Mornings, those with showers.
Every morning is panic mode for me. The instant I wake up three things happen. One. I must pee. Two. I must be moved. Three. I must say to Amy, "UP! ".
Amy does her best to : wake herself up, get the urinal, pull me to my back, uncross my legs, uncross my left arm, raise my head by elevating the top of the bed, positioning the urinal between my legs, pulling my right leg toward her, seating the urinal, pulling my right hand from beneath my right leg and waiting for me to activate my bladder. So far, we have done without the handful of "in and out" catheters still basking in a cabinet. (In case you are curious, no, I don't sleep naked as a rule but I do wear boxers simply because the search and grasp aspect of the job is far easier than if I were wearing tidy whities). So, after my deposit has been completed, Amy prances into the bathroom, jug in hand, and gloriously dumps the pee in the toilet, rinses the bucket and flushes. Said bucket returns to its home under the sink.
To get me out of bed in the morning requires ten times the diligence of getting me in at night. I'm generally in a breathing panic and trying not to snort snot all over my wife, I'm weak and stiff and shaky and clonising with my left leg. Amy is tired and groggy. She must first strip my shorts and boxers and then hoist me up by pivoting my prone, stinky naked body to an upright, sitting position by grabbing my legs with her right hand and cradling my head and shoulders with her left arm. I spin up and she directs my shaking feet to the disk. She has already pushed the tv against the wall and guided my Permobil near. She braces her knees against mine, reaches under my arms and pulls me to a stand. I manage to lock out my legs while she dips her shoulders and hooks my chin, where I lean my full weight on her. She spins me, plops me in my chair, puts my feet on the pegs, knees again on mine, grabs the left armrest, pulls it down, places my elbows on the armrests, grabs my shoulders, pushes my legs with her knees, pulls with her arms and slides my behind back in the chair.
Amy drives my naked ass into the bathroom. She blows my nose. She dips my electric toothbrush in a cup of salt laden baking soda. She brushes my teeth. I rinse, choking, and she again blows my nose. And again. Again.
Amy brings in the disk and places it on the floor of the shower in front of my commode chair (the one with a hole in the seat). She rolls me into the shower and lifts me using the aforementioned method, spins me and lowers me on to my shower seat. She backs up the wheelchair, turns and spreads my legs so I won't fall over, grabs the hand held shower head and turns it towards the shower corner, turns the faucet on and waits for the water to warm to the preset temperature, sprays my leg to confirm and then places head in cradle, aimed at my chest.
The advantage of having your wife as your caregiver when being aided in the shower is perhaps obvious, perhaps not. Okay. She gets in with me, dressed like me.
Washing me is tough work. Amy gives me a better shower than I ever gave myself. She washes my hair, face, pits, body, nether regions, she trims my nails, she shaves me, all for my health and pleasure. She is my one and only. She finishes by brushing my locks, drying me and deodorizing me. I'm wrangled into my chair. She gets dressed. She gets me dressed. She sticks me for my blood sugar and PT/INR tests, sometimes weighs me and wheels me into the bedroom while she pretties herself for the day.
Particulars may change from day to day, but I see this as a fair representation. More later. Please forgive my grammatical atrocities.
Every morning is panic mode for me. The instant I wake up three things happen. One. I must pee. Two. I must be moved. Three. I must say to Amy, "UP! ".
Amy does her best to : wake herself up, get the urinal, pull me to my back, uncross my legs, uncross my left arm, raise my head by elevating the top of the bed, positioning the urinal between my legs, pulling my right leg toward her, seating the urinal, pulling my right hand from beneath my right leg and waiting for me to activate my bladder. So far, we have done without the handful of "in and out" catheters still basking in a cabinet. (In case you are curious, no, I don't sleep naked as a rule but I do wear boxers simply because the search and grasp aspect of the job is far easier than if I were wearing tidy whities). So, after my deposit has been completed, Amy prances into the bathroom, jug in hand, and gloriously dumps the pee in the toilet, rinses the bucket and flushes. Said bucket returns to its home under the sink.
To get me out of bed in the morning requires ten times the diligence of getting me in at night. I'm generally in a breathing panic and trying not to snort snot all over my wife, I'm weak and stiff and shaky and clonising with my left leg. Amy is tired and groggy. She must first strip my shorts and boxers and then hoist me up by pivoting my prone, stinky naked body to an upright, sitting position by grabbing my legs with her right hand and cradling my head and shoulders with her left arm. I spin up and she directs my shaking feet to the disk. She has already pushed the tv against the wall and guided my Permobil near. She braces her knees against mine, reaches under my arms and pulls me to a stand. I manage to lock out my legs while she dips her shoulders and hooks my chin, where I lean my full weight on her. She spins me, plops me in my chair, puts my feet on the pegs, knees again on mine, grabs the left armrest, pulls it down, places my elbows on the armrests, grabs my shoulders, pushes my legs with her knees, pulls with her arms and slides my behind back in the chair.
Amy drives my naked ass into the bathroom. She blows my nose. She dips my electric toothbrush in a cup of salt laden baking soda. She brushes my teeth. I rinse, choking, and she again blows my nose. And again. Again.
Amy brings in the disk and places it on the floor of the shower in front of my commode chair (the one with a hole in the seat). She rolls me into the shower and lifts me using the aforementioned method, spins me and lowers me on to my shower seat. She backs up the wheelchair, turns and spreads my legs so I won't fall over, grabs the hand held shower head and turns it towards the shower corner, turns the faucet on and waits for the water to warm to the preset temperature, sprays my leg to confirm and then places head in cradle, aimed at my chest.
The advantage of having your wife as your caregiver when being aided in the shower is perhaps obvious, perhaps not. Okay. She gets in with me, dressed like me.
Washing me is tough work. Amy gives me a better shower than I ever gave myself. She washes my hair, face, pits, body, nether regions, she trims my nails, she shaves me, all for my health and pleasure. She is my one and only. She finishes by brushing my locks, drying me and deodorizing me. I'm wrangled into my chair. She gets dressed. She gets me dressed. She sticks me for my blood sugar and PT/INR tests, sometimes weighs me and wheels me into the bedroom while she pretties herself for the day.
Particulars may change from day to day, but I see this as a fair representation. More later. Please forgive my grammatical atrocities.
Oh good Lord, has mom read this yet? I'm pretty sure you will max out her TMI-ometer at least a few times (which, knowing you, was at least half the motivation behind this post). You'll be lucky if she doesn't drop you on your naked, wet a$$ next shower day. Good luck with that! :P
ReplyDelete