How Hard Could It Be?

Chapter One: Expect the Unexpected As I led Dad toward the shower potty chair, one of my slippers lost traction. Dad and I both slid gently down to the floor. I lay flat on my back, clothed in my robe and pajamas, with my head and shoulders inside the walk-in shower. Dad, in his T-shirt and Depends, sat—actually squatted—on my hipbones, facing and straddling me. I knew we were in trouble, but it felt so ludicrous that all I could say was, “Oh!” Dad looked down. He always looked down. His head was perpetually bent forward. When my face suddenly loomed into his view, he arched his eyebrows in wide-eyed surprise and exclaimed, “Well, hello dere!” We both laughed. He had mild dementia, but he remained blessedly himself.

I bent my knees to give support to his back. Dad settled comfortably on my hips, waiting to see what would happen next. He wore big, built-up shoes that had enabled him to walk and stand since childhood polio had shrunken his left leg. But even wearing his supportive shoes, he wasn’t capable of lifting himself up and off me there in the shower doorway.

We looked at each other, and I said emphatically, “Don’t go to the bathroom now!” We both laughed again, too heartily, giddy, bewildered. I could feel my foot still slipping along the floor, loosing my thigh from his back, so I kicked off my slippers for better traction.

“I’m going to call Mom,” I finally said, to prepare Dad for loud yelling. “If I can get her to bring me my cell phone, I can call Cecil to come and help get us out of this.” Dad smiled, nodded, and looked around. He was amused, not at all upset. He knew Cecil was strong enough to help and a good enough friend to put up with surprises. I could have called the fire department for strong, young men to come and lift Dad off me. But that would have required the phone as well.

After a few good tries, I stopped yelling for Mom. She wasn’t hearing me. We’d left her in the TV room at the other end of the condo. We’d been telling her for a long time her hearing was getting worse, but she would have none of that. A friend once asked me, “Margie, do you realize you say everything twice?” I had developed the habit of repeating myself for parents who didn’t hear well.

I had to think. I didn’t want to keep yelling until a neighbor might become concerned enough to find us. At that moment, I didn’t know my neighbors in this condo well enough to want them to come to my rescue.

Dad sat unconcerned. He trusted me. “Okay,” I said, “here’s plan B. I’m going to grab onto the safety bars here, and that one up there behind me. I’ll pull up with my arms and lift with my legs to make myself into a table.” Dad was at least thirty pounds heavier than I was, but I knew he would help with his legs when my adrenaline got him high enough. Silently, I hoped the bars wouldn’t pull right out of the wall. “When you’re level enough, just slide off me and onto the potty chair. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dad said, eyeing the chair as his target. He understood his mission.

It took three attempts for me to get him high enough to accomplish the transfer, but we finally made it.

Dad never did have his BM in the shower potty chair that day. That had been my brilliant idea until trying it showed obvious flaws. I’d thought how clever it would be to just clean him with the moveable shower nozzle after he was done. It probably would have drenched us both. Dad tolerated me as his primary caregiver, but we never tried that plan again. We just used the toilet. He stood. I wiped. Simple is better.

Later, Mom said, “I was in the bathroom at the other end of the house, so I didn’t hear you.” We lived on the second floor of a four-story condominium, not in a house. As our lives had changed, we slowed the relentless differences by speaking as if much were the same. The “refrigerator” was still the “ice box” because that made our home more familiar. My parents’ agreement to move in with me had required a huge adjustment for all of us. Skilled adapters, we faced what we needed to and fudged the rest. After that day’s experience, I started carrying my cell phone with me everywhere.

That day was when I knew we would overcome all obstacles. The experience felt like a kind of crucible, a point of definition, of no return. It epitomized the audacious, wonderful madness of caring for one’s aged parents. What was I thinking? I decided if we could get through that, we could get through anything together.

Let me tell you how we got to that day. Then I’ll tell you how the story played itself out.