La partie continue

    So this morning's fun wakeup call waited 'til after dawn, but that's the best I can say for it. I woke up colossally depressed. As there was nothing in my life or even dreams to have caused this, I had the strong sense that somebody close to me was having a bad time. Since there's only one person close to me at the moment, I had the even stronger sense that there was elder abuse going on in Blythewood again. Then the phone rang. I'm fed to the teeth with having fabulous psychic powers, I'll tell you that. Just once I'd like to be right about something when I WANT to be.
    Dad was trying and failing to get an in-and-out catheterization. So I called the nursing home and asked to speak to the nursing supervisor just like Friday night/ Saturday morning, and got to listen to a ringing phone. Called again twice more with the same result. The fourth time, when I told them that I was going to call the sheriff to send a deputy for a welfare check, I got results. The claim was that he had had in-and-out cath last night and the order was for every eight hours.
    So hopefully we are at another happy ending. Tomorrow I have to have a long talk with the Senior Care Planner about planning his care more seniorly. I will try hard not to yell and throw things. And I'm going to have an even longer talk with the nursing home nearer his dialysis facility begging and pleading for them to take him. And the John Is An Idiot meter points at Moron.

That was quick

    The Era of Good Feelings didn't last so long. Dad called Margaret at 2:30 in the morning asking her to call me, so she did. He had asked for and never received an enema, and wanted me to see if calling and yelling at somebody would help. I did so, and the supervisor I reached said that the nurse in question said that he had brought the enema but that Dad was asleep and he didn't want to wake him. Which makes no sense. Even groggy, Dad would push the call button before phoning and waking Margaret to phone and wake me. (I'll write down my number for him to cut out a step next time.) So hopefully it all works out, but there may be hell to pay.

PT

    So brother Frank came out to meet me at the nursing home, and mainly to see Dad of course. Dad was in physical therapy at the time, though, so we went down to see him go through his paces. He had been quite tired all day, and in fact had told me that he wouldn't mind if the therapists took the afternoon off. (He's paying the price for having told me on Tuesday that he was surprised when they didn't come back in the afternoon. I told on him.)
    But he did well. He had been there a while already. When we got there, he was mainly practicing standing. When he finished that, he rode the stationary bicycle for ten minutes. Heaven knows, he's lost muscle mass and stamina, but we were very, very encouraged. And we liked the way the therapist encouraged him to do as much as possible for himself without ever being mean. She was a good coach.
    I asked if he could use the pool. I always thought that that would be the best way for him to improve his strength and stamina gradually, as the water would help bear his weight. She'll have to ask a supervisor, but she was pretty sure that it would be OK. So I went and got him swim trunks just in case. Pretty hip Joe Boxers, too; he'll be the stylin'est man in the nursing home.
    So on net, I'm feeling a lot more optimistic about the whole situation, and much less idiotic about my choice of rehabilitation facility.

Meeting

    So we had the discharge planning meeting at the nursing home, essentially sketching out the plan for how Dad's stay should run. The physical therapy lady (whom Dad likes enormously, and she him) said what I already knew: it's going to take the whole 100 days Medicare will pay for, and maybe more, to get Dad ready to come home.
    I was able to share my concerns about his care, and I learned more about dialysis, since the senior care partner had been a dialysis nurse for eight years. I still don't believe that dialysis rids the body of all urine, since Dad has demonstrated that it doesn't. I think she's talking about people with higher degrees of kidney failure than Dad has.
    Regardless, I feel lots better about the situation. Margaret and I also visited the other facility which I had been thinking should have been the one I had chosen. Aaaand, while it's really great, he sort of falls between cracks in their care categories. He's not quite independent enough for assisted living, while he's a lot more on the ball than the patients in their skilled nursing wing. So maybe I'm not such a big idiot after all.

Another heartbeat

    It's a comfort in the night to have the kitty on my legs, to feel another heartbeat next to mine. It would be better if that heartbeat belonged to somebody from the right species of course. But there we run into that thing about wishes and horses again.
    Regarding yesterday's poop update, it turned out that the reason for the phone call was that they had no order to give him an enema and the nurse had to call the doctor for authorization, which was eventually granted. She didn't mention it in the phone call, but he then asked for in-and-out catheterization. The nurse's aide said that he would only get catheterization on weekends because he had dialysis during the week and "that takes care of all the urine." (I swear I am not making this up.) Anyway, he persisted and eventually, by late in the morning won through.
    When I heard all this, my first, second and third reaction was to yank him the hell out of there. He had been accepted to nearby and better Rice Home and like an idiot I chose these people, thinking that newer and bigger was better. Now I called Rice Home to see if he could still have a place there. Unfortunately, they no longer have room, but I'm going by tomorrow to apply anyway. Then I yelled and screamed and threw things (ok, I asked politely) until it was made clear that he needs enemas to poop and in-and-out cath to pee. And also got some of his mislaid laundry back. So not the worst day ever. But not the best.

Poop update

    (I don't have to give the TMI warning, do I?) I just got a call from the nursing home to the effect that Dad had asked for and received an enema last night and then had a large poop. I have no idea why they felt I needed to be alerted to this fact. I must admit to some major amusement. And really, it's very good news that they are caring for him properly. But this surreal experience continues, well, surreal.

Dadless day

    This is my first Dadless day in eons. He has dialysis, which means that his morning was tied up with physical therapy, his afternoon with dialysis, and after that he'll be exhausted. I feel largely bereft. I did have to go to the dialysis facility to sign a lot of the same kind of paperwork that I did at the nursing home. The dietitian there struck up a conversation with me. She didn't volunteer any criticism of UniHealth, but when I noted that they seem to be clueless, she said, "You picked up on that quick!" Everybody had good things to say about Rice, another nursing home that also accepted Dad and which is even nearer. So maybe he'll be moving quick.
    Regardless of which nursing home he winds up at, I've got to accept that I have to trust these zeebs; I can't be with him 24 hours a day to keep an eye on him, and wouldn't know what to keep an eye out for anyway. But it's hard and it's scary.
    Oh, I was able to get Unihealth to come up with the proper equipment for in and out catheterization and a staffer to do it properly. And I didn't even have to steamroll anybody. Much.

I suck

    That isn't a statement or even an opinion; just a feeling. I continue quite unhappy with my choice of a nursing home. I feel like I made the same mistake that Dad did with Mom: I chose the pretty-looking place without looking closely at the staff. My next worry is in and out catheterization. They don't seem to be too good at that either. Dad called it primitive. I need to lean on somebody to get him the most skilled nursing available, or yank him the hell out of there. Decisions decisions.

Buyer's remorse

    Even assuming that it really were the Taj Mahal, I'd probably still be having a fair amount of buyer's remorse about Dad's new nursing home. As somebody once said, nobody's perfect. His first meal there was satisfactory, but the second and the third were not so much. The staff who seemed so caring and crackerjack on my evaluation visit are bored, listless and gum-popping now. Though the ones actually checking on him in the room all seem good.
    I guess even at the Taj Mahal you don't get many Rhodes Scholars (or equivalent) willing to clean up other people's poop. So wherever I had sent him, I probably wouldn't be entirely satisfied. But I still think I could have done better, and I get the impression he thinks so, too.
    In the all's well that ends well department, I went out to get him sneakers for physical therapy. It isn't easy finding athletic shoes for a 90-year-old man with imperfect motor control who also happens to be six-foot-three. He told me he wears size 14, but neglected to add (and I neglected to ask) that he needs triple width. I found him size 14s with velcro fasteners, only to get back to the nursing home to find out about the triple width part. Fortunately, the store had the same style in 14EEEs, and were open until 8. So I fixed everything no problem. Yay!

That was quick!

    So, yes, Dad got his graft placed yesterday. It took two hours almost exactly; I was very relieved to see the surgeon again and moreso when he said the procedure had gone well. Aaaaand then... they moved him out. I got a call this (Friday) morning to the effect that he had a dialysis slot at the facility that I wanted all along and so he would be moving this afternoon. The nursing home needed me to come out and fill out a lot (!) of paperwork, so I did so. I've entrusted him to a vertically-integrated conglomerate; I feel like I sold my Dad to Amway. However, it's probably better than the Carlisle Group (Heartland).
    Regardless, he got over there by 2. I brought Margaret out shortly thereafter and we helped him settle in. Many, many staffers came around to introduce themselves and to check him out. We helped with the story as much as we could. He had his first physical therapy session, which went a lot like those at Baptist, but a bit more rigorous. We were able to get the TV working (except for NBC-- go figure) and I got them to bring an adjustable table so he'll be able to eat in bed.
    In general, everyone was very nice, but it was like they just opened yesterday. There were many lapses of common sense, like giving a bedridden person a desk phone. Anyway, it was a good start. Hopefully things just get better from here.

Graft

    Yesterday, the surgeon (Dr. Wilcox) came around to say that they would be installing Dad's graft (instead of a fistula) this afternoon. Later, a transportation guy showed up to take him down for a CAT scan ordered by his doctors. This proved to be of his head, presumably to make sure that the hematoma had healed. I signed the authorization for the graft. Having been raised by a half-Catholic half-Jewish mother was good preparation: if anything goes wrong, I'm already ready to think that everything is my fault.
    I called this morning. He went down to dialysis this morning; they're expecting to put in the graft at noon or 12:30. All fingers and toes are duly crossed.

Hanging

    The last I heard from the social worker is that Dad probably needs a fistula, but as far as it got was the nephrologist consulted another doctor about it. So now we're waiting to see what happens next. Meanwhile, there are three dialysis facilities relatively near the Blythewood nursing home facility, but unfortunately all of them are about a 20-minute ambulance ride a day (each way, three times a week, in the middle of summer in South Carolina). I'm going to try to get him a slot at the nearest one (6 miles, as against 7 or 11) with the idea of keeping him off the Interstate.
    In the longer run, there's another nursing home facility that's closer to this dialysis facility. If his physical therapy at UniHealth doesn't lead to a miracle cure, I'll probably be moving him there after the 100-day period paid for by Medicare ends. But I'd rather have a miracle and let him move in with Margaret as she wants.

Support

    Dad's girlfriend Margaret has always been inclined to show her love by feeding him sweets. This was considerably more endearing when he was controlling his diabetes with diet and occasional medication; less so now that he needs dialysis and frequent insulin. Last night, she brought some candy and shared it with him. Her daughter Linda said, "Mother, tomorrow we're going out to buy some sugar-free candy." (She knows of some tasty kinds due to having a diabetic son-in-law.) I was boundlessly grateful for the support.
    As I type, the hospital is trying to square away Dad's departure from the facility for the nursing home. I'm trying to find out where his dialysis slot is, and to explain that if he needs a fistula (which they say he does) it would be better for him to get it first (ie, at the hospital, where there are doctors) than after (at the nursing home, where there aren't). Like. talking. to. a. two-year-old.

Dreams (not mine)

    Dad seems to hallucinate a bit in the morning. Friday, he told me that the doctor had come around and brought a card, which the nurse would be installing on him later. He said the nurse poohpoohed this story. It was later that the nurse visited to say that the doctor had been in about Dad having a fistula put in. I have to assume that that was what Dad was talking about, and he just got confused. Unfortunately, he can talk and answer even when he's largely asleep.
    Yesterday, he was eating lunch and said that he was no longer on any special diet. Later, he called room service and tried to order a salad and a hot dog, but they refused. He said that they had called him before breakfast and said that he was back on a regular diet. Later the charge nurse came by to see if Dad had any complaints. I said no but asked her to check his diet. The regular nurse also dropped in and I told her the phone call story and she said that his breakfast had been the same old pureed stuff. The charge nurse reported that nothing had changed. So most probably he dreamed the phone call, too.
    He's on Dilantin because he had a seizure one day after his brain procedure. I wonder if the Dilantin might have something to do with the apparent hallucinations, and if it might be a good idea to discontinue it. One seizure in 90 years doesn't seem like it calls for anti-seizure medication for the rest of his life.

Schadenfreude

    Schadenfreude or Fahrvergnügen or some damn thing never works for me. This is odd for somebody who has claimed for ten years or more to be powered by bitterness and envy, but when it comes down to it, I just feel sorry for other people who fuck up even bigger than I do. Granted, it would be difficult to make worse life choices than I have; once you eliminate fictitious characters like Romeo and Juliet, the field is pretty small. But they're out there, and I only feel regret on their behalf. There you are: I even suck at bitterness and envy. If wishes were horses, I'd have made a million on JEOPARDY! and we wouldn't be having this conversation.

Crossing the Fistula

    Our current stumbling block is that Dad needs a fistula. This is neither an Eastern European river nor a particularly bellicose (nor kinky) vampire, but rather a permanent site (on the body) for dialysis, as against the catheter currently hanging from his chest/neck region. This would be a flat site, on the arm. This may be why the nursing home sent out a nurse liaison to see him rather than a marketing person. He also needs a dialysis facility near the nursing home, but presumably that is a lesser problem. Knock on wood.
    Physical therapy is again getting to be rare and cursory, I guess because everyone knows he's leaving soon. It would still be helpful; anything is way better than nothing. Hoping that it's better at the nursing home.

Cavalier

    I keep talking to people who are a little too enthusiastic about putting my dad in a nursing home in the boondocks and getting him a dialysis slot in the middle of town, with an ambulance ride on the freeways three times a week in between. I keep having to ask these people if they've ever ridden in an ambulance. (Answer again and again: No.) Or if they would put their 6'-3" 90-year-old dad in such a situation. Never seem to get an answer to that one.
    It's the farthest thing from funny that with all these people in the caring-for-people business, Autistic Boy seems to be the only person with any empathy or compassion. I made absolutely clear that if he gets a dialysis slot in Blythewood, he goes to Blythewood. If he doesn't, he doesn't. Shouldn't be a problem, but we'll see.

Nightmares

    In real life, I found a great nursing home for Dad. Anyway, a great-looking one, and one where the staff actually seems engaged, unlike the first two I visited. Also the residents seemed happy. Unfortunately, it's very inconvenient for visiting. However, there's at least one dialysis facility not far away. So if we can get him a dialysis slot out there, we're good to go.
    In dream life, the marble floors of the new facility were transformed into a building that I got lost in and couldn't escape. At all. Ever. At least it was a pleasant-looking place to be lost in. I also had another nightmare where I had grown cloned extra bodies for myself, and could switch from body to body, but one had drowned. Stressed out much?

Don't you love it?

    Don't you love it when people call you from numbers that you can't call back? Palmetto Baptist, I will say over and over again, is an outstanding outfit. But it's boundlessly frustrating when people call from a number that shows up on your caller ID, but which elicits a "this number is out of service" message when you call back. And if you call the main number and ask for the person and his/her department, you have maybe a 50/50 chance of reaching them. This doesn't exactly lessen stress levels in a stressful situation.
    With this smart phone, I ought to be able to write down names and numbers and titles. But that would require me to be a smart person. Maybe I'll just go 20th century and carry a pen and pad as well.

Nursing homes

    I remember the good old days, when my life was boring and carefree. Say, yesterday. The social worker told me which nursing homes accepted Dad. Neither is very good. Not happy. More anon.

Anon:
    I visited the two nursing homes that have accepted him, one solo and one with William. I wasn't impressed with either. Neither was a snakepit, but neither was very uh, faith-inducing. Neither staff struck me as particularly crackerjack. We have personal experiences with each at one remove. Malcolm's high school friend Raymond's mother-in-law stayed at one recently and had a very good experience; that is much the lower-rated one, though. Margaret's daughter Linda's husband stayed at the other and had a horrible experience. She said she had friends whose mothers had stayed there and had good experiences, though. I'm going to keep trying to get him in a better place, ideally one with a very short drive to a dialysis facility. In this weather, I don't want him spending an hour in an ambulance 3 times a week.
    The reason for all this, the social worker said, is "We think he's ready." When I talk to her again, I'm going to point out that they thought he was ready before and that was when he had the heart attack. And maybe he could continue his rehab at Baptist, where the critical care facilities are better than at any nursing home. Please?

The Fleet

    All TMI this time, I'm afraid. Run away! Dad asked the nurse yesterday afternoon for a Fleet enema. She looked on the computer and couldn't find any authorization that she could do one. We told her that he had already had three of them, and suggested that she check with higherups. I really don't know how to deal with recalcitrant people at all; was at least proud of myself that I didn't yell, scream, jump up and down or throw things. Much.
    Anyway, she checked with a doctor, got the OK and gave my dad relief. So all ended happily. I guess we asked nicely enough in the end.
    Meanwhile, Margaret was released from the hospital and came up to visit for a while. She's feeling better, but still has some pain. So she won't be able to visit as much as she likes. But the phone still works.

Should there be water in this?

    Dad (90, in the hospital since May 22) gets oxygen from a tube that passes through a little bottle which usually has water in it. The other day, I noticed that the water was nearly evaporated and last night it was all gone. I hit the Call button and asked for a nurse and when she got there I asked if there was supposed to be water in the little bottle. She said yes and almost filled it. On the side of the bottle in large letters are the words Maximum and Minimum. She filled it far past the maximum. Just when I start thinking the staff is competent, they pull something like this. On the other hand, isn't it delightful when the crises start getting so mundane?
    Margaret had to stay over another day, and will likely be staying with her daughter for a while until she's recovered. So it might remain a telephone relationship for a while. On the other hand, (sister) Anne and I finally have made Droid to Droid video conferencing a reality via Tango, so if somebody wants to pop for a $300 phone for her, we could make it video phone calls. It's hard for him to project enough from bed to make himself heard, though.

Knock on wood

    Every time I say anything about Dad making progress, something horrible happens. So you didn't hear me say anything yesterday about the previous day going well. Similarly, I'm not saying a word about yesterday going well also. Mum's the word about him getting up three times during physical therapy, marching in place for a while, then taking four steps forward and four back, and doing 20 leg lifts and 20 kicks. (Sitting, but still.) Nope, you'll have to torture me first.
    I think I can safely mention that Margaret leaves the hospital today. She might have to go slow with visiting for a while, but they can always stay in touch by phone. And I bet she comes visiting sooner rather than later (most probably immediately; she's already in the hospital after all). This would be great for both of them.
    Also, I got to talk to another dietitian and I think we have his meals squared away. Double portions on either meats or milk should be sufficient; the problem was that his albumen levels were low. Room service is really bending over backwards to please both him and me. As we're both highly irascible, this is very difficult. They are to be commended.
    Of course, you'll know Dad's really doing better when I start posting godawful poetry again. Hey, where'd everybody go?

What? A good day?

    Not, mind you, an electrifying one. Dad again had physical therapy (with diaper), this time with me present. This time he stood up twice, the second time taking three steps forward and three back. They had set up his bed in chair position, so they left him sitting up (without diaper) and asked him to stay that way for an hour. He did, then called for the nurse to return him to bed position.
    I also finally browbeat room service into adhering to the dietitian's order that Dad get double portions. Admittedly, double portions of crap is still crap, but at least he won't starve. The nurse if there was anything he wanted and he said "to get out of here." I like that feistiness.
    Meanwhile, Margaret had had a setback the previous evening in the form of a lot of pain and a very dizzy reaction to the painkiller. But by yesterday she was doing much better. She's supposed to be released today. So as I say, not the most exciting day ever, but I'll take it.

Another one-day roller coaster

    Yesterday, before I got there, Dad kicked off his day with physical therapy (with diaper). And he took some steps. So that was a great start. Also, Margaret had her hernia procedure, which indeed proved to be straightforward, quick and didn't even require general anesthesia. And as expected, the dermatologist told me I'm a hypochondriac, which was more than OK with me. (He didn't really, but the mole was nothing to worry about.)
    Unfortunately, when I got back from my dinner, Dad had his in front of him, but was asleep. When he woke up he was almost incoherent, but eventually conveyed that he was in trouble from diabetes. The nurses came and checked his blood sugar and it was very low. They gave him dextrose, two cups of orange juice, and kept him eating, and eventually it came up. But it was very worrying. The dietitian had ordered that his portions be doubled, but the person responsible for ordering his meals has now twice quit doing this after a day or so. This morning I called the nurse and the dietitian and am reasonably satisfied that they have got this fixed. He's still at dialysis, so I haven't been able to go see yet, but hopefully we have it squared away.
    I also heard from the social worker this morning. It was a different one, and it was like I'd never heard from the first one at all. So we started all over. She did make clear that they're just finding a place for him when he's ready to go; they aren't necessarily kicking him out immediately.

Winning

    Not, mind you, winning big. But we count 'em all. The physical therapists came yesterday, this time bringing a diaper. Though we didn't get Tim and Cory, it was Cory and a blonde lady whose name I never heard. Though Dad didn't exactly walk anywhere, he did stand up twice. If common sense had won out a month ago (ie patient is incontinent = might need a diaper for physical therapy) he'd probably be dancing by now. But hey- we win through in the end.
    Margaret's hernia procedure is today and I've got an appointment with a dermatologist to look at this mole on my face. I'm hoping as usual to be told I'm a hypochondriac. And maybe somehow to get some lunch. But Dad's sweetheart's more important.

And now Margaret

    Dad's sweetheart was having leg pains when she went home from visiting him at the hospital Sunday night. She thought she would get better after going to bed, but she got much worse instead. She called her daughter Linda, who took her to the emergency room at Baptist. Due to the holiday, they were desperately understaffed, but eventually got her help. It turned out that she had a hernia in her leg. They gave her painkillers, which made her nauseous, but apparently the pain resolved by itself. ("The hernia came out, and went back in." I don't know what this means either.)
    So she's having surgery Wednesday. She has to wait until all the Plavix gets out of her system. I'll be at a dermatologist that morning, having a mole on my face looked at. But I'll probably spend the rest of the morning in the surgical waiting area so I can report back to Dad at the earliest.
    Dad is doing OK. As soon as we squared away what their phone numbers are at the hospital, he and Margaret were phoning each other for the balance of the day. I quite enjoyed feeling superfluous. In the TMI department, he got a much, much more attentive nurse, who uh, helped him with all his elimination issues, so he's feeling much better. Today is another dialysis day, so I don't get to see him until the afternoon. Hopefully, he'll feel better still.

Anger

    I find that I would rather get angry at circumstances than at people. This is something I need to remember a lot over at Palmetto Baptist. It isn't the fault of anyone that I'm talking to there that they do not have a workable system for communicating with one another. And punching them won't make them communicate better. So it's best to swallow it and tell 'em and tell 'em again. But it's very frustrating.
    Malcolm Jr. has returned to Boston. We are very grateful that he stayed so long and helped so much. He gave Dad a shave before going, for which we (especially Dad) are grateful, too.
    As to Dad's blood sugar, they didn't tell him what the level was in the morning, but they didn't give him insulin either. Thus, presumably it went down by itself without going too low. So benign neglect worked out, uh, benignly in this instance. Meanwhile, in the TMI department, he says they're still doing the "cath in out" procedure, but not lately. I'll see if there's anyone I can talk to about it.

Son of beneath the planet of the valley of TMI

    Yesterday was somewhat successful. Last week the dietitian doubled Dad's portions and also took him off the diabetic diet since he's on dialysis anyway. However, the staff on his new floor completely missed this and had him back on the same food he'd been on before. We mentioned this to them and they corrected the error; unfortunately, the double portions were double portions of crap, so not much of a win there. Also his blood sugar was quite high, but the nurse didn't want to give him insulin since by morning it tends to be too low. So I certainly hope that that turned out OK.
    In the TMI department, he hasn't been peeing in ages. In IICU, they had a catheter procedure (which the techs called "cath in out," which I found not too informative) which removed a LOT of urine from his body. I'm not aware of anyone doing that now. I'm afraid he's building up huge amounts of urine. The last we (or I) talked to Dr. Emmer, he said they were going to check for a blockage, but I never heard further. One disadvantage of long holiday weekends is that doctors take them, too. I'll at least ask a nurse today.

What happened and what it was like

    I have to start by noting that this happened more than a week ago; do not be alarmed. You would think that a description of a massive heart attack would require another TMI warning, but nothing of the sort. It was completely unhorrifying. That's what's so scary.
    In fact, I already described this already on this blog, except that I was missing the crucial information that it was a heart attack. I was sitting next to him the entire time. All I observed was Dad burping a lot and then coughing. The nurse came in and noticed that he was having trouble breathing. She checked him with a stethoscope and asked him to take a deep breath and he said he couldn't. That's when she turned in a code blue and it all hit the fan, complete with the deputy hospital administrator turning up.
    We didn't find out for days that it was most likely a massive heart attack. He never had any unusual pain. Apparently, diabetics can have heart attacks without knowing it, and apparently he had already had one or more in the past. And this is why, though we're happy he's out of ICU, we're very nervous. We want to be with him all the time to keep an eye on him, but when you're sitting next to him and he can have a heart attack and you have no clue, what do you do? You treasure every moment.

Eight years ago

    Eight years ago today, my mother died. She had been increasingly ravaged by Alzheimer's over her last ten years, to the point that at the end it was easy to regard it as more of a release for her than a tragedy. But she was a sweetie, a wonderful mother and an all-around great person, and we miss her every day. Anne S. Dantzler, June 18, 1923 - July 1, 2001, Rest in peace.
    Yesterday, Dad had another good day, mostly. Dialysis went well and meals were still double portions and generally edible. We had a visit from the wound nurse, who muttered. ("WHAT?") He told us that Dad had bed sores. (I need to rename this blog "Forgive TMI." Now it's time to say it again.) He was telling us that Dad needs to get out of bed and we explained that every time the physical therapy guys get him up, he pooped. We suggested that he wear adult diapers only for PT, and he muttered back that this used to be the way things were done but now they don't because adult diapers led to too much skin damage. Upshot, however, was that he was down with the plan so long as the diaper didn't stay on afterwards.
    After I left, the PT people came, without diapers. Got him out of bed and nature took its course. Malcolm and Margaret said that the PT folks basically cut and ran. We miss Tim and Cory, and continue to be frustrated with the total lack of communication between the departments at Baptist. Hoping for better coordination at whatever nursing home we go to shortly.
    Had a bizarro dream where I brought in from the street two additional cats who looked like Amelia. Was very relieved to wake up to only one of her.