Re: The thread for flipping shits (and tables)
11-06-2011, 11:13 PM
This is not really me flipping the fuck out. This is more me venting, getting a weight off my chest. I need to, and I'm doing it here because I know you guys in particular won't mind. Thank you.
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SpoilerTomorrow it'll have been ten weeks since my grandad's accident. He trundled out to the vegetable patch one morning, as is his wont, mucked around 'till elevenses then on his way back inside he tripped and fell at the edge of the patio. He was adamant that everything was fine and that he'd be back up in his feet in a moment, but thankfully my gran wasn't quite as optimistic. Given how it turned out he'd broken his hip and done his left leg in something terrible, it's rather fortunate she was there to watch it happen. Maybe not from her perspective at the time, mind.
At that moment I was packing for the trip up to Oxford we were to embark upon the next day; I said I'd stay at home when the call came through. I would have just been a deadweight anyway, and knowing me I'd have stood in the way of the ambulance crew or something equally useless. Grandad said he didn't mind; the last thing he wanted was a fuss and he knew how important the visit was going to be for me. I figured I'd get to see him when i got back. Hopefully.
For the first fortnight or so, gran was the only person he'd let visit him. He didn't want to cause too much trouble and dad was cutting a commission deadline pretty close as it was. But it did cause an issue; it did gran in, having to drive back and forth every single day, often needing several trips to cart all the stuff he needed up to the hospital. Upon every arrival, she said, without fail there'd always be a request for a bed adjustment, or a glass of juice, or a check of the TV guide; always something instead of the "hello" she'd expect. Or, rather, expected at first.
He finally let my dad visit him just after he took his first turn for the worse; a chest infection a fortnight after his admission. Gran collapsed on our sofa that afternoon. In her case, it was simply exhaustion and she was fine again after a nice cup of tea. Grandad got better too and was at last moved to a closer hospital a mere five minutes down the round from gran. Things looked up, though progress was slow.
I only got to see him a fortnight ago. Up until then, he didn't think he was in a good enough state - he didn't want me to come away fretting over him. He seemed a bit miffed about how he was still stuck in a hospital ward and he could hardly talk. His speech was somewhere between squeaking and croaking, and I felt guilty for being able to talk normally. When I entered the ward, he asked me to pick the fan off the floor from where it had fallen off a few minutes earlier (I'd been forewarned), then about how my driving lessons were going (he'd always looked forward to seeing me learn to drive, but my first lesson was five days before the accident. He's paid for just over half of them so far). He wasn't exactly perfect, but he was on the mend. The next day, some people were going to assess the house to see if he could go back home, so he was rather cheerful about that.
The day after, he caught something else. It passed, just, but afterwards he couldn't remember my visit. I haven't been since.
In the words of my gran, "we need to get Eric out of there whilst he's still got some off his marbles left". That bad turn postponed things, but last week a posh new bed was delivered and since upstairs will no longer be accessible, I spent the evening before helping mum and gran rearrange some furniture. I recall having joked about how I'd seen a picture once, taken two days before I was born, which showed that my grandparent's lounge hasn't changed at all in over seventeen years. "It's about time you redecorated," I said, and immediately felt like an arse for having done so.
The reason I'm venting here, though, is because this whole process has become excruciatingly difficult since that last setback. Gran has always been decidedly obstinate and awkward; irksome characteristics, but tolerable (barely)... until now. Getting grandad home was going to be a breeze, but once it became apparent he was going to need more assistance if he wanted to live anywhere other than a care home things got complicated. And thus recently there've been more arguments than usual; be it over trifles such as whether or not she should get the swivel chair recovered, more serious things like the inappropriate placement of the bed in a room where everything will be made all the more arduous, both for grandad and gran, or the really serious issues, like the fact that gran is convinced she'll be able to pay for the care grandad will need once he's back home from her own savings. It's all so frustrating and painful and depressing; not only do we have to deal with grandad's incapacitation but also gran's attitude towards it.
Dad gets me to answer the phone now. He's given up trying to talk sense into either of his parents and figures they're more likely to listen to me anyhow. They don't, although in gran's case that's generally because she never wears her hearing aid despite our incessant requests. I just wish I didn't have to dread Sunday evenings any more. I just wish gran would let us take care of things so that the arguments could stop. I just wish I hadn't let myself slip when it all got too much today and am thus brimming with regret over what I said.
I just wish I could cope. Fuck, if I can't cope whilst grandad's alive I really don't want to think about what would happen if he popped his clogs...
At that moment I was packing for the trip up to Oxford we were to embark upon the next day; I said I'd stay at home when the call came through. I would have just been a deadweight anyway, and knowing me I'd have stood in the way of the ambulance crew or something equally useless. Grandad said he didn't mind; the last thing he wanted was a fuss and he knew how important the visit was going to be for me. I figured I'd get to see him when i got back. Hopefully.
For the first fortnight or so, gran was the only person he'd let visit him. He didn't want to cause too much trouble and dad was cutting a commission deadline pretty close as it was. But it did cause an issue; it did gran in, having to drive back and forth every single day, often needing several trips to cart all the stuff he needed up to the hospital. Upon every arrival, she said, without fail there'd always be a request for a bed adjustment, or a glass of juice, or a check of the TV guide; always something instead of the "hello" she'd expect. Or, rather, expected at first.
He finally let my dad visit him just after he took his first turn for the worse; a chest infection a fortnight after his admission. Gran collapsed on our sofa that afternoon. In her case, it was simply exhaustion and she was fine again after a nice cup of tea. Grandad got better too and was at last moved to a closer hospital a mere five minutes down the round from gran. Things looked up, though progress was slow.
I only got to see him a fortnight ago. Up until then, he didn't think he was in a good enough state - he didn't want me to come away fretting over him. He seemed a bit miffed about how he was still stuck in a hospital ward and he could hardly talk. His speech was somewhere between squeaking and croaking, and I felt guilty for being able to talk normally. When I entered the ward, he asked me to pick the fan off the floor from where it had fallen off a few minutes earlier (I'd been forewarned), then about how my driving lessons were going (he'd always looked forward to seeing me learn to drive, but my first lesson was five days before the accident. He's paid for just over half of them so far). He wasn't exactly perfect, but he was on the mend. The next day, some people were going to assess the house to see if he could go back home, so he was rather cheerful about that.
The day after, he caught something else. It passed, just, but afterwards he couldn't remember my visit. I haven't been since.
In the words of my gran, "we need to get Eric out of there whilst he's still got some off his marbles left". That bad turn postponed things, but last week a posh new bed was delivered and since upstairs will no longer be accessible, I spent the evening before helping mum and gran rearrange some furniture. I recall having joked about how I'd seen a picture once, taken two days before I was born, which showed that my grandparent's lounge hasn't changed at all in over seventeen years. "It's about time you redecorated," I said, and immediately felt like an arse for having done so.
The reason I'm venting here, though, is because this whole process has become excruciatingly difficult since that last setback. Gran has always been decidedly obstinate and awkward; irksome characteristics, but tolerable (barely)... until now. Getting grandad home was going to be a breeze, but once it became apparent he was going to need more assistance if he wanted to live anywhere other than a care home things got complicated. And thus recently there've been more arguments than usual; be it over trifles such as whether or not she should get the swivel chair recovered, more serious things like the inappropriate placement of the bed in a room where everything will be made all the more arduous, both for grandad and gran, or the really serious issues, like the fact that gran is convinced she'll be able to pay for the care grandad will need once he's back home from her own savings. It's all so frustrating and painful and depressing; not only do we have to deal with grandad's incapacitation but also gran's attitude towards it.
Dad gets me to answer the phone now. He's given up trying to talk sense into either of his parents and figures they're more likely to listen to me anyhow. They don't, although in gran's case that's generally because she never wears her hearing aid despite our incessant requests. I just wish I didn't have to dread Sunday evenings any more. I just wish gran would let us take care of things so that the arguments could stop. I just wish I hadn't let myself slip when it all got too much today and am thus brimming with regret over what I said.
I just wish I could cope. Fuck, if I can't cope whilst grandad's alive I really don't want to think about what would happen if he popped his clogs...