Much as I try to convince people otherwise, I’m not the
uncaring creep I aspire to be; human suffering gets to me when I’m face to face
with it—though in the abstract I still claim to be the ultimate social
Darwinist, casually explaining why large numbers of innocent children should
not be saved from disease or starvation.
Jeannie has been suffering for a while now. A non-healing
leg ulcer has been festering, refusing to budge against the slew of antibiotics
being hurled at it. Visiting nurses have been coming over regularly, and even
the doctor has made a couple of house calls to treat the wound, so things are
without question serious. On top of the
pain she’s dealing with from her original problem, she has fallen several
times, in one case injuring herself pretty badly and worsening her already tenuous
balance. The only option not yet considered is hospitalization with IV
antibiotics, followed by rehab in a nursing home. That, in fact, may still
happen, at which point the question will become what to do about my dad.
I brought that question up to him yesterday while we were
out taking care of errands. “Well, I guess we’d have to get someone to come in
and help,” he said. I agreed, and said maybe we should start looking at that
option anyway, since Jeannie’s ability to manage even basic domestic tasks is
now severely limited.
Always at a snail’s pace, we’re moving in that direction. I
spoke with my step-brother, who agreed the time is right, and he’s been talking
to some of his connections. I’ve suggested an agency, which though more expensive
than a casual helper, is at least licensed and bonded. I’m betting that they’ll go for the cheaper
option, and even so, put that off for as long as possible.
While visiting yesterday, I tried to maximize my usefulness;
I did the shopping, mailed letters, filled prescriptions, and bought a new and improved
cane—I even prevailed on Jeannie to let me pick up ingredients for that night’s
dinner and get it going in their crock pot. She agreed to that, a clear
indication of how disabled she is. Out of deference (or revenge) I prepared a
modified version of one of her old favorites—Sherry Beef augmented with cream
of mushroom soup, canned mushrooms and dry onion soup mix. She used to serve it to company, and it
actually wasn’t bad as long as you didn’t know the ingredients.
I did mess up on one thing: though mint-flavored milk of
magnesia was on the shopping list, I neglected to grab some. Jeannie was
distressed, as her painkillers are making laxatives more necessary than usual—but
under questioning, she admitted she still had a bottle of the regular
(non-mint) flavor…and I found a full bottle of another brand of laxative which
would have exactly the same result, even if it didn’t taste like mint. So on
that score, I put my foot down, saying I really couldn’t go back to the store,
despite Jeannie’s obvious dismay. But I guess my compassion has its limits, even
when someone is suffering.
