Book of Job

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.