Elder care is not for the weak of heart. Or the humorless, as I was reminded yesterday. I had gone to visit my father in a post-acute rehab center. He fell and broke his hip while in the hospital. His recovery, on top of his congestive heart failure, has been arduous -- he hates sitting still. He's been sharing a very small room for a month now; two to three weeks to go, we're told. His first roommate didn't speak (by choice, not physical limitation). My father is a social animal, so this didn't work out. His second roommate was a friend's droll father. My dad liked him despite their different taste in television shows, but alas, roomie #2 went back to his assisted living facility "to die," he said. :( His third roommate, we'll call him Henry, is 85, a flirt and a cut-up. Yesterday was no exception.
My dad and I had rifled through a truckload of his mail, half a dozen forms his doctor needs to complete before he is discharged and the Christmas lists—yes, the man is obsessing about buying other people presents even as he has been confined to a bed—when Henry called out: "I need a urine catcher."
I was sure I misheard him.
He repeated himself, louder: "I SAID I NEED A URINE CATCHER."
Because the curtain between their beds was drawn, I could see that he couldn't reach his call button.
"Can I get it for you?" I asked.
"Sure," he said with a smile, "they are behind me; grab it by the handle!"
I went over, stepped gingerly around him (tubes/cords/lines), chose one of three "urine catchers"—the one with the least urine—and handed it to Henry, avoiding eye contact. I didn't want to make him feel self-conscious.
"Can I pull the curtain for you?" I asked.
"Nope," Henry said with an unmistakably bigger smile, "I'm a show-off."
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