If This Were a Real Job...
Tue., January 6, 10:24 AM
…I would quit. I remember saying that to Husband some thirty-odd years ago. A “real” job implied a salary and some control over what you were doing. At that time, I had three pre-school-aged kids, and I often felt trapped.
I had certain compensations, of course. They were funny kids. They were quick to learn. They were affectionate. And I knew it wasn’t going to last forever.
None of that is true in the case of the kid that did not grow up. He is eighty-one today, and counting. He is sick but in no danger of dying suddenly. He just isn’t going to get better. There are many aspects of having him around that would remind you of a little kid; unfortunately, I cannot put him into a playpen. I can’t punish him for misbehaving. Every task raises the question: is it easier just to do it, or should I let him do it himself and be prepared to clean up after him?
Consider the time he decided to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It wasn’t too difficult for him. All the ingredients were available and easy to find. He made himself a couple of sandwiches and carried them back to his room. (By making them himself, he got two; he really didn’t need more than one.) Did you know that grape jam is invisible on a black, flat-topped range? If I hadn’t stuck my hand in it, I never would have known that he dripped — not until I turned on the burner and watched it smoke…
Last weekend he requested sheets to change his bed. (I usually do that when he is at day care, but the weather canceled the program the day I was planning to do it.) “I will give you sheets after you’ve had your breakfast.” “Okay,” very grudgingly, because all demands are supposed to be filled immediately. I checked in on him later; he was half done and taking a break, as he so often does. I suggested oxygen, and he nearly bit my head off. Sixty years of smoking have destroyed about 80 percent of his lungs, but he will fight using the oxygen.
I am grateful that he is stable enough on his current medications that he doesn’t get sicker if he misses one. I am especially grateful for the three prescriptions that address his dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever the diagnosis is. They seem to keep him from becoming belligerent. There is no guarantee that it won’t last forever. We are still trying to get him placed somewhere permanently, but meanwhile he is my job. And my limitation.
So, for his birthday, which he didn’t remember and didn’t know how many, I shall make meatloaf for tonight’s supper. U.D. has bought some buns and mini-pies, so he can have a dessert he likes. Maybe he will receive some mail or a phone call. Tomorrow will be pretty much the same as yesterday.
