You are hurting the ceiling
Today was batshit at the hospital even though afternoon started out well.
My mother had a foot soak in soapy water, and then I gave her a pedicure before dinner. She was in one of her blunt and funny moods which I always enjoy.
With her foot was resting on a towel on my lap, I noticed some fungus on her toenails and got some gloves.
As I continue trimming her toe nails, she said, “How do you feel about what you are doing?”
“To be honest, a little so-so,” I said. “Not my favourite thing.”
She chucked and said, “I can tell.”
One of the psw’s came into the room and told another patient that dinner was coming soon.
My mother turned to me in disgust and said, “I don’t like their excitement about dinner.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because they are too excited about it.”
“Aren’t you excited about dinner?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“You enjoy eating so much,” I reminded her.
“Yes, but I’m not excited about it.”
*
My sister bought a new spoon for our mother, which I didn’t set it up properly, and she kept spilling her soup on her lap. Each time she did it, she laughed and laughed.
We were having one of those laugh-cry laughing fits that was so loud and so hard everyone in the room turned and looked at us.
“Ignore us,” I said to no one and everyone.
At one point I laughed so hard I farted and then we both squealed in embarrassment and delight.
“Are you laughing or crying?” I asked.
“Laughing,” she said as she wiped tears from her eyes.
*
After dinner I thought it might be fun to read some absurdist poetry with my mother.
She had been enjoying re-reading nursery rhymes with my sister on FaceTime. Because nursery rhymes are often little absurd, I thought she might like some absurd poetry too.
The Edson poetry was a hit!
This was one of her favourites:
It worked best when she read the pieces out loud to me and when they were short.
Tomorrow, I'm bringing in Stuart Ross, , and Osama Alomar for her.
I’ve been looking for large print books for my mother and the selection is pretty bleak. All the stories are uplifting and condescending.
We don't want that.
One thing my mother hasn't lost is her sense of humour.
I'm going to put together my own LARGE PRINT anthology of absurdist poetry and flash prose for people with dementia.
What are your favourite contemporary absurdist poems?
Part TwoJust before I was about to leave the hospital, one of the patients went into a rage at the nursing station. It was so loud and very frightening. Two patients who are hard of hearing were sleeping, but Mom and her neighbour across the room were not.
In the hall, a man with an oxygen tank asked for more oxygen and to be moved away from the screaming.
Her neighbour got up, and I called one of the psw’s because she can’t walk on her own. They brought her into the hall in a wheelchair so they could keep an eye on her, but she was even closer to the screaming which was causing her distress. I brought her a stuffed animal and rubbed her arm to calm her down.
Then I had to go back to check on my mom who was also getting out bed to see what was going on.
It was a shit show with me going between the hall and the hospital room to soothe these two frightened women.
Security was brought in and the man begged them to take him to jail.
“There’s all these fucking crazy old ladies around me. The one in my room is on her cell phone morning till night talking about her problems. I can’t stand it. I’ve got my own problems. I can’t stand it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to leave. I’m going to sue this hospital for billions and billions.”
The man would quiet down and then explode in a burst of rage. At one point he was weeping and saying, “I’m not a bad person. I’ve got grandchildren. I’m a grandfather.”
I heard one of the nurses say, “Can I hold your hand?” and he seemed to let her.
Finally they told him that they would give him a private room which pissed me off immensely, and I said to my mother, “I hate men.”
While I knew he was sick and having a breakdown, it infuriated me that he just threw a tantrum destroying everyone’s peace and calm, and he still got the prize—the private room.
After security left and things calmed down a bit, I went into the hall to check on my mom’s neighbour again and that’s when I finally got a look at who was doing all the yelling.
I was surprised to find that it was this nice gentleman that my mother and I spent some time with in the TV room the other day and who we have had several pleasant conversations with over the past few weeks. He was one of my favourite patients in the hospital because you could have a pretty good conversation with him and when we watched the news he talked at the TV and made sarcastic comments.
He looked at me in horror and embarrassment and said,” I’m so sorry. Is that your mother?”
I told him that she wasn’t my mother, but my friend. She’s a little upset right now.”
Then he turned to the nurses and screamed, “Help this woman. Help this woman” even though he had significantly contributed to her agitation.
The nurses assured him that she was fine. And she was.
I left feeling so many things: I was happy for the good day and laughs with my mom but also at odds with hating the man I liked and liking the man I hated, and in my own petty way, I was still a little mad about the private room.
Maybe this is why I love absurd writing so much because it lets you experience a range of contradictory emotions without you actually having to live through it.
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