Inhome Care

Today I went back to work. I started out feeling excellent. I left feeling okay. I enjoyed the conferences and like the change of pace the day offers. For the past thirty five years I have wished it weren't limited to just one day but it's a precious day for which the district loses valuable ADA money. Chances of us ever adding another day are non-existent. Caro and Lael invited me to lunch. Teachers don't get to do that; our lunchtimes are short to begin with but usually get chewed down by children who drop their lunch trays or who aren't 'ready' to go when the rest of the group is. We had a whole hour today.

My last conference ended at four-thirty. I was in therapy when you texted me and said you were ready. How strange that message seemed. I picked you up at the hospital at 6:20. You have a pole and a 'Kangaroo', a machine that metes out hourly doses of nourishment for you. Your suitcase was full of cans of nourishment and weighed a ton. You need to have it operating 18 hours a day and can start trying to eat liquids and a little solid food. I was tense. Bringing you home is both great and stressful. It's great because you are back, and I hope you'll be back for a long time. I get to enjoy your company and talk to you, and I won't have to drive to the hospital and sit with you in that bare and sterile room. It's stressful because now I can't do whatever I want and go to bed when I'm good and ready. I can't watch tv and fall asleep with it on. And then there's Dad. He has a cold and I will be on pins and needles worrying about the nature of any interactions you might have with him.-----or if you are going to be insulted by him and want him to move out. I want you to stop sweating the small stuff and to start seeing him for who his is now: an old man who is very different than you and who is starting to lose his marbles.