It’s always sumth’n…

All of a sudden, dad can no longer lift himself enough for me to wipe his butt. Nor can he move himself from his motorized chair to the recliner.

A breath. That’s all it was. 3 days ago he could do both. Now, he can’t.

Why?

Because he refuses to do the exercises his PT gave him to do. 2 years ago.

Now, 2 years later, he can’t move himself enough to help me out, can barely get the breath to talk, won’t let me call MedRide to take him to the doctor, and gives me go to hell looks whenever I tell him he really needs to do these things or I’ll ship his lazy ass out of here and into a home.

Will I?

Oh hell no. I’d be too eaten up with guilt. I’m Irish and Catholic. Guilt is ingrained in my DNA. Yeah yeah, I’m not a “practicing” Catholic. I went to Catholic school, when the nuns wore the penguin costumes and bashed your knuckles with yard sticks for questioning the bible. Trust me, guilt is like a cold hard bed that I frequently lay in.