murmuring, "The birds...do you hear them?"
"Yes, sir. I think they are canaries. Let's lay still and see if they come back to sing to you."
"Okay."
And there he was, staring at the upper corner of the ceiling as if watching a menagerie in the zoo, rapt, still, his hands resting lightly on his bedding. The sitter, Margaret, greeted me and explained everything he had been up to in a hushed whisper.
After all, we were waiting for the canaries to return.
And then last night, a half mad, partially naked Humpty Dumpty decided to have a great fall.
It would seem that someone decided to tap into their inner ninja and attempt to vault the bed rails and make a beeline for the room exit. The gown was apparently trying to rat him out, so it was discarded for the sake of security (thankfully, he didn't manage to totally disrobe).
Mission impossible music may or not have been involved.
The sitter only looked away for a second. And you know what? I totally believe her. I've seen my dad move when properly motivated.
But it is not because of any "blame" issues regarding his escape attempt that she caught my attention. No.
It is because she was fast behind him, and when his foot caught and his burst of strength gave, she swiftly, skillfully guided him safely to the floor, cushioning his head on the soft toe of her shoe.
Because of her knowledge, her quick thinking, fast reflexes and sure hands, I am not writing a grieved announcement of my dad's need for a crani or an intermedullary rodding of a femur.
Because of her, I get to watch him listen to the sweet chatter of the blankets and blow bubbles in his soda.
And although that may sound like the strangest thing you have ever heard, I could not, ever, be more grateful.
It may not be much, but thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for giving him the same dedication you would give your own loved one. Thank you for never yelling, never losing your cool. Thank you for laughing with me because crying is not something built into my coping mechanism. Thank you for not laughing at him. Thank you for speaking calmly with my hysterical mother when I could not be reached.
Above all, thank you for "doing nothing".
Most sincerely,
~~CheesePotato~~
