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MEYER: An unaccustomed role |
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Friday, 25 April 2008 |
A few months back, the wife said she did not want to be mentioned in any further columns, that she was more than a little fed up with being the butt of my attempted colloquial humor.
She went on that she has been nothing but a submissive observer and that I, her terrible husband, had painted her as an active boil in the nostrils of humanity.
OK, this story is NOT about my wife, but a lady I have known quite well for more than 50 years. The lady shall remain nameless — one must draw his or her own conclusions. This lady has not been the top link of the happy chain for a long time. Her attitude was sometimes cloudy, even murky, always snappish. But, she was getting ready to retire, was looking forward to it, making grandiose plans and suppositions.
Now this lady is the principal caregiver of a granddaughter five days a week. Wee one comes to the house at approximately 7 a.m. Monday and leaves around 5 p.m. Friday — that includes nights, too.
I watched the lady deteriorate in body, mind and attitude over the months, blaming the extended relationship and job requirements on the grandchild. Only trouble is, it would take a mighty big crowbar to separate her from that grandbaby.
She also noticed things were changing, and not for the better, attributing the problem to chronology and weight. “If I would just lose 50 pounds, things would be a whole lot better around here!” she said.
To bolster that supposition, she pointed out that she was always tired and most frequently out of breath. Puff! Puff! Wheeze! Rattle! Then the lady got where she could not pick up the grandchild — a physical impossibility. Suddenly, it is my job to waltz the young one from the bed, chair, floor — anywhere she may have zonked — to her bedroom. After all, I am a man and these things befall my lot.
One day her wind did not return, as hard as she tried to fill her aging old lungs. This got her attention more than the hounding of family. Off she goes to one Dr. Sam Taggart, who has watched over our less than successful healthy well-being over the years. Sam says he is our “sick” doctor because we never consult him unless something is amiss. True.
It doesn’t take ol’ Doctor Sam long to send the lady packing to a cardiologist in Little Rock for tests. “Now! Not next week, not a few days from now. I want you in his office tomorrow!” he exclaimed. Uh, oh.
We hit the heart doc on Wednesday. After the probes and punctures, he makes her a resident of the heart hospital on Thursday morning, surgery scheduled for Friday morning. Hmmm, things must be a little bit serious here!
We talked Thursday night and I told her, “Your attitude had been less than charming for a long time now.”
“Yes, I know. I’m just so mean to that baby sometimes and I feel really bad about it!”
I keep waiting for her to include her husband in this confession, but it never comes. I see.
This lady quit smoking 25 years ago, watches what she eats (except for potato chips), doesn’t drink and is not employed in a stressful vocation any longer. Hey, Mrs. All-American healthy. Family history also is on her side.
Friday morning comes, but the Lasix has been too good; she is dehydrated. They then begin to try and get some moisture back into her old bod. Surgery postponed until Monday. Monday comes, another detour until Tuesday morning at 11, which finally arrived at 3:30 p.m. She gets a general heart make-good. I look at the peripheral damage on her chest, stomach and legs — good Lord! I’ll never complain about my knee surgery again. Ever. She’s wired together like a zither.
Things only go so-so in the healing process. We’re there for nine more days while she attempts recovery on her ancient self.
Ever notice a hospital room after a patient’s stay? They come with a little black overnight bag with more zippers than a Hell’s Angels’ jacket and it takes two pickups to get the post-op residue home.
My brother-in-law told me how good the food was at Arkansas Heart Hospital. Uh, Jeff, you must have had your taste buds removed when they sawed on you. They brought the lady a bowl of cream of mushroom soup. Looked and tasted like wallpaper paste.
I was sitting in the room when they asked if I would like to eat with the lady, that they had an extra tray. My first thought was “What happened to the original recipient?” It was a pork chop. Maybe he got a look at it and just passed on the occasion — or just passed. Started once to take it home to the dog, but I have nothing against the dog.
Hal Akins, brother of the late Vicki Robinson, lives just up the road from us. Now, ol’ Hal got on a health kick a few years ago, lost 60 pounds, cut out the smoke and began to make plans for retirement. Went into Dr. Lorio and got a new knee, took up walking with a vengeance. Three weeks after he received his new plastic joint, I found him in a ditch with a grass trimmer. That’s determination.
He was a produce manager for Safeway Stores and transferred over to Harvest Foods with the buyout. That’s about all he has ever done. Big fruit and vegetable gnawer. Retiring last year, he found he could make more money by being called in to put out fires, so he hung around. Too bad. He ended up at the hospital at the same time as the lady with a quintuple bypass. Lord, that’s more plumbing than a nuclear sub.
I know my time is coming; heredity says it is. I just don’t want to go. That’s a one-way ticket to having a cracked rib cage! I’ll just stay paunchy, sedentary, and generally all-around worthless. Atta boy!
I always figured I would be the first to go, either in physical collapse or health issues because I have been less than careful about my well-being. Somehow or another, it just doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s because I am the caregiver for once, a role I have not had before.
Ron Meyer is cartoonist, columnist and former general manager of the Courier. His column appears Friday.
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