Life in Rehab

"Tried to make me go to rehab but I said, 'No, no, no . . .” My father has been recovering in the skilled nursing unit at his retirement village for 2 weeks, with 1 more week to go before being released back to his apartment. He is dealing with everything gracefully, and I’m spoiling him to soften the blow. I spend many hours distracting him. I smuggle in food every day to bribe the nursing staff and to keep Dad’s spirits up: donuts, bagels, a meatball sub. I’m holding back on the sugary treats because his doctor lectured us to focus on protein. Dad uses my laptop to watch Mel Brooks and Monty Python movies. I took it back to write this post and noticed the keyboard was full of greasy crumbs.

I’m getting lots of feedback, mostly that I’m an amazing daughter when so many other kids never show up, which makes me sad. Sometimes the comments catch me off guard. Norm, my father’s neighbor, who is dying from COPD and dementia, told me “you look sexy, can I grab a feel?” I declined his kind offer. I saw him later that day and he said: “You look tired.” I explained that I excelled at being both sexy and tired. He said he could relate. I held his hand.

Yesterday was Staff Safari Day – the dress theme was jungle shirts and helmets. One hard-of-hearing lady misunderstood and thought it was Sephardic Day. That actually makes a lot more sense for a Jewish facility.

I’m consulting with the management team to upgrade the safety pendant system. I showed some of the residents Dad’s new watch to prevent falls, and asked them “would you wear it?” They argued about its merits. The director of the independent unit told me afterwards: “When I fall, I won’t press any button. I don’t want to be old and broken. I would just let myself go.” I understand.

Sid is progressing; he gets constant physical and occupational therapy. Using a walker, he travels to his apartment each day to visit his comfortable recliner. We’ve rearranged the bathroom to be safer, incorporating his suggestions. Adjusting the height of the shower bench was no easy task; Mom used it for a decade and the legs were rusted into place. I realized that Dad’s toolbox, brought over from his old house and stashed away in the ancient file cabinet, would finally come in handy. I found the WD-40 oil and a ball peen hammer, and whacked away at the bench. Dad was impressed that I was so handy. The supervising therapist was slightly scared, asking me “what exactly do you do?” I smiled and responded “whatever is necessary.”