january 14th, 2010

January 14th, 2010

Yesterday, I gave Dad a bath. It's really nerve-wracking, navigating all those hard, slippery surfaces with someone with poor balance, even though we had assorted grab bars installed years ago. Like many people with Alzheimer's, Dad's become very resistant to bathing – Marie used to be able to get him to do it with reasonable frequency, but now he tells her that it's too cold or just says he doesn't feel like it. So far, I've had better luck – I've given him the last two baths he's had and haven't gotten any resistance, though he did tell me to make sure the bathroom was “tropical.”

Bathing Dad is a very hands-on process, which makes me have to overcome my natural hesitance about touch. As a child, I used to believe that people, especially my mother, were touch-telepaths and I was always afraid to rest my head against her for fear of thoughts leaking through the skin. I still tend to shy away from casual hugs and other forms of touch, but here I am, physically anchoring Dad while he clambers into the tub, and wielding a washcloth once he's in.

Touching his papery skin jolts me into memories of the other two adults I've washed – my friend Ruth and my mother, both women toward the end stages of cancer, both baths given awkwardly in hospitals that were not well set up for such projects. It's been more than ten years, but the shock of seeing their bodies, hollowed by surgery and illness like winter tree trunks, still feels strong.

The purpose of this bath was to prepare him for today's expedition to the urologist. Due to scheduling issues, no one was available to help me cart Dad to the doctor. Marie got him dressed, and we set off on our own. The wait at the office wasn't long, but Dad does as well with waiting as a toddler with ADHD, and I found myself wishing for a bag of toys to distract him with. Someone should invent some Alzheimer's toys and market them in a little tote bag for these occasions. Luckily, a candy jar on the reception desk provided some relief.

The doctor examined him with an ultrasound and then he and I wedged ourselves into a too-small bathroom for the peeing-in-a-cup routine. He was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection – my instincts were right on target – and then we were dispatched to the lab for some bloodwork and another cup. Dad's having to pee all the time came in handy when we got to the second cup.

As a reward afterwards, I took him to Burger King. I normally never set foot in these temples-to-the-hamburger, but it was close and casual enough to allow for some of Dad's odd behaviors, such as humming and drumming.