Friday, February 6, 2015 

Mom’s quintet of trips to the bathroom continues, but this time, not only in the evening, but also in the morning. Who knows; this might pass. Mom has, at least temporarily, become aware of soiling her nightgown and was worried last night and again this morning that she had. I assured her that every day we do several loads of laundry and that soiling hardly matters anymore. Sort of. The routine is to take her clothing and bedding down to the basement (or throw it down, using the stairs as my laundry chute), don my heavy rubber gloves, wash off feces and bodily fluids in the basement sink, load the machine, add Lysol concentrate and detergent, and get on with it. That’s the first load. Same for each load. There was a song in the 60s that went something like that: Second verse, same as the first. I’m Henry the Eighth I am, Henry the Eight I am, I am… And another: Laundry, laundry, bo-baundry, bo-nanafana, fo faundry, fee, fie, mo maundry, laundry! Oh well.

At least I can entertain myself this morning. Mom is back in bed (it being too early). The routine will begin again in another hour or two or three. Depends. Yes, Depends.

First, the story here at home. Mom got up as usual and I ushered her into the bathroom and asked her to sit.

I don’t have to go.

Yes, you do. Just sit and go.

So she sat and pulled down a loaded diaper. My caution not to touch the diaper went totally unheeded.

See, it isn’t that bad, she said.

I cleaned her legs, her feet, her slippers, and threw her nightgown in the wash. I put her in the shower. Figuring the onslaught was over, I sent her to breakfast, but neglected to put another diaper on her. I figured I could do that when she returned to her room. But instead, I wound up cleaning floors, rugs, clothing, walls… My fault. Not a happy morning.

Just off the phone with Nancy, who is also dealing with messes of every kind. We talked about her husband and her many losses: the loss of his income, his ability to speak, and 4his ability to walk and feed himself. She is in continued and progressive mourning. Eric might be in his home, but he is not at home. Rob and a pastor friend of Nancy’s both commented that they wouldn’t want to be trapped in a body like Eric’s. While it is not our place to pray for his passing, we pray for Nancy’s strength and endurance and peace in the household. Eric is most definitely not at peace and Nancy cannot even go to the store unless someone is with him. And being at the supermarket is not exactly her life’s desire. No longer are there lunches with friends, and phone calls are cut short when Eric beings to scream or she must prepare him a meal or change his diaper. Through all this, however, Nancy is the soul of grace—though she would deny it vehemently. She loves her husband for better or worse and has been there for him in every way possible. Nancy is a model of the kind of caregiver I aspire to be with my own mother. She is a good and Godly woman. I call her as often as I can, trying not to become a nuisance. But our daily calls about nothing and everything are solely about Eric and her current situation. The rest of her life as Nancy knew it is over. Why this door is closing and what is on the other side, we do not know.