Purgatory: It's Not Just For Catholics Anymore.

The last five days have literally flown by. I suppose that’s what happens when you haven’t slept in that many days. The old man spent one night in hospital and then we brought him home. It made sense at the time however I cannot for the life of me remember why at this moment.

That first night, when I left the hospital without my dad, I actually felt a bit depressed. Yes, he drives me crazy. Yes, he got hurt by acting ugly. Yes, it was my chance for a bit of rest. No, I didn’t get any because I kept waking up all night worrying about him. The weird thing is, so did Bob.

The next morning, we made the decision to bring him home since pain management and PT could both be accomplished in the comfort of his familiar surroundings. That, and he was driving everyone nuts with his complaining that he wanted out of that prison.

Caring for an elderly parent is not all that different from having a young child. They are noisy, messy, inappropriate in more ways than you ever expected before having one and they demand every second of every minute of every day of your life that they‘re with you. Yet, the minute they are out of your sight, you miss them, worry about them and wish they were home with you. There is definitely something wrong with parents and caregivers, but I fear there is no fix for either.

Come to find out, not only is his left hip fractured but he has another UTI. This, only two weeks after the last one. Of course, this means he has to make bathroom runs more often than the average person blinks. Since he cannot walk yet, “somebody” has to get him in the wheelchair, roll him to the commode, help him up and pants down. Once the king is on his throne, “somebody” can step out and pray a short prayer, usually something along the lines of, “God, I am sorry for everything I have ever done in my entire life. No, seriously, I mean it this time.” Then it is back to the throne room to de-throne the king and you don’t want details here, believe me.

Repeating this bedroom to bathroom run approximately fifteen to twenty times every twenty-four hour period has convinced me of something. I was wrong. There is a purgatory and it is in Piedmont, Oklahoma.

Think Twice Before Spitting On The Hand That Feeds You

I am sitting in the emergency room with my dad. He fell down, and no, I did not push him. I know I should feel very sorry for the old geezer right now however as I sit here listening to him moan and groan, I find myself wanting to say something my mother use to say to us, "See, God punished you for being so mean."

Now, I know that God does not punish old men by pushing them down, even when they are mean and He might really want to. I also know, my mom surely regretted using this plan of attack on us when we were younger after she had to pay for our therapy years later. Never-the-less, the mean streak in me wants to say it. Thank goodness, I have a healthy fear of God which makes it possible for me to sit here and just think it and not actually say it. Now before you correct my theology, I know I shouldn't be thinking it either but cut me a break right now.

My dad got up this morning looking for a fight. I understand he was a boxer, won trophies, World Hall of Fame, blah, blah, blah but 4516 Ryan Dr N.E. is not the ring and I am not Don King. Ok, my hair may look like Don King's most days but so what, I am still not him. It seems this is the way it goes with my dad. For the last eight years or so he is either hot or cold with no middle ground. One day, he is calling everyone he sees darling and sweetheart and the next he is taking swings at anyone who dares to deny him what he wants. Today was a come out swinging day. Is it the dang bell in the bird cage? Does he mistake that for the bell in the ring and think it's time to rumble? Who knows anymore?

So he was griping at just about everyone this morning, with that scowl he gets when he is in one of those moods. He didn't like breakfast, didn't like the juice, didn't like the temperature of the room, and on and on and on. After he called me for the fifth time in thirty minutes just to grumble, I told him I was done and unless he was going to be nice he didn't need to call me again. That's when Miranda stepped in.

Our daughter, Miranda, might only be eleven years old, but she has the patience and grit of Job when it comes to my dad. He can be brutal to her and she always responds the same way. It's either, "Oh, grandpa" when she laughs it off and just keeps loving him or it's, "Hey! You better be nice, Grandpa!", when she is concerned he has taken it a step too far and might end up in a nursing home or psych ward.

Ok, he just took a swing at the ER nurse for trying to put oxygen on him. When I told him to be nice, he told me to, "Get lost!!" I would so like to get lost right now. Like in Hawaii or Europe or even Oklahoma City. I am beyond ready for a day without being yelled at. Having an eighty-nine year old two year old is exhausting. I made a promise to my mother on her death bed. She made me promise I would take care of my dad. I promised, knowing full well he would never move to Oklahoma and always preferred my little sister. Do you think God ever listens to our less than sincere promises and then laughs knowing full well He is going to give us an opportunity to come through on them? I do!

Sorry, I got off-track. Shocking, I know. Anyway, so this morning when I left the room after my final warning to the old man, Miranda thought she would help me by giving him his pills that were still sitting there. Of course, he hid them in his pocket, flicked them across the table, tried to feed them to the dog and finally ..... finally, spit on Miranda! You read it right. He spit on my daughter. Hearing this from the other room, I turned into a roaring mother bear. I wagged my fat, fifty-one year old finger in his face and yelled,"Do NOT spit on my daughter!" Then I turned on my heels, looked at Miranda and we both burst out laughing. I mean, seriously, it had to be quite a sight. Short, squatty, middle-aged woman, still in her flannel gown berating the old guy who sat with his arms across his chest scowling that infamous Casas scowl. Maybe you had to be there.
So, I left before I said some of the other things that were boiling in my brain and that's when it happened. The old guy jumped up and decided to mow me down with his walker. In his haste for revenge, he caught his slipper in the back wheel and down he went with the walker landing on top of him.

I'm still pretty sure God wouldn't push an old guy down, even for spitting on a little girl. I cannot, however, speak for His angels.