Papa made egg salad for himself for lunch today.
I can’t even tell you where the live in aide was when he did this. I know where I was… Working.
So he made egg salad.
He mixed four hard boiled eggs with 14oz of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
Egg yolks crumbs in the empty fake butter container told me so. He confirmed it.
So one of the ‘symptoms ‘ of Papa’s dementia, aside from his being insane, is his obsessions and his growing OCD.
This month it’s cheese.
Not just any cheese. Shredded Asiagio cheese from Stop and Shop.
Bags of it. Everywhere. In cabinets, in fridge drawers and shelves. In his bedroom. He buys it daily on his shopping trip with his aide. Two or three bags a day. I’m talking, a TON of cheese.
As I collect it, almost daily, I stash it in the freezer.
Today, we found a full glass of ice water in the pantry. I’m hoping the winds of change haven’t shifted……
Two weeks ago, while Vic was in Virginia on work, I took Papa out on a beautiful Sunday morning. I thought it would be nice to get some fresh air and do some ‘fall’ things.
I mapped our route to Scott’s Orchard to pick apples, then on to New London to eat fritto misto dockside, then a planned stop for some ice cream on the way home.
I made sure we left early, to get to the orchard before the crowds. The sky was an amazing cerulean blue, as it gets in October, and the leaves were at their peak. I parked with Papa’s guidance – no control tower engineer could provide more abundant directions on driving than Benny telling me how to drive and park.
He seemed confused as to where the apples were, despite having to walk straight through a long row of apple filled trees on our way to get to the stand to retrieve our picking bags. No worries, I just kept pointing them out. Turns out, they weren’t big enough for him. He was making a point that they were too small.
I walked slowly, explaining the sights as we went. He loved watching the families arriving with kids, commenting on how wonderful the mothers looked with all their children. “Like a hen, with the little baby chicks, so cute”, he commented. By the end of the morning though, the crowds were too much and he hated children…. but i digress.
At the main stand I peeled off two bags from the stack.
“Papa (his name of endearment for me), I only want five apples”, Benny stated.
“Ok, here’s a small bag to put them in.”
“No, papa, but I only want five.”
“Ok, that’s fine. We’ll fill these two bags and then you can pick out five for yourself.”
“Oh, ok.” He seemed satisfied with the solution, and turning to face the field of trees with his signature hands behind his back, he proceeded to move slowly down the path.
The ground was lumpy with divots and ridges, tractor trails from farm workers of the day passed. I held Papa’s elbow lightly, so as not to embarrass him and cause a commotion with his outrage.
“Oh, papa, look at these apples!” he exclaimed. We hit the mother-lode.
“These are so big!” he yelled, like a child.
I began to turn each apple around, so he could inspect it for approval. Once approved, I plucked it and dropped it into his bag with a satisfied smack of his lips, a boyish grin, and a wiggle of his bushy brows. One, two, three, four, five, six…
“No, papa! I only want five apples!”.
“That’s ok, let’s fill this bag first, then the big one, and you can pick five for yourself.”
“No, why, why are you doing this?” His voice rose in crescendo to a slight wail. I cringed.
“Why am I doing what Papa? I understand you want only five, and you can have five, but I’ll use the rest for pies and apple fritters, and things….” His face was cloudy and confused.
“No, I only want five.”
“Ok, ok,….” I removed the sixth offending apple from his child size bag.
Calm again, we continued down the apple path. We discussed the trees, why there were so many, how big was the field- in hectares- who worked the field (we discussed that several times), why we shouldn’t pick the apples up off the ground, even if they still did look good, or maybe only had a few bruises, or some bugs, which could be cut out, and why are there so many bees?
Back at the stand, I splurged for two cider donuts. Papa’s diabetes would have to understand today. It’s tough to be old.
We sat on a picnic bench worn smooth from generations and warmed by the sun. Our companions at our feet were two farm dogs, one missing a front leg. They seemed content to lay around waiting for things to inevitably drop from the growing gaggle of children darting between the benches, trees, and incoming orchard traffic. This made Benny very nervous. He abruptly got up and pronounced we would now leave. Without waiting for me to agree, he walked straight into the entrance lane. I darted after him, leaving our bags on the picnic table, and got to him just before a black Jeep Cherokee did.
“Papa, our apples, come help me carry the bags.” I wheeled him around by his elbow.
With our bags retrieved we got into the car for the next leg of our journey. Lunch. At 11 AM. I determined to drive slow, taking the back roads instead of the highway.
We drove down a beautiful street in New London with water views and grand houses. Papa filled me in on his journalism days, visiting actors for interviews in homes of similar style and elegance. He asked where we were. He asked seven times.
We were the first customers at the seafood restaurant, all outside seating – thank goodness for a beautiful day. I ordered the mixed fried seafood plate, with french fries and coleslaw. Papa sat at a picnic bench, only made perilous by his having to swing his leg over to sit down. I said nothing but hovered to catch his 6’3, 250 pound frame the best I could should he totter or fall.
“Look at the little bird” he exclaimed brightly, tossing a fry, “Oh, he’s so hungry.” He giggled.
We shared the plate of fried seafood, or fritto misto in Italian, Papa relishing every bite, his favorite dish.
“Oh, papa, everything you plan is so good, it’s perfect, I will remember this day forever.”
I didn’t remind him that he probably wouldn’t.
On our way back to the car, Papa stated that he would write about this for the Italian newspaper. “But,” he said “It needs a special twist. I cannot write about the American apple fields…how you say this?”
“Orchards”.
“Orchards, yes, I cannot just write about that. I will write about going for a lovely drive with my beautiful daughter and all the things we saw.”
We traced our road back toward home. Shortly I turned the car into an ice cream shop, all pink and purple, with a big black and white cow on the sign.
“What’s this papa?” his voice filled with excitement.
“I thought we’d get some ice cream.”
“Aghh, now you’re talking kid!” he growled like a 1940’s movie star.
We walked in and I saw that it was frozen yogurt, not ice cream. Uh-oh.
“Do they have, my favorite, pistachio?” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows. It was serve yourself. He wanted a cone not a cup. The shop owner was very kind and talkative.
“We do,” she said, “It’s white pistachio.”
Oh-boy.
“White pistachio?” he inquired, furrowing his brow. “I never heard of such a thing.”
I grabbed a sample cup “Here, Papa, taste it and if you don’t like it we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Is this ice cream?” he said, reading the sign – FROZEN YOGURT.
The shop owner brought us a waffle cone in a white and red striped paper. I grabbed a serving cup. Quickly moving to another machine I animated “Mmmm, salted caramel, that sounds good, doesn’t it Papa?” I hoped the distraction and brief time would help him forget the yogurt obstacle.
It worked.
“Caramel ice cream, with salt? Why would they do that?”
I filled his cone with pistachio, he swiped it from my hand and sat down immediately at a little cafe table. The shop owner, kept talking to him about her store, New York, her sister. I thought it was charming. Papa ignored the whole thing. He was clearly now in his world. I was a little nervous all the sugar and fried food was too much for his endocrine system, plus we had been out for about 4 hours now.
He sat with his back to us, looking toward the rear of the shop, devouring his treat. When he was done, while the shopkeeper kept talking, he got up, headed toward a door marked employees only and tried to enter.
“No, Papa, not there. Do you need the bathroom?”
“Huh?” he grunted as if woken from a daze, “No, no, the car.”
I turned him toward the front door. “Good bye” he shouted, lifting his hand as he strode out the open door into the parking lot. I quickly said goodbye to the sweet shop owner, with a smirk and eye lift, and joined him at the car.
On the ride home we listened to the Frank Sinatra station on XM radio.
“Papa,” he said, “remember when your sister said, Bobby Darin would be more famous than Sinatra? And god dammit, she was right! Remember, we were in the room with your mother, she asked who is this Bobby Darin? Your sister loved him.”
We rode in silence for a few minutes.
Then he spoke softly. “Oh, papa, not your sister… your aunt. Why would I say your sister? Your aunt loved Bobby Darin. Is she still around, your aunt?”
“Yes, papa, remember you saw her a little while ago at the house.”
“I did? Oh.”
It had been a long day.
But now, two weeks later, Papa proclaims he’s moving out. Again. This will be the sixth time he has made this announcement. Some minor, or major, or dream inspired grievance in his mind, that I or Vic, or someone has put upon him. Unremembered, fabricated, or long standing from his younger days. Who knows. But he’s going. On the first. Or the second. Whenever he can find a place, he states regally. And he won’t be joining us for the seven pm meal as he calls it, he is refraining from that as well. He made his caregiver take him to Stop and Shop to buy dinner…hot potato wedges and a bag of chips. He made her store them in the car. She snuck out later to retrieve the potato wedges and place them in the fridge, out of fear he would food poison himself.
It will be a long week.
It’s Labor Day morning. Papa is up early. He is cleaned and dressed on his own. His plaid button down is tucked into his white underpants. The elastic of the shorts and their Hanes logo visible to all above the waistline of his green pants. I don’t mention it.
If you’ve ever been around or have cared for an autistic child, that’s very much what dementia is like in some ways. Single minded. Routined. Rigid.
Papa is waiting for “the girl” . His companion comes every weekday at 9am sharp. If she’s early she waits in the driveway. She is mild mannered, quiet, without very good English capabilities. But they get by.
I told him last night that it was Labor Day and she wasn’t coming.
“No, papa, you are wrong. She’ll come. She always comes “.
He comes slowly down the stairs, his heavy steps making each wood joint creak, echoing in the foyer. He stands in the kitchen where I am resting with my coffee.
“Papa, write down again the name of that store where I can find the pasta for cheap.”
I print O C E A N S T A T E J O B L O T in big capitals across a yellow post it. I don’t know why I think that will help either of them understand it better. It’s like shouting at a deaf person.
Papa takes the paper, he meanders to the front door and peers out the sidelight. He sighs and wanders back to the kitchen.
“It’s Chelsea’s birthday the 4th?”
“Yes, she turns 24.”
“Eh, what should I get her, papa? She likes shoes, I remember she told me.”
“Shoes would be nice. Or a gift card.”
“Ah, where do I get that?”
I make it simple for him. His world revolves around Stop n Shop.
“At Stop n Shop”
“Oh, ok!” He is pleased. He knows that place. It’s comfortable.
“Papa, where is the girl, she said she would be here on Monday.” He wanders to the living room window. “Maybe she will not come anymore.”
“I told you it was Labor Day. A holiday. She is not coming today.”
“No, she said she is coming. I’ll wait.”
Fifteen minutes pass with Papa humming to himself and periodically asking me “Is the girl coming today? Where is she?”
I ignore each question. No response is necessary.
I remind myself that compassion is always an appropriate response with Papa. I remind myself that he is not being obstinate, he is being demented. It doesn’t help.
Finally after the twelfth inquiry I say “let’s call.”
No one picks up. Papa seems satisfied that his “girl” has left him.
“I guess I’ll go take a shower then.” He turns and lumbers slowly up the stairs. I think this episode of ‘Where is the girl’ is over.
At the top of the stairs he turns and yells down “When she gets here, tell her how to get to that store where you get the pasta for cheap.”
Sometimes I have to remember that Papa is not well mentally
Sometimes I have to ask myself to make a choice- give in or get mad
Sometimes I have to suppress being angry. Like when he becomes petulant about wanting something. And then becomes obsessed with wanting it. And then becomes outright indignant about getting it.
Sometimes I have to admit that I feel resentful.
Sometimes I feel stubborn and defiant myself, about not letting him ‘win’.
Sometimes I have to remind myself he’s not trying to win- he’s just trying to survive.
Sometimes I remember that he is like a child.
Sometimes he is sad.
Sometimes my heart breaks for him.
Sometimes – I let go.
It is 6PM and Papa is in a great mood! He is dressed, he’s been showered by the home health aide – which he described as the most humiliating moment of his life (of which I can’t believe) – and he’s shaved without nicking himself (with the aides help).
He lumbers slowly down the stairs, humming some old show tune…moon river?
“Papa!” he calls out to me. “Oopla, this cat, he goes crazy.” The cat races by his feet, by inches. “Eh, what’s going on?”
He makes his way to the kitchen, where I am cooking dinner. “Papa, this is a fantastic smell”. He closes his eyes and breathes in with extra aplomb. He smiles.
Without waiting for my response on anything, he chatters on for the next ten minutes. He covers the subject of grocery shopping, farming, Italian olive oil, winning the lottery, Vic’s barbecue, my daughter (the girl), young love, and winning the lottery. Winning the lottery is the glue of his thoughts.
“Papa, we will have a touch of, eh, you know…” He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows.
“You want some wine?” I move to pour us all a glass.
Papa comments on Vic outside at the grill. He comments on the birds at the feeder and the dogs begging for food at his feet. He comments on the grass and what I looked like last week mowing it on the John Deere. He’s never seen anything like it he claims, and laughs.
He makes his way to the French door to the back porch, he opens it and pokes his head out “Victor, you’re not burning it, are you?” He lingers with the door ajar.
“Papa, watch the cats” I remind him.
“Eh, what? Oh, yes, yes.” He closes the door, not fully latched and walks to the front door. I leave the boiling rice to close the french door more fully.
I hear the front door open. “Ah, what a beautiful evening. I love this time of day, no sun, but still warm air. It’s lovely.” I wait a few seconds, to see if he’ll close that door before we lose an animal out it. Nothing.
“Papa, do you want to sit outside?” I inquire.
“Yes? Oh, ok.”
I turn down the flame on the stove to help him outside, set up the cushions on the chair, get him settled. I return to cooking.
No less than two minutes later the door from the garage opens and Papa is back inside.
“Was it not good outside?”
“What? No, no it was nice, but it was too humid. The dampness…I don’t want to catch a cold.”
He wanders to the cabinet that is ajar. “Hmmm, these are nice.” He has a bag of chocolate covered raisins in his hand. A bag of candy I missed, when clean sweeping the house. Three nights ago, I had awoken to the sound of Papa downstairs. I called out, “Everything ok?”. He assured me he just needed a glass of water. The next morning I found a trail of white chocolate chips from the cabinet, across the kitchen floor, onto the rug near the steps. Papa was sneaking candy. Or anything sweet that passed as candy. At 2am. Papa has diabetes.
The next morning, I took a large grocery bag and threw everything I could find that had any sugar in it into the bag and hid it in basement near the pantry. I missed the chocolate raisins.
“You can’t have those, you know that.” I smile.
“Oh, why, papa?” He looks disappointed.
“Because you have diabetes.”
“Oh, really?” I’d think it funny, if he truly wasn’t surprised.
“Yes, and sugar makes it worse.”
“What a crazy thing papa, that an old man loses the ability to enjoy life.”
He heads toward the stairs. I call out and remind him I am cooking dinner. “Oh, ok. We eat soon?”
Like a child, he is everywhere, into everything, unfocused, talking nonstop. He is a distraction a minute. I bless the days his companion is here to contain him in some activity. I also bless the days he is happy.
Papa has drawn the line.
“I will NOT go the doctors without you. I will NOT go with that fat Puerto Rican, who can’t even speak.”
He does not mean the insult. He is angry and frightened and looking to hurt people. And to shock me into a fight.
I remain calm. After all, I am the adult here. With all my wits about me. At least I think I am.
“Bah fangul, why do I have to go. I am a man, I can say NO!” His inflection goes up in register and timber on the word no.
His fingers pinched together, he stabs his hand forward with each word “Why am I being treated like an old decrepit fool, like a child.”
“Well, Papa, you are acting like a child. The doctor needs to see your leg today, to see how it’s healing.”
“Why, papa (his term of endearment for me), I will go in and see a stupid nurse, who knows nothing, and they’ll look, mmm, ahhh, yes, a fat old broken leg, mah, cut it off!”
His breath is heaving in his chest now.
“The nurse, the Marcia, she comes here to me at my house. I don’t need to go anywhere.”
“Papa, you can go in to the doctors with Noni, or you can go in by ambulance.”
“I am NOT going in. Bah.”
“Ok, I’ll call the ambulance to take you.” I say with what I think is a tone of confidence and finality. I hope calling his bluff works.
“You do what you want. I’m not going.” He swivels to face his computer. He is supposed to be reclined with his leg up. I hesitate to mention this. I only have the strength for one argument this morning.
I leave the room. His nurse Noni is standing in our hallway. She gives me a look. I shrug my shoulders and walk downstairs.
Calling Dr. Thomas, I make Papa’s excuses. But Dr. Thomas, an old Italian woman herself, is just as ‘testa dura’. She says he must come in. Do whatever I have to do, but I must bring him in.
I cannot miss another day of work over this. It’s my teenagers all over again.
I go back to his room and announce the ambulance will be there at 10:30. My eyes dart to the corner of the room at the lie – a dead giveaway.
“Fine. I am not going. You waste your time.”
“It will cost you $165 whether you get in it yourself, or they strap you in.” I’m so far out on a limb now. I hope he folds.
He spins back toward me. “I’m not paying for it!”
“Fine, I will pay then, Papa.”
“Why, so you can win this argument? What is wrong with you, something is very wrong with you, the way you were raised. You cannot make people do things they have no intention of doing.”
I feel like a tyrant. “Papa, the doctor insists, I’m just doing what she says.”
“I WILL NOT GO, THAT IS FINAL!” He ends with a flourish of both his hands in the air and spins in his second hand office chair, back to his computer screen starting at it intently, as if something in there will rescue him, something he lost.
“Not even my wife treats me like this,” he mumbles. “Kick me out if you want, I will go back and live with my mother.”
I don’t bother reminding him that he has neither a wife nor a mother.
Noni steps in. She tries to reason with him that I only want to be certain he is ok. He ignores her.
“Ok, ” I get up off the bed ” I’ll go wait for the ambulance.”
He slowly turns in his chair….
“Fine, I will go with her.” He jerks his head to the kind and patient Noni.
Later that day, on my return from work, Papa is all smiles and light. He inquires as to my day. I apologize for us having ‘words’ this morning. He truly looks perplexed. “What words?”
“I’m directing a freaking army here!”
I am speaking with my aunt, while I wave a nurse through the front door. Ever since Papa’s fall, the VNA, the Agency on Aging, and the myriad other organizations who claim to be there to help us with Papa’s care have really stepped up their game. My humble home suddenly resembled Downton Abbey. The cast of characters amuses and entertains Papa. But they were hard to come by.
After the fall and the ride and visit to the clinic, Papa goes up to his room, with help from me, and stays there for the next two days.
On day three, I call one of the agencies that have been visiting over the last few months, collecting information on my father. I explain the situation- the fall, the dementia, the leg, the pain. I ask for help. I am transferred to the supervisor, Beth. Beth asks me to hold, returns and states that if Papa is in that much pain we should go back to the clinic.
On day four, Vic tells me that he got through to the Agency on Aging and that Papa has a companion who will start on Monday, at 9am. She will be with us daily for four hours.
On the fifth day, Vic leaves for travel on another contract. I’m navigating this alone – at least until tomorrow.
On the sixth day, the companion doesn’t show up. I think she’ll come tomorrow
On the seventh day the companion doesn’t show up. I call the VNA. No companion listed there. I call the Agency on Aging. Wrong town. I call the other Agency on Aging. I hit the right one.
“I’m sorry,” the woman with a heavy accent says “Did no one call you on Monday?” She tells me the companion has been ill, but will absolutely start on Wednesday. Her name is Norma.
The woman at the Agency on Aging calls me back and tells me, no, its not Norma, its Louidalyce – but call her Nana. She’ll be there tomorrow.
Nana. I like the name already, its so – comforting.
I go upstairs. Papa refuses to get out of his chair. “My leg”, he moans.
I lift the blanket from his legs. The angry looking hematoma stares back at me. Something fluid and jelly like undulates beneath it’s thin surface. The area around it is flaming red.
I call Dr Thomas, who is out until tomorrow, and book a 2pm visit with her then. Hanging up I stare at the wall.
I should be working. I should be writing one of the four past due reports for my clients, or finalizing the P&L’s for our quarter of a million dollars in financing, or doing laundry. But I’m exhausted.
And then the phone rings. Papa loves to answer it on the extension in his room. He enjoys talking with the telemarketers. But of course, he can’t answer it now, he is anchored to his chair.
The answering machine picks up and I hear the voice of Marcia, a VNA nurse. Her voice moves me to action, I’m up and at the handset before she finishes her sentence.
“Marcia?!”
I realize I sound like a lunatic, desperate and mad. And of course, I am.
“Marcia, I’m SO glad its you!”
Marcia seems startled into silence. One beat, two beat, and then a tentative “Hi…”
I find some composure.
“Marcia, hello, I’m happy you called.”
“Hi, I’m calling about my visit with your Dad. I’m scheduled to come out twice per month for vitals and blood sugar, and I’d like to come out on Wednesday.”
“Oh, Marcia, Papa fell down the stairs, at first I didn’t think it was bad, but then he threw up, so I called 911…” I tell Marcia the whole sordid tale. She is rightfully appalled that not one VNA nurse has visited since the accident seven days ago. I confess to her that maybe I was not clear when I called them last week, and she admits that might be, but this is not how they operate and she is apologetic. She says she’ll see me tomorrow.
Marcia is coming! I’m as excited as a 15 year old on prom night.
At 10 the next morning, Nana arrives. She is as positive and nurturing as Mary Poppins, and cute as well. Papa loves her. I love her. What is not to love?
At 11:30, Marcia walks through the door. Efficient, assured and with a bag of tricks, she assesses Papas leg and declares that our visit to Dr. Thomas this afternoon is critical. She directs me to call her after the appointment and that she will be back out on Friday. She has also ordered a home health aide three times per week to get him in and out of the shower, and a physical therapist to assess his gait and help him heal.
I love Marcia. I love Nana. I even love Papa.
How many people are qualified for really, life scary emergencies? How many people know when it’s the right time to push the button, call 911, cry out for help?
I think like most people, that moment for me is only clear in hindsight.
When I got back from errands, having left Papa alone for forty minutes, I found him seated with his leg up…and a garish, large, black purple hematoma growing on his shin. Twice the size of an overripe plum, and just as black.
“Ok, we have to get you to Dr Thomas!”
I place the call to her office, can I come right in?, they ask.
“Papa, let’s get your shoes on, we are going to see Dr. Thomas.”
“Oh, right now? Why, papa, my ribs hurt, I can’t move.”
“Your ribs hurt too? Can you breathe ok?”
“Well, yes, but every now and then a sharp pain.”
As if on cue, he starts and cries out, reaching for his right side.
I get his shoes on, then get him standing. He is a bit shaky. We head out into the hallway toward the stairs.
Each step down causes some pain. At the bottom, he is ashen faced, sweating.
“Papa, I feel sick….”
I wheel him toward the kitchen sink, where he proceeds to vomit for two minutes.
I call 911.
“Hi, this isn’t a lights and siren emergency…” I explain the situation to the dispatcher. He oddly keeps telling me to calm down, while I am remarkably calm and speaking slowly. I realize he is reading from a script. I play along.
Within four minutes a police officer is at our door. I have Papa in an easy chair in our kitchen.
Over the next thirty minutes our kitchen fills up with three more officers, two paramedics and three ambulance attendants. Lots of bags and equipment and a gurney too big for the back porch. So out the front door Papa goes. Neck brace, heart monitor, IV. Bumping and jostling along the stone path.
Talking and telling jokes the whole way.
I follow along in my car, register him at the emergency clinic front desk and then I am escorted to the back. With my cell phones last battery juice, I call my mother to cancel the DC hotel for the night and text my Manhattan client to cancel our meeting.
The clinic medical staff care for Papa, who is now growing irritated. No more Mr. Entertainer. He is mad about the wait, the bed, the neck brace. He’s done.
A physicians assistant comes into his room, tells him he doesn’t need X-rays, tells him to keep the leg elevated and to see Dr. Thomas in a week. Call if it gets infected. She leaves.
Papa, glaring after her, swears in Italian.
Then two orderlies arrive to take him to X-ray. Confusion ensues about yes or no on the X-rays. In the end they whisk him off to X-ray his shin only, no rib X-rays required.
He arrives back in time for the main nurse to give him discharge orders. Papa has to pee. She directs him to put his pants on. He whines that he can’t walk. I draw the curtain to step outside and give him privacy.
“Where is my daughter going?! Why is she running away?!?” His voice echoes loud in the almost empty cavernous clinic bay. He is in a panic, crying down the hallway, shouting out my name.
The nurse tries to calm him. He is having none of it.
“Mr. Manocchia, please, just have a seat there and put your pants on. Your daughter is right outside. We’ll walk to the bathroom.” Part of a nurses training must be in voice modulation. I’m in awe of how tempered hers is right now, in the face of this screaming maniac.
“I’m falling!” He yells, “I’m FAAAALLING!!!”
The nurse croons “You’re not falling, you’re fine. When you say you’re falling it makes us nervous. But I’m watching you and you are fine.”
In the end, Papa is wheeled to the bathroom in a chair, and then out to my car, which I have brought around to the front.
Mr. Charming has returned.
“You nurses are remarkable, truly. Thank you. My daughter is remarkable as well. Such a hard worker.”
I turn on the radio and drive us home.
Journey Toward Oz 