Whadja do t'day?

Fair question.

I walked my dog. I weeded the garden. I spent an uncomfortable fifteen minutes talking to my deceased sister's ex-husband's cousin who's living in the house I should be living in now. I called my softball coach and told him that it was unlikely that I would be able to go to the tournement in Montreal over Labor Day weekend. I was briefed by the hospice nurse who's taking care of my step-mother. I went to the local supermarket to get stuff for dinner and cruised a sweet Bucks County boy doing a good impression of nineteen so that he could buy cigarets. I made dinner (fried zucchini, chicken cutlets, tomato-basil-and-mozzarella salad) for my Dad. I spent some time throwing whips in the back yard. And oh yeah, I changed my step-mother's diaper.

Eileen, the nurse, asked if I had any experience nursing. After about an eleventh of a second of reflection, I said, "Yeah. Lots." And I have. The last step-mother. Grandfather. Sister. Yeah. Lots. Since my father had done a lot of that, too, I was sort of surprised when he looked like he was going to pass out as Eileen declared that we were entering the Era of Diapers.

Y'see, my step-mother has increaisng difficulty getting out of bed. The only thing getting her out of bed these days is going to the bathroom to pee. (Solid food is a thing of the past.) And there's no really good reason for her to exert herself like that.

So it's diapers. My Dad and I sort of strategized around the diapers. She's feisty. Clearly, it would not be my Dad changing them due to his squeamish issues. (Yeah, I could've said, "But Dad! She's your wife! Surely this can't be... an unexplored issue," but I didn't.) But Dad would have to be there, or else it would be... y'know... weird.

So my step-mother did her best to make it to the bathroom, but had to admit defeat. I explained that the 'pants' that the nurse gave her to wear were 'padded.' (It seemed best to avoid the D-word.) Step-mom was down with the idea, not putting up any fuss at all. And there I was, taking off the stickey tabs, and removing the diaper while my mother lifted up her housedress.

I had sort of prepared myself for seeing Step-mom's vagina. I need not have worried. It's been a while since I saw one and forgot the positioning. Also, my mother has lost a lot of weight, and consequently has lots of excess skin. The net effect was that she was as smooth as an action figure. Thinking about it, I guess the last vagina I saw was not on a woman, but was on a guy named Marcel, a former member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who is not only a nullo (elective removal of cock and balls) who had also had his surgeons create a boy-pussy for him. His is a little farther up than I guess they are otherwise. Marcel, by the way, is this big butch bearded bear of a guy with a vagina instead of cock and balls. I definitely get it.

So it will only be a few days. Spoke with my step-sister. She's doing her best to get down here from her homes in the Poconos.

After my step-mother passes, there's an 800 number we call to notify the hospice service. They will send out a social worker who will take care of everything. The big concern is my Dad. And I think that's very appropriate.

I'm also going to see if I can get a priest to come and give last rights to my step-mother. Although she hasn't been in church since she married my father, she appreciates it when a priest visited her while she was in whatever hospital.

It's all about her comfort.

Just now, when I was in talking to her, she said, "I don't know what's happening to me." Alas, that's probably true. Her head isn't clear. She can't remember from one moment to the next. The eternal present. No past. And she does seem aware that the future is a matter of clock and not calendar.

Tomorrow I'm hoping that I can get away for a little while. Get to the gym. Maybe get over to the pool at the Raven. Or at least stop by for a beer.

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