Friday, July 23, 2010

Rehab, Day 1

There are just some things a daughter just does not EVER want to witness. They are just plain terrible, and I'm looking for therapists as soon as I finish this post. (If you don't know me, please understand that last sentence was written in jest.)

For instance, Tuesday.

I escorted my father to outpatient rehab for the very first time. Since it was the very first time I thought my role would be filling out 15 minutes worth of paperwork, seeing him to the door, and leaving him there for two hours. (Because I've heard tell from numerous people, "I dropped so and so off at rehab today...") It's imperative you know my expectations-it explains why I had no make up, not even powder. So what I thought would be a 20 minute errand tops turned into an hour and 20 minute trip.  And looking like white trash is no longer "in", so I couldn't even pretend I was trying to be fashionable.

And it was not without cringe inducing moments.  Because we're dealing with my people.

The incredibly nice speech therapist wanted me to stay in and help Daddy answer questions.  Because there's two sides to every story.  But we survived the speech therapy session.

And then on to physical therapy.

Now you have to understand Daddy loves to talk. And loves to tell a big bear tale.  The bigger the tale, the better.  And for the people that know him, we know he's puttin' on, and just laugh.  But then you get these people who believe him. Every. Single. Word.

The two physical therapists (the one licensed one and the student one-bless both their hearts) asked him his goals for physical therapy.  I will give you his answer:

"I just want things to be the way they used to be.  Before all this, I was driving.  I was able to mow the lawn.  I used to do all the housework.  I used to do all the dishes.  I used to do all the cooking.  I used to do all the laundry." It was at this point the therapist interjects and wants to know about stairs.  We cover the fact that there are stairs at the house.  The therapists are concerned about him packing laundry baskets up and down the stairs.  (I'm worried about the therapists.)

And can I just say I had been shaking my head no to negate everything he was saying after the second sentence?  But do people listen to me?  No.  All I have to say is, yes, Daddy used to drive.  He used to mow the lawn.  Dishes?  On occasion.  Cooking.  He'd fix himself lunch and maybe fix us supper sometimes.  (Though to be fair, he does make chicken and dumplings that will make you slap yo' momma.) Laundry?  He'd wash towels once a week when he got bored.

But since SOME people believe every word that comes out of mouths, and they carry clipboards, it is documented that my daddy runs the household.  And he is desperately worried his wife is going to leave him if he can't resume his household chores.

It's recently come to my attention that Australia has a lot of people with my last name.  When he is well, I plan to move there.

G'day mates!  

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