Poop-tryptich

Another Kind of Sick

Morphine. It stops the pain. And other things too. After a week, the Miralax decided to work at 4 am. (Normally, she has to hold on to stay on the seat. Or leans on the rough textured wall for balance. We've had to repair her elbows when that happens. The paint takes the hydrogen peroxide better than her torn skin.) She had to help things along with the good hand early this morning. She wobbled as she spread and pulled with the left and braced the broken arm's elbow, keeping herself above the hole. Something akin to concrete released and splashed past the unsealed opening. And then there was a flood of rocks and mud and built up debris. Unbalanced, she grabbed the corner of the shower to stay posed, leaving a high water mark of the flood. By that time, the bowl had filled, brimming over the rim and to the overlapped bathmats below. The heavier items now lodged into the commode, blocking the exits, making flushing impossible and more messy. But the flow continued. Dad moved her to the port-a-potty, while things were still in progress. When I arrived for her shower at 8:15, Dad was still cleaning, mom sitting there with no pants in the wheelchair, smears still on the edges of her shirt. I could hear the laundry going and dad moved back and forth, still working on the cleanup. All that was left was the port-a-potty. We'd need that as her shower chair. "You know what's going to happen. Can you do it? I'm so sorry." I can do it. And I did, but not without retching and gagging down the hall and to the guest bathroom. This time, I made it to the bathroom without making more of a mess. Coughing and sputtering - trying to hide the sounds and stop the automatic reactions - I made it back to the bedroom with the clean and empty bucket. She sat there in the chair, head down. Shoulders shaking with Parkinsons and something else. I reached her chair to kneel and say it was ok. But we both felt another kind of sick. 

Hug Breaks after Bathing

After bathing, it's a long way from the shower to the wheelchair sitting braced just beyond the bathroom door. Mom squared herself to lift her leg above the 4 inch barrier and down another six to the floor. Less like DeGas and more like the effort to achieve PR at the gym, but just as awkward and strenuous. Her toes lift the bathmat with the next small shuffle. No longer safe for the softness and cusion of the bathmat and I make a note to remove them and buy something more abrasive and flat. Halfway to the door, we stop and I place my arms around her fully - letting go of the gait belt to press my face against her neck, wet again from her recently washed hair. I kiss her cheek and move to the front. There was a time when we were the same size, hugs were nipple to nipple and eye to eye. Now, I can lift her only so far or the perpendicular pains her. I bend and we press ourselves together, arms around each other - me sweaty from the steam and heat lamp, her slightly damp through her clothes from the nourishing tallow that calms the itching of her wrinkled and thinning skin. We stand there, marinating in the hug, leaning together like a tepee of logs and a blue flame fire at our hearts over the space below our chests. Hugs, a break from the trek before continuing the journey. She's strong enough to continue after a moment and we shift back, walking posture like my childhood when I'd walk balanced on her feet with my arms thrown to catch her hands above me. In tandem, we slowly reach the chair where she rests, closes her eyes while I gather the hearing aids, glasses, her pants, and the only shoes she can keep on her feet. I collect the towels, rinse the shower, remembering to peel the bathmats from the tile at the very end. When I move her down the hall and into the green folding chair where we will do her hair, we'll take another break and embrace again. 

Residue

The laundry continues. The bathmats are drying now in the sun of the patio and the winter's halos of odd heat. I've returned home for my own shower and tears. My own laundry and messes. It all seems...overwhelmingly pointless. How do things get so messy? I think that pot has been "soaking" in the sink for two days now. Empty the dishwasher, one bin at a time. One item at a time. More than one spoon is just too heavy. Empty the sink, one glass at a time. The silverware. And now that pot. Gather the rice and translucent onions from the strainer. Dump in the trash. Now wipe the cabinets. Done. That wasn't so bad. Better get the bread rising for the gathering tonight. One task at a time. Checking the recipe twice. Asking Alexa to remember the timing. Asking her again to see if I remembered to ask her to monitor the time. Now the sheets and making the beds. But first...another kind of cleaning. The feelings have become words, one at a time at first. And then phrases repeating. I remember De Gas' studies of women bathing. And those images become comparisons. Repeating like a song I cannot finish. Sit. Let the paper eat the words and the keyboard finish the sentences. The pain can live in the pixels for a while. They clear the residue remaining from the morning - ah - it's already 1:00 - adventures and loving. Another kind of cleaning. Another kind of residue. Of flushing. Of washing, cleansing. Of hugging. Of deeply loving and preparing for more.