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From the howling wilderness
Posting from my mom's spyware-ridden, b0rken laptop. Steve just put Firebird on it and did what he could to blow away the obvious fuckage, but it's still demented. Better than nothing, though.
The drive yesterday was uneventful and unremarkable, aside from a beautiful sunset (which, alas, we were driving directly into; OH MY EYES). We got in about 6pm, and went straight to the hospital as that's conveniently during visiting hours.
Grandpa is much, much worse than a month ago. He is only marginally aware of what's going on around him, and it seems almost impossible for him to hold a continuous train of thought. When he speaks, it's very difficult to make out what he's saying, partially due to volume and partially due to lack of enunciation. And he's even more fragile, and not really eating much, and will drop off to sleep at any moment, etc. He has recognized me every time I've been there (with one exception, see below), and always gives me a big smile and a greeting, which is something.
Tonight during the evening visiting hours was the best I've seen him, which is unfortunately not saying much, but--he was actually eating some of his dinner, and we had a several-sentence exchange on the same topic (about aikido, believe it or not). At lunch today, he was barely aware of us, and wasn't eating anything; he would mime eating, and chewing and all, but if you actually put food in his hand he'd put it down. And when we first came yesterday evening, I came over on the right side of his chair, and Grandma told him I was there, and he just sort of looked over expressionlessly, then turned back and growled something which I didn't catch except that the last word was "bullshit". (I should note that neither of my grandparents is much in the swearing line...) That was like knives in the gut. However, one of the floor attendants who was in the room said that she thought he was having vision problems on that side, and told me to go around to his left side, which I did; and then he recognized me and smiled and gave me a hug. So that was okay, but.
The floor he's on is actually the "Behavioral Center for Older Adults", which means the Crazy Old Folks' Ward. And boy is it something else. They have a locked door and sign-in procedures as "elopment precautions", and indeed the major theme of all the inmates^H^H^H^H^H^H^H patients is escape. There is one guy who offers a hundred bucks to anyone who walks by to get him out of here; another (who spends most of his time wandering up and down the halls) went into the nurses' station this evening and started climbing out the window to the exterior hallway; another lady just keeps calling for help, saying she can't breathe, or has to throw up, or the like, and she needs to get out into the fresh air (Steve overheard her confessing to an attendant that, yeah, she's making most of it up, but "What else am I going to do here?"). Grandpa is occasionally on that train, but since he can't really stand up and can't raise his voice, his contribution is pretty minimal. Mom says that previously he had frequently talked about escaping, but he hadn't any of the times I have been in. Whether he's gotten resigned to it or what, I don't know. But anyways, the whole floor is by turns depressing, entertaining, disturbing, and reminiscent of the old Tri-Tac game "Escape from Westerville State" (possibly crossed with another of their offerings, "Geriatric Wars").
Spent most of today taking Grandma to and from the facility they're pretty sure they're going to end up in; she will go to the assisted living part, and he will go to the "skilled nursing" part (that's the new term for nursing home, kids). Mucho paperworko. There was a lot of confusion because we thought Grandpa was getting released today, hence scurrying around, but then we found out that he's only scheduled for release this week sometime, they don't know when--and we finally nailed down the social worker, who said that it takes at least a day to process the nonsense for getting shifted into skilled nursing, so the absolute soonest he might get released is late tomorrow or early Wednesday. But no one knows if the doctor wants to do it even that soon. If we don't have word from him when I take Grandma over at noon tomorrow, I am going to hunt the guy down with the taser. (He seems to be Sir Not Appearing In The Ward He's In Charge Of.) It's going to be a real clusterfuck if they end up releasing him on Friday, because I would be in Buffalo by then, and Mom will be flying to Boston. If that happens I reckon I'll have to drive back again, oh joy oh rapture.
Mom's bearing up better than I could have imagined. She's somewhat cranky, as who wouldn't be, but not anything like I expected. Points for her.
The small silver lining to this cloud is that we are now the proud owners of Grandma and Grandpa's '94 Taurus (formerly Mom's, actually). Such as it is, with its 107K miles, but I am not one to look a gift car in the mouth. Steve and I got it running today (flat battery, flat tires), and we transferred the title--conveniently, my grandparents' next door neighbor is a notary public--and tomorrow I will go kick the ass of the DMV to get temporary tags and whatnot. At the same time, Steve will go get a new battery. Then he'll drive it up to Buffalo tomorrow afternoon, because he needs to take over looking after his mom, as his uncle needs to get back to Canada. (I'll follow up a day or two after, presumably.)
I am singularly lacking in Christmas cheer.
The drive yesterday was uneventful and unremarkable, aside from a beautiful sunset (which, alas, we were driving directly into; OH MY EYES). We got in about 6pm, and went straight to the hospital as that's conveniently during visiting hours.
Grandpa is much, much worse than a month ago. He is only marginally aware of what's going on around him, and it seems almost impossible for him to hold a continuous train of thought. When he speaks, it's very difficult to make out what he's saying, partially due to volume and partially due to lack of enunciation. And he's even more fragile, and not really eating much, and will drop off to sleep at any moment, etc. He has recognized me every time I've been there (with one exception, see below), and always gives me a big smile and a greeting, which is something.
Tonight during the evening visiting hours was the best I've seen him, which is unfortunately not saying much, but--he was actually eating some of his dinner, and we had a several-sentence exchange on the same topic (about aikido, believe it or not). At lunch today, he was barely aware of us, and wasn't eating anything; he would mime eating, and chewing and all, but if you actually put food in his hand he'd put it down. And when we first came yesterday evening, I came over on the right side of his chair, and Grandma told him I was there, and he just sort of looked over expressionlessly, then turned back and growled something which I didn't catch except that the last word was "bullshit". (I should note that neither of my grandparents is much in the swearing line...) That was like knives in the gut. However, one of the floor attendants who was in the room said that she thought he was having vision problems on that side, and told me to go around to his left side, which I did; and then he recognized me and smiled and gave me a hug. So that was okay, but.
The floor he's on is actually the "Behavioral Center for Older Adults", which means the Crazy Old Folks' Ward. And boy is it something else. They have a locked door and sign-in procedures as "elopment precautions", and indeed the major theme of all the inmates^H^H^H^H^H^H^H patients is escape. There is one guy who offers a hundred bucks to anyone who walks by to get him out of here; another (who spends most of his time wandering up and down the halls) went into the nurses' station this evening and started climbing out the window to the exterior hallway; another lady just keeps calling for help, saying she can't breathe, or has to throw up, or the like, and she needs to get out into the fresh air (Steve overheard her confessing to an attendant that, yeah, she's making most of it up, but "What else am I going to do here?"). Grandpa is occasionally on that train, but since he can't really stand up and can't raise his voice, his contribution is pretty minimal. Mom says that previously he had frequently talked about escaping, but he hadn't any of the times I have been in. Whether he's gotten resigned to it or what, I don't know. But anyways, the whole floor is by turns depressing, entertaining, disturbing, and reminiscent of the old Tri-Tac game "Escape from Westerville State" (possibly crossed with another of their offerings, "Geriatric Wars").
Spent most of today taking Grandma to and from the facility they're pretty sure they're going to end up in; she will go to the assisted living part, and he will go to the "skilled nursing" part (that's the new term for nursing home, kids). Mucho paperworko. There was a lot of confusion because we thought Grandpa was getting released today, hence scurrying around, but then we found out that he's only scheduled for release this week sometime, they don't know when--and we finally nailed down the social worker, who said that it takes at least a day to process the nonsense for getting shifted into skilled nursing, so the absolute soonest he might get released is late tomorrow or early Wednesday. But no one knows if the doctor wants to do it even that soon. If we don't have word from him when I take Grandma over at noon tomorrow, I am going to hunt the guy down with the taser. (He seems to be Sir Not Appearing In The Ward He's In Charge Of.) It's going to be a real clusterfuck if they end up releasing him on Friday, because I would be in Buffalo by then, and Mom will be flying to Boston. If that happens I reckon I'll have to drive back again, oh joy oh rapture.
Mom's bearing up better than I could have imagined. She's somewhat cranky, as who wouldn't be, but not anything like I expected. Points for her.
The small silver lining to this cloud is that we are now the proud owners of Grandma and Grandpa's '94 Taurus (formerly Mom's, actually). Such as it is, with its 107K miles, but I am not one to look a gift car in the mouth. Steve and I got it running today (flat battery, flat tires), and we transferred the title--conveniently, my grandparents' next door neighbor is a notary public--and tomorrow I will go kick the ass of the DMV to get temporary tags and whatnot. At the same time, Steve will go get a new battery. Then he'll drive it up to Buffalo tomorrow afternoon, because he needs to take over looking after his mom, as his uncle needs to get back to Canada. (I'll follow up a day or two after, presumably.)
I am singularly lacking in Christmas cheer.