Well, it’s now Wednesday evening, just 8 p.m. Dad has been back home for 3 1/2 hours, and until 15 minutes ago was sleeping.
Then he woke up, called me, and I realized that this time there was no Home Health aide to clean him up. The odor was unmistakeable. It was my turn.
I’d gone shopping while he was in dialysis, so I was prepared with adult pull-ups. But then I realized I’d need the throwaway gloves. Where had I put them? A couple of minutes later, I had them.
Once I had them placed where I could get to them easily, I put on a pair. I got a pan of water. I got a towel and the throwaway wash cloths.
The towel was to cover Dad, to protect his modesty. And my embarrassment. Next I had to get his sweatpants and shorts off, which wasn’t easy, given his painful left leg. It took more time than I’d like, and hurt him more than I wanted, but I finally had them off. I threw the underwear away.
Cleaning him was easy. My stomach handled it all pretty well. Then I had to put on the pull-up shorts, which wasn’t as easy as getting them off. But finally they were on. Then the sweatpants.
Now we’ve both survived my first cleanup experience. And I anticipate it should get easier.
Now if the new muscle relaxer kicks in, he might get some relief. I hope he’ll eat first, though.
So I guess I’d better get something for him to eat.
New part of the day, new experience.
I am so sorry for you both. I know that, as daughters, we are prepared in some miraculous way to answer when our fathers call us. We know what we may have to do these clean up” tasks someday. But what father ever imagines he will be calling his daughter for this reason. Not yours, not mine.