Heart-ailment hilarity

Yes, dear readers, heart hilarity ensued today as dad was moved from his big private, cardio intensive care unit room into a regular, smaller recuperation room with roommate.

I went to the hospital at about 8:30 a.m. to find dad sitting up in a chair washing himself (though not too exposed). He had to use some kind of funky shampoo foam in his hair then "rinse" it with the soapy water in the spongebath bin and then towel it off (I did most of the hair stuff, it's hard for him to keep his arms up like that). But he was cleaner. We read the paper (I read some of the more hilarious ADG letters to the editor and obituary names, plus an article on a redneck with five pit bulls whose home has become like a homing beacon for dozens of copperheads — mom is very grossed out by that story, I'm waiting for the crazy Bible-thumper letter about how it's a sign of the end times) and talked a bit.

A little before noon, Monique and Kali — pronounced "Callie" — got dad into a wheelchair, put all his junk in a couple of plastic bags and we were in the not-so-posh recuperation room. But now dad gets to have his cellphone with him so there are *some* benefits. And you all can call him.

Well, dad got visits from Harriet Farley, a friend from college, Brett, a guy from church, George and Peggy Ackerman, from his reading group and, I think, church, and I think that's it. He's a popular guy.

So dad and I tried to do the Sunday NYT crossword (what's a word for light orange that isn't melon or apricot?) and we played a game of Phase 10 (not all the way through). And as we were kind of starting up our game dad got a roommate. Dad has been assured that he's at the top of the list for a private room, but not yet apparently.

Dad's roommate is an older guy who was a real vinegary old codger. He came in with his wife but she left for lunch (dad and codger got salisbury steak, whipped potatoes and fruit cocktail). After he ate a psychiatric doctor came in with a couple of residents (who looked WAY young, BTW) and started asking him some questions. Here's a brief transcript from memory of the exchange:

"Do you know where you are?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I? You got me trapped in this place!"

"Do you know where here is?"

"I'm not a damn fool, this is a hospital!"

"Do you know why you're here?"

(big pause — he must've been looking at his chest and making a connection) "My ... my breast."

"Yes, your *chest.* You had an operation on your chest."

"Well I don't know why I needed that."

"Do you know what year it is?"

(big pause) "O .... oh-five?"

"Yes it is! And do you know what town you're in?"

"Why are you asking me something like that? I've been in the Navy, I've seen the world and a lot of towns. Do you think I'm crazy? I saw you before, you're a shrink! You bothered me earlier and you're bothering me now. I'm not crazy!"

"I know! I'm here because you seemed a little confused earlier, and I thought I would check on you and see if you were still confused."

"I'm not confused, you're confused. I just need to go home and I won't be confused at all."

And so on. Codger was a real treat, lemme tell you. Dad and I were like, choking back giggles.

So the shrink and shrinkitos leave, and we're still playing Phase 10 when I hear:

(conspiratorial whisper shout) "Young lady! Young lady!"

Dad and I exchange a look.

"Yes?"

"What town are we in?"

"Huh, well it occurs to me we're in Yokohama."

"What? No we're not!"

"No, of course we're not. I heard someone speaking Spanish. I think we may be in Mexico City."

"Oh, shit." (pause) "I don't know why you can't tell me what town we're in."

"Where's your home town?"

"CABOT ARKANSAS!!"

"Okay, well, if you're from Cabot and you're in a hospital, what town are you probably in?"

"I don't know these towns around here ... I don't know."

"Where are all the hospitals in Central Arkansas?"

"I don't know."

"If I give you a hint you think you can figure it out?"

"I don't see why you just don't tell me, you're as bad as that other girl."

"We're in a big town near Cabot."

Later he moaned out loud, possibly because he wanted to make some sort of connection: "I really made an ass of myself. I really did it. I made an ass of myself."

Well, he didn't figure it out and when his wife came back he asked what town they were in but as far as I could tell, and dad, too, we were both shameless nosy nellies, she didn't know either. He told her he'd made an ass of himself.

Anyway, this old dude had got me involved, I'm sorry to say. And when the shrink came back I was getting a nurse to — pardon the details here — come measure and dispose of dad's pee from this little bedside tupperware thing so he could go again — but codger totally bogarted her as she came in with his bad attitude and she was all futzing with his stuff and getting him as sorted as he would allow himself to be. And dad really needed to go, and I was all het up at codger, so I kind of butted in to get the nurse to take care of the non-complainer and he pulled me in with some question and, in front of all these nice, understanding, liable-skeered professionals, I kind of let this man have it.

"Do you talk to waiters this way?"

"What?"

"I said, do you talk to other people who are trying to help you this way?"

"What? Uh..."

"All they want to do is help you, and you're giving them a hard time." (at this point I have totally usurped the authority of the professionals in the room, who are probably appalled that I'm allowing myself to be dragged in, but I have recognized codger's personality type from years of writing for and about seniors, and he's the kind who likes to be disciplined a little and hates to be patronized).

"Well, they keep asking me questions."

"I know. It's not fun. But is it because you're in pain?" (I'm wondering if he's truly a codger or if pain is getting in his way of being polite. Also I'm thinking let's shut this dude up and give him a little naptime. I'm not a very nice person, I guess, but he actually kind of settled down from being agitated and irritating a little.) "Do you need something to cut back on some pain?"

"I'm not in pain! I feel fine!"

"Well then I am out of ideas to help you. Maybe they can. Nurse? My dad really needs to go potty, can you please measure his pee so he can go again?"

And she did.

Mom has been telling people dad's got a psychiatric patient, but he's just got a scared old man in there with him that the doctors don't know how to talk to. Not, really, that I did, either. Not to make myself out to be anything other than a teed-off daughter who didn't want her pops to wet himself.

Dad and I played up until we both hit phase 8? 7? Then he got tired and I needed to check on Shelby. Dad's got the TV remote and the window, so he's going to be okay. Doug and Mom are going to visit tonight.