77. A Perfectly Painful Weekend

You’re probably expecting the second installment of ‘What The Fuck Is Wrong With You People’? After all, I said I’d be writing Part Two. Sadly, I’m still having some trouble pushing into the writing of that tale. I think part of the reason is that I was jumping too far ahead in the Campers from Hell Chronicles. I talked to Donnie the other night and he reminded me that we took a second trip to Nova Scotia, then regaled me with this and that tidbit, which nearly caused a broken rib from my laughing at the wackadoo events. I might want to include some of that insanity before we head to Sutton, Massachusetts. That’s where our family staked claim for their 60’ double-wide.

We’ll eventually go to Sutton, but in the meantime.

I’m not sure if I mentioned that I was sent for a timeout way back in November. I didn’t do anything wrong, still I was told to go home and once I got there, I was told to sit my ass on a recliner — for the rest of my life. The catch? There’s always a catch, isn’t there? In my case the catch was that nobody knew for certain how long the rest of my life was going to be.

I was just saying to Joyce that when all this started, I wondered — nope, I feared — I might not make it through last Christmas holiday season, and here I am, working through my seventh month. I tongue-in-cheek raised the question whether people reading the blog are drumming their fingers on their armchairs saying, “When is this shit gonna happen?”

Joyce cracked up laughing.

“You need to put that in the blog. That’s really funny.”

I love her sense of humor!

Okay, back to the blog. I use November 1, 2021 as ‘The Day’ I was put on the death march — or in my case, the death sit. As of today, May 23, 2022, my ass has been perched upon my super-de-duper recliner for 204 days.

I. Am. Not. Complaining!!!!!

I am simply trying to make this point: 204 days is a long time to be poised upon a posterior. Apparently, the fact that I have managed to keep my buttocks free of boo-boos during that span of time is not only remarkable, but from a medical standpoint — it’s imperative.

I’ve mentioned the list of questions Nurse M does e.v.e.r.y.t.i.m.e. she visits, which (by the way) is Monday and Thursday mornings. I’m not going to run the list again, even though it is currently taking a sprint through my head. What I will do is tell you that my time with my hospice nurse is serious business and she conducts herself in a serious manner. I, on the other hand, try to break the monotony from time to time.

“Any trouble sleeping?”

“I don’t sleep, I nap. Sometimes they are long naps that last all night.” A smile breaks behind her mask. I can tell by the crinkle lines near her eyes.

“Any nausea?”

“Every day. Different times each day. I usually push it back with crackers or Zofran.

“Are you eating?”

“Mostly crackers and Zofran,” she pushes a chuckle, “oh and danish. When I stop eating danish, that’ll be your sign that things are going south and you should notify the death squad.”

A quick shake of her head then she’s back to the interrogation. “Breathing?”

“Yeup. See.” I give her a few breaths in and out.

She laughs.

“Last bowel movement?”

“This morning, and you?”

She laughs harder.

“Headaches?”

“Yeup. It’s just starting. Thank you very much.”

She taps her hands on her thighs, lets out her final laugh and says, “Okay, let’s get your vitals.”

Most visits are sans any antics, but there are occasional hijinks. From where I sit, they are needed.

Nurse M was the luckiest draw I ever pulled. She is an amazing clinician, she is dedicated to my living a pain free life and being as productive as I can be. Most importantly, she gets me. She likes me. She laughs with me.

Imagine that!

A hospice patient and a hospice nurse finding enjoyment during the death process.

Who knew? 

The She Devil is a whole other story — just kidding!!!!! Kathy is The Best. She calls for a report every Monday and Thursday, and on several other days each week. I usually send her a text with my vitals as soon as my hospice visit ends, but I know she likes to hear my enthusiastic proclamation, “Stable Mabel,” so I give her what she wants via text. She called Monday night to check in on me and her brother — I’ll tell you why in a minute. At one point during our conversation, the topic of my ass-sitting marathon came up. The She Devil casually asked if I have any sores, or any skin-breakdown from all the sitting.

Nurses. Honestly. They get all up in your shit, don’t they? Without a second thought, they ask whatever question pops into their head. Am I right? You know I’m right and I can prove the point. I'm going to ask those of you who aren’t part of the buttinsky nurse profession a serious question. When was the last time you asked someone — anyone — about butt sores? Go ahead, I’ll wait while you tumble the question around, I’m gonna hum the theme song from Jeopardy! and I’m going to hum it twice because I heard the two-for takes a full minute.

Okay, I’m back. I bet no one has raised a hand.

That’s because sore asses, or asses with sores, are not common  topics of talky-talk — unless you are a nurse. When the She Devil brought it up, I realized that I neglected to include this topic on the list of questions Nurse M asks e.v.e.r.y.t.i.m.e. she visits. My bad! Anyway, that question and answer round goes something like this:

“How about your skin, any breakdown? Rashes? Sores?”

“Nope. Nope. Nope.”

“Nothing on your buttocks, back, legs?”

“Nope. Nope. Nope. Wanna see?”

These two medically trained individuals know there are big-ass problems if I get a big-ass boo-boo on my big-ass. Luckily, for the past 204 days, the only things that have caused me any pain in my posterior are Nurse M and the She Devil.

Just sayin! Just kidding!

They are the two most important people in my day to day life.

My Space

I’ve told you that my super-de-duper recliner is in the living room. For the most part, we’ve turned the gathering space at 183 into My Space, although there are times each day that it reverts back to Our Space. For instance, Tim and I share morning coffee in the living room, and Hadley usually eats breakfast on her rolling table set near the loveseat so we can chit-chat — mostly about her expanding Squishmallow collection and, on occasion, we try to figure out why some kids find pleasure in being disagreeable or downright mean. I always give that contemplation a steadfast go, but I eventually admit to the child that I’m still trying to figure that mystery out for myself. Then I caution the wide eyed wonder that it’s not just kids who choose to walk the miserable path through life, and that it’s best to leave them be and take the high road.

“Less traffic up there,” she parrots me now.

As I said, for the most part, the living room is My Space. This past weekend, it became The Bickersons’ Bumper Room. Why? Because Tim threw his back out and was having trouble climbing the stairs. How did he throw his back out? He sneezed. That’s it. One errant, “Achoo,” and he was doubled over in pain. Sadly for my mate, he suffers seasonal allergies — hence the sneeze that rendered him folded in two, but that was just the beginning. “Achoo,” moan. “Achoo,” groan. “Achoo, shit.” “Achoo, fuck.” “Achoo, Achoo, Achoo,” the poor bastard buckled to his knees.

What’s a man to do when his knuckles start scraping the floor like an injured Neanderthal? He crawls to his mission chair, gets his ass onto it, and spends the weekend hanging with his wife.

Filling our time together.

Tim does not have a FB page. He spends zero time on social media, but he knows the concept — that people engage with one another with comments or emojis and such, but that’s it. I know little more than that. In fact, when my FB accounts went online in 2020, The Guru came thisclose to telling me to stay the eff away from them. And by thisclose, I mean, she told me to stay the eff away from them. Why? Because I suck at technology — math and technology. Not my strong suit! Guru Jessica built a beautiful website and managed my social media accounts with panache, so I agreed to stay the eff away. She loosened the reins when I got sick, so you can blame her for that stroke of genius and any mayhem I’ve caused.

Anyway, back to Tim. On occasion, he’s heard me laugh at a comment someone made about a blog or a response to what someone said. He asked me why I was laughing. I answered him by reading this and that comment. While we waited for my Jessica to fetch his muscle relaxant from the pharmacy, he asked me to read comments about blog 76, The Impossible Dream. He immediately honed in on what I honed in on — everyone had stories about overcrowding their vacation vehicles.

He gave a little chuckle after I read his cousin’s comment about being too young to remember the actual events, but that she remembered hearing about the notorious trips for ten.

“Shit, whoever was standing at the vehicle on Merchant Street when it was being loaded was shoved into the car. One time, I laid across people on the back seats with my feet shoved out the window,” Tim laughed. Then groaned.

Game on! We tried one-upping each other.

“I remember lying in the back section of a station wagon with one or two others using pieces of luggage as makeshift pillows and being told to, ‘Stay put! Don’t let anyone see you!”

“Me, too, but I think I sat back there surrounded by suitcases so no one could see me. I could barely move from sitting Indian style —”

“Native American style —”

“Shut up,” he laughed, then moaned and groaned from pain.

“Serves you right.”

“Shut up,” he begged, then asked me to change subjects because his laughter was causing muscle spasms in his back.

“No problem. Do you still want to talk, or maybe zone out watching whatever’s on Hallmark, or maybe close your eyes?”

“Let’s talk.”

Silence. “Is there a particular topic?”

“I have tons of yard work to do.”

“Not this weekend, you don’t.”

“Achoo, shit, shit, shit.”

I turned on Hallmark and let the drone wash over him. He settled in then perked up when Jessie entered Ward 7 and handed off his medicine. He tore into the bag like a monkey on a cupcake.

Total digression here: I got that saying from an Everybody Loves Raymond episode called Bad Moon Rising. It’s the one where Debra had her period and she wondered why Raymond wasn’t kinder and more affectionate to her during her ‘women’s days’. After she raged at him from across the room, she stormed toward him demanding an answer, “Why? Why? Why don’t you hug me? Why? Why?” With no more room behind him, Raymond backed himself against a bookcase and said, “Hug you? Hug you? This is not huggable. You’re like a monkey on a cupcake.” I’m not entirely sure what that meant, but it cracked me up then, and it cracks me up whenever I use the phrase now. And I use it often. And if Hadley is within earshot, we both scream the word, “Monkey!”

We’re a weird little family, aren’t we? Oh, well.

Okay, back to Mr. Wonderful’s back. He tore open the bag, unscrewed the pill bottle and popped a muscle relaxant and two Ibuprofen into his mouth, pushed back further into his recliner and waited for medical-mercy. It came an hour later in the form of a nap. I turned off the television and did some writing.

Then I spent some time texting with Kevin Mullaney. For several years he lived in Pennsylvania, and owned or part-owned a number of horses. He lived in symbiotic harmony with the magnificent beasts. Kevin knows I’ve had a love affair with horses for decades and used to ride every weekend when I was a young woman. So, imagine my delight on the first Saturday in May when I received a text from Kevin asking me to pick my three Derby favorites. I chose my horses. He placed my bets. I lost, just like everyone else who didnt bet on the 80-1 longshot, Rich Strike.

This Saturday, Kevin and I spent time texting our Preakness picks, the second of the Triple Crown races. I chose my horses. He placed my bets. I lost. Thankfully Tim was awake by post time because I tend to get really loud during the run. Apparently, I got loud enough to have Hadley show up at the front door wanting an explanation as to what all the racket was about. She raised a hairy eyebrow and headed back home when she received her explanation.

Jessie fixed us a fruit salad and sliced cheese with crackers and headed upstairs for the night. Tim and I munched, checked the lineup for Hallmark movies, and opted to just hang out together. Before long … “Do you remember that Raymond episode —”

“Where Debra got her period?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You always say monkey on a cupcake because of that episode.”

“Huh. That makes me sound so predictable.”

“Consistent.”

“Not sure that’s any better, Timothy James.”

“Okay, Sheryll Anne. Why’d you ask about the Raymond show?”

“While you were sleeping I had a memory.”

“Good or bad?”

“Goofy.”

“About us?”

“Nope. Me and Mom. I remember coming home from school and her asking me to go to my room. I was sitting on Marjorie’s bed because it was the closest to the door. I was sort of sweating it because the whole scene was so unlike my mom. When I heard the second stair from the top creak, I knew she was near. Anyway, she walked in, closed the door behind her, and proceeded to take stuff out of a Zayer’s shopping bag. First out was a paper pamphlet, maybe 5 or 6 pages in length. It had a smiling preteen girl on the front. She handed it to me and said, ‘Read that after I leave.’ Then she handed me a package of sanitary pads and a strappy belt with metal hooks hanging from it. ‘You’re going to need these. The pamphlet will explain why and how to use them.’”

Tim started to laugh.

“It gets better.”

“I know, you’ve told me this before.”

“Mom started to leave, turned and said, ‘Don’t let Donnie and Marjorie see those things. And if they find them, tell them it’s a science project.’”

Tim cracked up laughing, did a series of moans and groans, laughed some more then settled back into a comfortable place.

“You know what I think?”

“No, and I kinda don’t want to know.”

“That was a forty-year science project from Hell.”

My mate moaned himself sore!

I realized once again that I absolutely adore my mother.

And I have absolutely no idea how I got onto this subject.

Period.

Part Two will be posted Friday morning.