TBT Reprint from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by. 

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Weebles Wobble

If I plan to visit the Weebles for the sake of a visit and not a trip to Market Basket or a ride on the Tunerville Trolley, I keep them on a need to know basis. If I decide not to go or something comes up, dealing with their disappointment is like dealing with toddlers. There’s a lot of whining. It’s easier to call them last minute to ask if they want some company.

I was planning such a visit one Sunday. I thought I’d drop in for tea, run some diagnostics on Dad’s computer, and have a nice visit. That Sunday morning I debated. Would they behave? I wasn’t sure I was up to watching another round in the Weeble Weight Division. Still it wouldn’t hurt to score some brownie points. I’d take the Young One along and she’d be the favorite grandchild du jour. So after lunch, I made the phone call.

“Hello?”

“How would you like some company this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I think you’d better come.” Dad’s voice sounded strained.

“What’s the matter?”

“Ma fell.”

“Ok, I’ll be there in an hour.”

I grabbed the Young One. We stopped for gas and a box of donuts. I wasn’t worried that Ma fell. She falls at least a couple of times a month. It’s like that little jingle. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.

When we got to the Weeble’s house, Ma was sitting at the kitchen table. She was still wearing her housecoat, and Dad was wearing his usual hang dog expression.

“How are you?” I put the box of donuts on the counter.

“I fell. See?”

The ball of her thumb was swollen to the size of a softball.

“I can’t move my shoulder.”

“That’s not normal. Let’s get you dressed, and take a trip to the emergency room.”

There was no protest. None of the usual hemming or hawing. I helped Ma get dressed. We found the “pockabook”, went on the treasure hunt for the checkbook, and made sure the insurance cards were in the zippered section of her wallet. Off we went to the hospital.

I pulled up to the emergency circle and stopped the car. Dad was halfway to the ER entrance. “Hey!” I yelled. “Get a wheelchair for her.”

It must have looked like a Three Stooges routine getting Ma into the wheelchair.

“Move the leg rest out of the way.”

“Put your feet on the metal plates.”

“Her legs are too short, she can’t reach the metal plates. They have to be adjusted.”

After much pushing and pulling levers, Ma was in the chair. Dad was halfway to the ER entrance. “Hey!” I yelled. “Take her with you!” He looked at me with a puzzled expression. “I can’t leave the car in the emergency circle. I have to move it. Take her in and get her registered.”

With Ma’s handicap placard, I was able to get a handicap space a few steps away from the emergency circle. A nice perc. When I got to registration, Ma was still going through the process. It seems a new system was installed and the receptionist wasn’t familiar with the procedure. After fifteen minutes, Ma was registered and we sat in the lobby waiting for her to be called. Fortunately, or so it seemed, the ER was quiet. After a few minutes of waiting, the triage nurse took Ma to an examination room.

“How did you fall, dear?”

“He went to church, and I had to prepare the meal…” and then Ma launched into the “He’s Stupid” song. “No one does anything for me.”

“You didn’t walk to the emergency room.” I think I said that aloud.

After an hour, the attending physician ordered an x-ray. Ma was wheeled away and Dad and I were told to wait in the lobby. Where we waited and waited.

“So, Dad, when did she fall?”

“Oh, this morning.”

“And if I didn’t show up what were you going to do?”

He just looked at me.

“Next time, you call 9-1-1.”

“But she’s fallen before. Like the time I found her on her hands and knees in the closet…”

“Yes, and you should have called 9-1-1 then. She could have had a diabetic episode or another stroke.”

“I was able to get her up.”

Some days it just doesn’t pay to chew through the straps.

The emergency room started filling up, and as the Young One observed, people who came in after Grandma were going home. Dad had found an old crony whose wife was also in the emergency room so they kept each other company. I went to find out what was taking so long.

One of the nurses directed me to the examination room. Ma had her x-ray and had been brought back. Her arm was propped on a pillow. She was wearing a sling and had an ice pack. A blanket was draped around her shoulders and she had nodded off. I waited a while longer and then went back to the ER desk to talk to the attending. She was busy dictating charts. Gave me a wait a minute sign. It was more like ten minutes.

“I have your mother’s x-ray.”

“Good may I see them?”

We went to a light box and the image of Ma’s hand floated on the screen.

“She’s fractured her wrist. We’ll put her in a splint.” As she said this, another nurse wheeled Ma into a room on the other side of the ER desk. I followed along and watched as Ma’s hand was wrapped in a temporary cast and aced bandaged. Ma was wheeled back to the examination room to wait to be discharged. By now the emergency room was hopping. Some poor soul was put in the room across from Ma’s. He was either on drugs or intoxicated or both. He was yelling and screaming. A security guard was sitting outside the door. Dad wandered over to the security guard for some male company and a chat.

“God bless you,” I mouthed to the security guard.

“Aw, he’s cute.”

“You can have him on a BOGO.”

He laughed.

After more waiting, I went in search of the attending.

“What’s going on here? We’ve been waiting four and a half hours for a broken wrist. Are you finished with her?”

The attending became quite indignant. “I’ve been busy. I want to evaluate your mother. I don’t think she should go home. She’s not steady on her feet and the cast will throw her off balance.”

“Then evaluate her!”

I swear sometime physicians see the old people, figure they have nothing better to do and so they are kept waiting.

The attending didn’t care for my attitude. I didn’t care for hers.

As I knew, Ma was going to have no part of spending a day or two in the hospital. The doctor had a cane sent up and Ma showed her she could manage quite well without assistance because no one does anything for her thank you very much.

Now, the attending might have convinced Ma to stay if Dad hadn’t been drumming into her each time she fell that she would be put into a nursing home.

Finally, the discharge papers were printed, Dad signed Ma out while I brought the car around the front.

And the real reason Ma wouldn’t stay overnight?

“I’m getting $2M and I have to sign the check and get it in the mail.”

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Himself Knows Best

I was relaxing in the sunroom, taking a well-deserved rest. I had me a week dealing with Prissy and her problems. You’ll recall the leaking pipe hysterics. Then there was a call because she had pressed several buttons on her channel changer and changed the picture to video snow.

The phone rang. Himself got up to answer it.

“That’s either The Eldest calling from work looking for a ride home or Prissy.”

“Herself is right here.” Himself handed me the phone and settled Himself in his La-Z-Boy.

I sighed. Prissy. I pantomimed hanging myself.

She had pressed the buttons on the channel changer again.

I looked to the heavens took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Open the front panel of the television and press the button on the far right side.”

She put the phone down, and I could hear her shuffle to the television.

“I did what you said, but nothing happened.”

I told her I’d be over. Hung up the phone and let out a feral yell. "Couldn't you have told her I was dead?"

Himself chuckled. “Cheer up. Soon you’ll be a Weeble, and you can call up people to aggravate them.”

TBT: Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, May 13, 2007

The Ductless Wonder

The Saturday before Mother’s Day began early with a dash to take my car to the shop for a brake check and oil change. I followed Himself in his car. We made the drop and I drove back and took him to the dojo where he taught budding grasshoppers. Home for a shower and breakfast. I made a mental note for the rest of the day’s schedule:

Drop The Eldest at work.

Get The Youngest Up.

The Youngest to help with the pre-holy day of obligation cleaning.

Wait for call from dealer re: auto

Pick Himself up from dojo after the beginner belt test

Pick car up from dealer with minimal damage to check book.

Stop at party store for table cloth, napkins for holy day table setting.

As the Eldest and I were getting into the car for her commute, Prissy called from across the street. Wanted me to go over when I got back.

I sighed deeply as this coffee klatch would cut a chunk out of the schedule. It’s far easier to go visit Prissy than to try to explain why I’m busy.

When I got to Prissy’s, she was crying hysterically into a dish towel. Crying is to mild a word. She was keening and couldn’t speak. The crying was reaching banshee levels, and I thought one of her children or grandchildren had died.

I kept asking what was wrong. She finally handed me a flashlight, pushed me towards the cellar door. I went downstairs with her following me still with her face buried in the dish towel.

“I don’t know where it’s coming from!” she blubbered.

In the dark recesses of the basement where the spiders lurk, I could see a large puddle of water on the floor. I bit my tongue. Yeah, the water on the floor was a pain in the butt, but nothing to cry hysterically over. Certainly, it deserved speaking in tongues, but not blubbering into a dish towel.

She pushed me toward the well pump. The foundation was soaked. I put my hand up to touch the wall. The light was so dim I couldn’t tell whether the wall was really wet or just discolored from age. Over the pump tank, I felt a fine spray of water on my hand and soon found a pinhole leak in the pipe that leads to the tank.

In between sniffles she tells me she called her children, but all they did was yell at her. They yelled at her to call a plumber. I had the same thought, but tried to keep my voice level and reassuring. What solves all sorts of problems? Duct tape.

I followed her upstairs to get the duct tape. She handed me a roll of electrical tape. I told her I’d go home to get the duct tape and for her to call the plumber.

When I got back, her daughter had arrived and was screaming and yelling at Prissy. Prissy had a small leak last year in one of the pipes over the washer. She had a few of the pipes replaced, but not all the pipes as her daughter told her she should. Prissy can be pennywise and pound foolish, a common OPD trait.

The daughter turned on me. “Duct tape isn’t going to work.”

I almost told her how well it would work if I took a piece and patched her mouth and then shoved the rest of the roll up….nevermind. I went downstairs with The Daughter hot on my heels. I patched the pipe. I went back upstairs and spoke to Prissy. Told her the patch would hold for a little while, but she needed to call a plumber and have him come over in the afternoon. I left as quickly as I could to the wails of Prissy and The Daughter’s yelling.

I tried to recapture lost time and got back to the pre-holy day chores. Not more than an hour went by when the phone rang. It was Prissy, and she wanted me to go over. I looked out the front window, saw the daughter had gone. I had just made a cup of tea so I told the Youngest I would be back on Tuesday and took my cup of tea across the street.

My first question was whether she had got hold of a plumber. When she nodded, I sat down, sipped my tea, and listened to how rotten kids can be. How she asks very little of them and how do they repay her? I nod sympathetically into my cup. Daughter screamed at her because of the leak and son gave her a hard time about coming to spread two yards of loam. After Prissy vented, I made my escape back to the pre-holy day obligations.

The Young One and I cleaned, dusted and vacuumed while watching “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” Just as we were leaving to pick up Sensei Himself. The phone rang. Prissy wanted to borrow a bicycle pump. Himself had some sort of foot operated pump, but this would be buried in the deepest, darkest recesses of the garage where the spiders lurk. I had already braved spiders for one day so told her didn’t have a pump. Not to mention the dealer was close to closing and I had to go pick up the car.

Himself had to listen to me vent on the ride up to the dealer. I’m amazed at the difference in the female generations. The need for someone else to solve the problem of the older generation. I’m glad I put the roll of duct tape on top of my black tool box, my purchased early by me Mother’s Day gift from Himself.

TBT: Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Only the Good Die Young

I've had me a day. Cut off twice, passed on the left in a no passing zone and all before 7:30 AM. I tried to tell myself this wouldn't set the tone for the day. After all, I was expecting delivery of my new photo printer.

I worked on a dreamcatcher for Red's Christmas gift. The smell of the leather and the tacky feel of the sinew were soothing as I wound and knotted my way around the ring.

Staples arrived with the printer, drum cartridge and paper. The driver stacked them neatly in the living room. Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance. Yes, the day had a rough start, but in spite of the cold, grey, drizzle, things were decidedly looking up. While the printer and drum acclimated to room temperature, I worked on the dream catcher, went to pick up Number 2 Daughter, and then sipped hot chocolate while chatting on the phone with my calligraphy buddy.

Call waiting is not really a good thing. Ordinarily, I ignore the beep if I'm on the phone, but I thought perhaps, this was Himself saying he would be getting out of school early and would be able to pick up Number One Daughter. I should have ignored it. It was my Weeble, widow neighbor across the street. She's screaming hysterically that she has an emergency, and she hangs up. I grab my jacket, dash across the street to find her Prissy-dancing in the kitchen with her hands flapping like loose birds. "Oh, I don't know what I'm gonna do. Oh, I don't know what's wrong."

Her oven is beeping incessantly, combined with Prissy's high pitched squeals, the muscles in the back of my neck to begin tighten. It seems the workman and his son had come to repair the furnace. Sonny thought he would be helpful and set the oven clock to the correct time zone.

The oven is modeled after one of the consoles NASA uses in Flight Control to launch the shuttles. There are no familiar knobs, just digital displays, touch pads, up down arrows. The oven was wailing, and a red door lock light was flashing. I pushed the Clear pad. The red light went out, the wailing stopped, but only for a second. F9 gleamed brightly at me in the display window. I took umbrage at the audacity of the oven to speak in tongues.

I asked Prissy if she had the manual that came with the oven. Fortunately, Weebles never throw anything away. She handed me the manual and while the display light kept mocking me, I tried to skim the trouble shooting section. I'm also wondering why Prissy fields her monkeys to me instead of her daughter. I'm cursing the daughter for picking out a Star Wars model oven for a mother who still thinks Flash Gordon is state of the art. Finding nothing helpful, I handed the book to Prissy and told her to call the 800 number on the back.

"Oh, oh, p-please," she snuffled as she dabbed a wadded Kleenex under her nose. "Would you call for me? I don't know what to do."

Okay, I'm...irritated (second choice word). I'm not only irritated with Prissy, but with myself for enabling her dependency and placing the call. You women out there, listen up! You don't need another person (DH, Significant Other) to make phone calls for you. You call the number, listen to the long menu, make a selection and wait in the queue. It is not brain surgery. If you have a problem with a piece of equipment, you call the manufacturer. Simple.

While waiting in queue hell listening to a cheery voice tell me how important my call was, I watched the clock tick closer to the time I had to pick up Number One Daughter from work. Letitia finally answered and walked me through steps to clear the oven memory. This involved cutting power to the oven. Fortunately, the service box was at the top of the cellar stairs behind the oven, clearly marked, and praise the Lord, she had circuit breakers! We basically rebooted the oven, twice, but it didn't work. I suspect Sonny in his infinite, good-hearted, stupidity had programmed the oven into the cleaning cycle. Prissy must have yanked the door open when the lock light came on. Letitia was telling me that contrary to what I thought F9 meant, it meant the fuse to the door was blown and would require a repair man. She kindly gave me the names of 3 companies in the area that serviced the make and model.

I explained to Prissy she would have to give them a call. After all, it was just past 5pm someone might still be in the office.

"W-would they come today?" Another piece of wadded Kleenex appeared.

My very first instinct was to say, "What are you," I didn't finish the thought, and I bit my tongue, looked to the Heavens and tried not to let impolite words bubble through my lips. "No, they won't come tonight." You'll be lucky if you see someone by the second Tuesday of next week, I finished to myself.

She pulled an envelope with the name of the contractor who installed the oven and handed it to me. Yes, I fell again, and I placed the call. Jim was sympathetic, only installed the ovens didn't repair them. He said to call the place where she purchased the oven, as it was only a year or so ago, the oven was probably under warranty.

I asked Prissy where she bought the oven. "On Southbridge St." This was not very helpful. She sank into a chair. This wasn't helpful either. I shuffled through a file folder of oven memorabilia, and found the receipt. Thank God Weebles don't throw anything away. I told her to call them, and dashed out the door without looking back.

Somehow, I've become a Weeble magnet. A comforting thought crossed my mind. I'm not going to die. Ever. Well, at least not for a very, very long time. Too many people depend on me. Besides, only the good die young and that leaves me out.