Sunday, January 10, 2015
Your first trip to the bathroom in the morning requires work. Before you relieve yourself, there is a checklist you must first follow. Pull several Lysol wipes from the container and get to work cleaning the:
- toilet seat
- toilet handle
- floor around the toilet
- stainless toilet paper cover, which I bought to eliminate soiling the TP, but which ended up being something else to clean
- sink and lavatory
- faucet
- soap dispenser
- ledge of the tub, where mom holds onto when she rises from the toilet
- towel rack
- light switch plate
- walls and woodwork on mom’s path to and from the bathroom
Later, I wash the handle of mom’s cane, check her nightgown, and replace her face towel. If there is hair in the sink, I clean it out and sanitize the cabinet and cabinet knob where her brush is stored. We keep our toilet paper in the cabinet beneath the sink and in a plastic bag so that mom won’t identify it too easily. One night mom apparently used up all of her TP and searched for something to use. She tore (literally) into my cotton face pads and contaminated the lot. She since learned that we store our TP under the sink and has torn into it from time to time. So now, we keep it wrapped in a plastic bag, hoping to thwart her using it.
Nothing is easy any more. But mom remains cheerful. She can afford to be: she’s the princess and all of her demands are catered to. Alas, she has no friends, no one to talk to–except Rob and me. And we are often too busy working, cleaning, shopping, taking care of Valentino to spend much time with her. Besides, a normal conversation is not possible. “The woman” told her to get up this morning. “The man in the tree” waved to her all night. “The people on the TV” wave to her and know her. “The cat” watches her eat breakfast. Entering this world is not advisable. You cannot add characters. You cannot describe them. They are hers and hers alone. And so, she remains alone.
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