I'm one of those people who sleeps with their cell phone. It's an annoying, yet necessary, habit that I developed last spring when we brought my dad-in-law, Pepaw, up to Illinois from Florida so my husband and I could care for him and what I suspected was his Alzheimer's.
I got a lot of strange calls from Pepaw at all hours when he got into an angry and paranoid phase last summer. When we had to move him into a secure Alzheimer's facility in August, he was not a happy man. Yep, the staff would call and say, "Well, guess what he's done now …"
Luckily there hadn't been too many Pepaw emergencies in the last couple of months, but I never let that phone slip out of my sight or reach 24/7. His doctor just switched his meds a few weeks ago, and the good news last week was that he had handled the change pretty well. He seemed to be sleeping and eating better.
We're trying very hard to put some weight on him, because at barely 120 pounds, he's burning off everything he eats by his obsessive "riding the rails," or walking continuously inside the residence. He has to touch every railing as he strides endlessly down the long corridors. He's become quite a fixture as he passes the staff and other residents again and again and again …
I had trouble sleeping Wednesday night because I had developed a cough that wouldn't let up and my voice couldn't make up its mind whether it was coming or going. I decided to not turn on my phone alarm Thursday morning because I needed the rest. I don't have time to get sick!
At about quarter 'til 8 that morning, my cell phone rings. Who the heck could it be? My family and friends know I sleep late most mornings, especially recently as I'm on a writing binge to finish the stroke book. I didn't recognize the number and could only muster a raspy "Hello?"
It was the nurse from Pepaw's residence. He had gotten up from a chair in the lobby, apparently became wobbly and fell to the floor on his bottom and complained of pain. They were trying to get the portable x-ray machine to come by so they could make sure he didn't have any broken bones. As his healthcare power-of-attorney, I gave them the go-ahead and asked that they keep me posted. They would.
My coughing returned in a rush. Please God, keep Pepaw healthy because I can't go down there today to care for him. That usual 75-minute drive there after this week's Midwest blizzard was not high on my list of things I wanted to do. I wish he were closer, but this facility was the only opening at the time we needed a place to keep him safe last summer. It was the only thing we could do to adequately protect him, and they treat him so well.
Mid-morning after I went back to bed, the staff called again and said the portable unit was not available, and they needed to take him to the hospital for the x-ray. I again gave the go-ahead with a squeaky and uneven voice and e-mailed Roger on what was happening with his dad. Just pray that nothing is broken!
At 1 p.m., I got the bad news: Pepaw had broken his right hip. "Aw shit!" was all I could utter, followed by another coughing fit. I was given the number for the emergency room and called. After I assured them that I was not the patient with my raspy voice, I asked what could be done for Pepaw. Since he had been so mobile, they would perform surgery to place a pin in his hip. After giving my permission, I wanted to cry when I got off the phone. Poor Pepaw! My heart was breaking for him because they had to use some minor restraints to keep him from climbing off the hospital gurney.
I called Roger and squeaked that he needed to be there with his dad at the hospital because he was likely confused and in a lot of pain, though the hospital staff assured me he was being monitored closely and being given pain medication. Roger said he'd come by and get me and we'd go together.
After I hung up, I realized I was too sick to go to the hospital.
And then I started to cry. Damn! Damn Alzheimer's! Damn stubborn old man who can't sit still for longer than an episode of Walker, Texas Ranger! And damn me for being sick!
The pity party evaporated pretty quickly as I talked with Lisa, one of Roger's sisters after notifying all the siblings. She issued an official order: "Get your butt back in bed or I'll have restraints put on you! GO TO BED!"
Lisa was right. I needed to get well quickly so I could be with Pepaw when he is moved after his hospital stay and continues his therapy. I could not be the caregiver if I didn't take care of myself first. This was the responsible "selfish" decision, the same mantra I give every other caregiver I meet.
When Roger got home, I told him I couldn't go. I was too sick, and there was absolutely nothing I could do for Pepaw now. Even if I wore a goofy mask, I couldn't and shouldn't be anywhere near Pepaw to avoid any risk of infection. Roger could be there with him that evening, and I'd be there in a couple of days.
As I watched him drive away, I did the smart thing and went back to bed. I had to let go of my worries about how Pepaw would adjust to the therapy ahead and whether he was feisty enough to beat this unexpected trip. I couldn't fix him right now, but I could fix me, and that's how I can best help him. I texted Lisa and let her I was staying home.
My phone buzzed a few minutes later with the message, "Good girl!"
And then I shoved my phone under its own pillow so both of us could sleep.
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