ismo

I had two adventures today. Neither one was entirely joyous. I decided not to try to take Madame out today, because I needed to be back in a timely fashion to be ready for my eye surgery. I picked up a mocha and some lemon cake. When I walked into the memory care unit, it smelled. So did her room. She was in sad shape when I arrived. Out of respect for her dignity, I won't describe the sight that met my eyes, but it was no condition you'd want to find an elderly loved one in. There was almost no one around. The social director was out on the patio with half a dozen of the residents, giving them popsicles. Madame apparently had gone to her room to use the facilities, and had encountered difficulties. I removed her shoes so I could help her change her panties etc. And there was a lot of etc. It ticks me off, not because I mind helping her, but because people are being paid quite a lot of money to do these jobs. They should be doing them, not me. Also she really needed a bath, and her room was a mess, but these are tasks I'm not about to take on. Mademoiselle says she has signed up her mom for a different and possibly better care facility, but she apparently doesn't have a plan for moving her yet. It can't happen soon enough.

Dementia doesn't get any better over time, and neither does visiting people who have it. Madame is very worried that everyone will move away, and she will be left alone. She didn't remember being visited yesterday, although I was assured that she'd had visitors. She has trouble making her phone work. She believes her car is outside, and if she could just get into and leave . . . . She thinks her mom and dad are still alive, and wonders why she doesn't have their number so she could call them. She came up with a new suggestion today: that if I couldn't drive her to her house, I could take her home with me and she would call someone to come and get her from there. I was able to put her off by telling her truthfully that I had surgery scheduled for this afternoon and couldn't take her with me. She tried again to escape when the staff let me out. It's pretty heartrending and sucked all the moxie out of my depleted moxie reservoirs.

Then I went off have my eyeball lasered, a process they assured me would take about three seconds. I was giving a numbing injection and ushered into the waiting room. And waited. And waited. One person after another joined me there, until there were seven of us. After an hour or so, we were informed that the doctor was performing emergency surgery. After two hours, a very nice young man came in with a basket of snacks and water bottles, and said he was sorry but the doctor was now on his SECOND emergency surgery of the day, but would get to us any time now . . . perhaps another twenty minutes? The seven people present were an unexpectedly congenial group. While the wait remained tedious, we had some pleasant and amusing conversations and enjoyed each other's company while it lasted. Before the others came in and started talking, I had been passing the time by looking at some art magazines. It would have been fun to do a painting of my temporary friends and call it "Waiting Room"--a record of a moment in time with strangers revealed as unique and endearing human beings. When the doctor finally came around, it really did only take a few seconds for the spae age laser to ZAP my eye. And here I am, none the worse for wear, though experiencing some of what doctors like to call "discomfort."

In other news, Queenie and the Fireman have covid!! No wonder she felt wretched. I tested myself being going out, and I do not.