User blog:Spikewitwicky/September 2, 2015 - Spike's Journal Entry



Yesterday was... eventful.

Apparently, dad  decided to briefly "commission" Wide Load (someone who could give Huffer a run for the money in the self-esteem department). After talking with Wide Load for a few moments, I heard that dad thought he had a job to do. Like one of the jobs he did when we were kids.

When I spoke with him, he was cheerful, happy that he "found a way" to get me on an oil rig. Just like 1984. I asked him where he thought he was, and he got agitated, saying he was in Autobot City.

Poor dad.

Right now, I'm guessing in his mind, he's helping me repair Blades today, and greeting the Joes, all the while making sure he can get another contract from his boss Roland - then head home in time to help Susan cook dinner and read Buster a story before his bedtime, and find a way to get his 14-year-old son on an oil rig. In essence, 2015, 1979, 1984, and probably 1957 are all sort of swimming around, revealing themselves to be just as real as what's going on right at this very second.

I spoke with Buster yesterday about pricing...PRICING a nursing home - with an Alzheimer's wing. I still want him here, but it's Autobot City. There's a lot of activity. And to be honest, there will be a time where it's too risky to have him live here - Helperbot is a life saver, but dad will eventually need qualified nursing care, 'round the clock.

I helped him into the bathroom yesterday. He was pissy. He hates being in this situation. And I can absolutely identify. I remember when I was 23...and stupid - and as a result, laid out in the hospital for months thanks to mouthing off to Frenzy. I'm 23. A new dad. But with the exception of my upper body, anything below my chest was essentially dead weight. And there was this "getting up there in years" figure right in front of me, steadying me in the walker, lifting me up out of my wheelchair, and lifting me into my hospital bed. It was like I was 4 or 5 all over again, and this massive presense lifting me as if I was a bag of potatoes, even though he was getting up there in years.

Now, helping him into his walker or out of bed is a scarily (I don't care if that's not a word, it's my journal - who's going to edit this ?) easy process. His biceps are thinned, and he has trouble keeping his balance, because his legs are frail. I tried to humor him, saying that like me in 1993 when I was nearly paralyzed, putting on diapers before going to bed would be a temporary gig. But he said in a quasi-cryptic tone "I don't think this is going to be temporary for me."

I'm hoping for a good day today. I'm ready to be his caregiver, but I'm not ready to let go yet. I don't think I ever will be. Spikewitwicky (talk) 14:24, September 2, 2015 (UTC)