I heard nothing this morning, no sound from below. You wonder. You wonder if this is it, did it finally happen, peacefully, overnight. Every morning this is my first thought upon waking. Part of you hopes, the other part is scared.
If I tiptoe halfway down the stairs I can peer into the den to see if Daddy is ensconced on his stained velvet chair in front of the TV. No sign this morning. So I tippy-toed further, in my nightshirt, and unlocked the front door for Bob, turned up the furnace in the den, scampered on into the kitchen to turn up the heat in here and was going to continue round through the dining room, a circle, and go back upstairs that way but at the last minute went back via the bar---and came very close to stepping in a pile of dog shit. Which had been deposited within the last thirty seconds. Whereupon Odd appeared around the corner with his walker, lickety split, for once, heading right for this pile.
Had I not chosen to retrace my steps to the den, had I gone the other way, I would not have seen the pile, Daddy would not have seen the pile, would have plowed straight through it with his walker with the tennis balls on the two front legs--and, gosh, wouldn't that have been pretty. So, really, I was lucky, when you think of it, because I only had a pile of dog shit to pick up, not skid marks throughout the house. This is of course before I noticed Odd was wearing different trousers than the ones I'd helped him into the night before, which meant only one thing. And, sure enough, there it was, right there in Odd's room, reeking. His brown sweatpants in a ball on the table, thank you, entwined around a filthy Depends.
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STAFF ON CALL:
Outside Bob, who cleaned the bathroom for me after Odd's second miss in 12 hours, which is above and beyond the call of duty. I hugged him. Tears in my eyes. He also re-printed the 75 contact sheet images from Peg's show that Annie and I threw out, never dreaming that Peg was going to make it out of the ICU or that she would mention "needing" these images every single day since first being carted off to the ER.
Dominick, who visited Peg at the nursing home for two hours then scurried over the mountain to take over from Bob so I could go see Peg and have a pedicure at Lucky Nails in Lee. Am now torn between marrying Outside Bob or the Vietnamese guy who gave me a foot massage.
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ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- Made asparagus soup and took to Peg, fresh from rehab/physio:
"Christ. You should see them in there--two frail old women who looked dead already being told to raise their arms, find a piece of puzzle--I mean--why do they bother!"
- Made a big chicken and leek and mushroom pie for the freezer for when Peg's fan Gary and family come from Oklahoma the end of May so she doesn't have to cook. She will anyway, so the pie is a waste, she will make Nine Hour Pot Roast (not nine hours to cook, nine hours to cut the onions for it, another nine to cut the carrots, and so on--she'll start it a week or so ahead).
- Scanned fifty pages of Peg crap I need to keep before she gets home and it all disappears again under socks and National Geographics and Mayo Clinic Health magazines about How To Spot Diabetes or Coping With Nasal Polyps.
- Wrote three more two minute Mother-Daughter dialogues for her website, which I'll record over at the nursing home with her tomorrow. In theory. If she stops obsessing about "getting her bottom up in the air". We--meaning me, the nurses, the doctor--want her bottom to "get air" so the bed sores will heal, and meaning she should lie on her side occasionally, not just on her back, but Peg has interpreted this to mean she needs to get her bottom higher than her head and is suggesting some sort of pulley system with weights, which is about the point where I stand up and say I have to getting back now, the 4:15 Amtrak to Boston is due past and I need to go throw myself in front of it.
- Dennis from Empire Estate Auction House in Albany arrived with a van and while Odd slept, took away twelve things from upstairs--chairs, settee, mirrors, a Maxfield Parrish, and a milk glass dish belonging to my Great Aunt Helen that features in its center a beaver (we think) coming out of the water and which will bring about seventy five cents at auction. Still. I love seeing stuff leave this place. Including me.
- Packed two out of three bags. Looked up to see Spurn Me Not Angel Honeybear aka The Collie, standing in my living quarters, which is out of bounds. "Get downstairs, you!" I clapped my hands and it ran out and off down the stairs. I then happened to pass by what we call the Tulip Bedroom at the other end of the hall and see a large wet circle of dog urine on the white carpet. What's annoying is that I have gone out of my way to treat this dog extremely well--walks, decent food, food on time, cuddles, pats, a Beggin' Strip before bed--and it craps in the den and then pees upstairs. I am a dog lover, anyone will tell you, but all I want to do is shoot the fucker.
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