2:00 AM I wake up. Grandpa is sitting on the edge of his bed, fussing. Usually this is an indication that shortly he is going to get up and go use the bathroom. I realized I need to use the bathroom myself, and if he was going to sit on the edge of his bed fussing I’d go and come back and save myself the effort of waiting on him.
Cold urine greets my foot on the floor.
Oh, no. Not again.
Another step. Another cold wet step.
Is there any place on this floor that is dry?
I quickly fumble the light on, and see the disaster that awaits me.
My worst fear has occurred, in that it appears I didn’t wake up when Grandpa needed me most. The evidence says that Grandpa had to go to the bathroom and when he got out of bed he went to the closet door instead of the bedroom door. He has done that plenty of times before, and I’ve always woken up and directed him to the right door. Tonight, too tired, sleeping too deeply, or for whatever reason, I didn’t wake up and Grandpa was left to his own devices. Finding no hallway and bathroom on the other side of his chosen door Grandpa probably tried to fumble his way to some “solution” only to end up having to go to the bathroom now.
It could have been worse, but on first seeing the disaster it was hard to remember that. The majority of the pee had formed a large lake on the linoleum, saving me from an even larger disaster. But some of the pee had made it beyond to the uncovered carpet in front of the closet door and at the foot of my bed. My bibles and notepaper which I had set on the floor at the foot of my bed after coming home Sunday night were only lightly sprinkled.
It could have been worse if (a) Grandpa had managed to get out of the bedroom and had fallen down the stairs, breaking several bones, or (b) instead of somehow getting most of his pee on the linoleum he had aimed himself at my collection of books stacked along the wall and instead of only lightly sprinkling my bibles had completely soaked all of my writing books, theology books, and fiction books. The first possibility would have been very bad for Grandpa. The second would have been very bad for me. I don’t care very much what clothing of mine Grandpa soils because clothes can be washed. Not so my books. So I looked at the lightly moistened bible covers, and dampened notepaper and saw how close I came to a much worse disaster.
So I cleaned up. The lake of pee on the linoleum required quite a bit of paper towels, but not much effort. The soaked section of carpet may have not required so many paper towels, but a lot more effort to press the carpet dry. Grandpa sat on the edge of his bed and watched. “Boy, that’s quite a mess,” he said.
I held my peace.
After I got Grandpa back to bed I lay in the darkness, thinking. I had been foolish to think I could keep my books stacked in the corner. I had to look at the room and assume everything within reach would get soaked in urine. The books, I decided, would have to go on the top shelf in the closet.
And then I lay awake much longer, thinking about Grandpa’s deteriorating condition. How much longer before Grandpa isn’t able to walk? Six months? We’ll have to get a wheelchair. Where will we get a wheelchair from? Maybe Doug has one. I’ll have to ask him. Should I call him up or wait until the next time he comes over? Once Grandpa has to be pushed around in a wheel chair he won’t be able to sit in his normal spot at the table. He’ll have to sit at the far side of the table, and we’ll have to move one of the easy chairs out of the living room so their is space to wheel him around to the other kitchen entrance . . .
Eventually I went back to sleep.
****
Other little markers of daily life:
–A few days ago I was sitting in the kitchen working on supper and Grandpa stood in the entrance-way, looking at me. Grandma came by and Grandpa said to her, “I can’t tell them apart.”
“What?” Grandma said.
“I can’t tell the boys apart,” he said. “I don’t know which one that is,” he said, looking at me.
“Oh,” Grandma said. “Well . . . just call him ‘Hey You.’ That should work.”
****
Saturday was a bad bathroom day for Grandpa. It seemed like every time he went to the bathroom he ended up getting another pair of pants wet. That evening, after taking care of another pair of wet pants I asked him if he had got his diaper wet as well. Grandpa, pant-less, looked down at the diaper he was wearing and proceeded to feel the outside.
“No,” I said. “Is the inside wet?”
So Grandpa felt the inside of his diaper. “I don’t know,” he said. Then he held open the front of his diaper. “Why don’t you check?”
I did, but he was promptly embarrassed, realizing the nature of his own request.
Grandpa tries so hard, but his awareness and decision making abilities are slipping away.