Me: Fuzzy, then again we woke in the 4 range.
G: He works four hours, off at 9, and goes back but to class at 6.
We find him in bed his catheter tube strung taut as a guitar string from his wheel chair to the far side of the bed. We help him back into his chair to which his catheter is tied.
“Turn to your right,” G yells in his ear. He turns to the left.
“Turn to the right,” I yell in his other ear. That ear must hear better as he begins to turn to the right. G pulls on one elbow; I push with his arm. Eventually he falls not ungracefully into his wheelchair.
“He was in bed with his catheter bag still tied to his wheel chair,” I tell the charge nurse. "He doesn't understand he has a catheter in. Actually, he doesn't understand anything now." We nod together.
The really good aide finds an alarm and hooks Duck up chair to shoulder. Before we three roll off to the living room to chat, I ask, “Have they increased his meds for his shaking as we requested?”
“We asked for this last Monday,” G comments as he wheels Duck by. I echo the sentiment adding, “We’d like him to continue feeding himself as long as he can.”
No order had been written, and by now Duck’s hands are flapping as if he is waving hello or goodbye. The nurse, who is working a double shift along with the aide, writes up both the alarm and the meds as the previous umpteen nurses have not.
“Plaid is laughing,” says Duck making a Plaid face, a sitting up Plaid gesture his hands raised.
The G’s are not.
We leave before dinner and aim him at the dining room. Duck turns his chair away from the room saying, “I want to go to bed.” We chicken out, and after we tell the nurses that’s he’s headed back to bed, we run away home.
Later, as the sun falls into the sea, we find him in bed with the sides up and the alarm going off.
“That’s happened four times,” he tells us.
I bet it happened more than that. We can see he is safe, tell him not to get up….which he won’t remember, and we flee. Oh, we of little faith.