Dad is convinced he's dying because of shortness of breath after very little exertion. And I have no desire to ridicule or minimize his concerns. However, he keeps the house at 76 degrees. He insists that Margaret controls the heat, but then admits that she raises the thermostat when he complains that he's cold. He won't simply put on a hat or a sweater as we've been telling him for two years, and indeed as he no doubt told me when I was little. I asked Malcolm to get them a humidifier and he and Margaret flatly refused. He insists on going to the cardiologist Monday, if necessary instead of dialysis. (It would normally not be a dialysis day, but because of the holiday he was moved up a day.)
I tell him and tell him and tell him that central heating is not a radiator, that it dries you out, that drinking water doesn't help because it goes right through you (or in his case, right to his feet) and that he needs to turn the heat down and get a humidifier. In the mean time, I got them a digital thermometer with a hygrometer (i.e., humidity gauge). I'm hoping that that will help convince them. Also I have two humidifiers, so I can just bring them the less scary-looking one so they get that if it doesn't help I can just take it back. In theory, he agreed to the humidifier, lower temperatures indoors and sweaters and hats. There's no reason Margaret should disagree, but she might. (She wasn't home when we got back from dialysis, so I'll call her later.) Hopefully, we can fix things right up.
Anyway, it's supposed to rain tonight, so the situation should fix itself temporarily anyway. Maybe when it rains and the humidity rises and he feels better, he'll finally figure out I know what I'm talking about. Also I'd like a pony.
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