Deflect Thy Elders
When left unchecked, George’s nails get to be like filthy talons you see on the titular evil troll in a B-movie. I’m bound from cutting his nail myself, since I could easily cut him with nail clippers, which could cause a nasty infection and a nastier lawsuit against the home aid company that employs me. Therefore, it’s my responsibility to determine when George needs attention from a salon and then getting him to the manicurist.
I’ve done it at least a dozen times, but I dread each new trip. It’s very much like giving a cat a bath — in fact, George and the cats I’ve known are similar in that, no matter how many meals I’ve served them, or how many times I’ve opened and closed the door to let them in or out, when presented with the possibility of a tub or warm water or trip to the beauty salon, each thinks he’s about to face the firing squad. When he figures out the fate that will soon befall him, George puts up such a squawk, you’d think I’d proposed to remove the hairs on his testicles with tweezers. He never wants to leave his chair in his room at home, especially to have his nails clipped — even when his face and ankles have been bloodied by the ragged, filthy claws protruding from his fingers and toes.
I’ve compiled a short list of salons who’ve dealt with his antics in the past, and who can take him right away if we call ahead. One day, I lured him into the car by saying that we were going to McDonald’s. The lure of hot French fries worked its magic; thus, I was able to get him showered, medicated, dressed and on to the road — making sure, as always, to lay the pee pads on the passenger seat in case his industrial-strength urine soaked through his adult diaper and khaki pants again.
But instead of chauffeuring him to the golden arches, I pulled up to the manicure place and parked in the handicapped-accessible spot out front. When he realized he’d been had, he called out my duplicity. “All you fucking women are the same. Always bothering me. Goddamn it! You should all be round up and shot.” I didn’t remind him that, without all the fucking women in his life, he’d be at the mercy of his son-in-law, who would have either let him rot in his own filth or put him in a home many years before.
I walked around the car to open his door. He looked at me balefully, an expression I recognized when trying to usher any one of the felines in my life into a cat carrier. I assured him we could go to McDonald’s afterwards, but like a stubborn mule, he refused to budge from the car. Anxiety prickled the back of my neck. I looked away from him out over the black asphalt to hide my helplessness, which I was sure was written plainly on my face. I’d been struggling with him for so long, and this precise scene was so repetitive.
Every day, it was the same melodrama, and our roles within it never varied. I pulled at him, trying to obey his family’s wishes to manage George’s grooming, medication, to be a companion to him and to maintain his overall sense of well-being. And he pushed back just as much as I pulled, since he could never abide being told what to do — even if it meant he could avoid illness, hunger and loneliness. Any relinquishment of control meant defeat in his mind. Ultimately, the man wanted nothing but to sit in his chair and be brought sandwiches until he took his last breath. I sympathized with him, but his diapers needed to be changed, his body needed to be cleaned, and yes, his toenails still needed to be cut.
The sun was hot on the top of my head, and I was losing my composure. I had to switch tactics. All the reasoning, bribing, and pleading in the world wouldn’t get him to obey. I needed to speak to him in his own language and tone, which was almost a foreign tongue to my diplomatic, timid personality.
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I took a deep breath into my weary body, turned to him directly and yelled at him, “I’m not taking you home until you GET A MANICURE. Get your FAT ASS out of my car! Your daughter told me to get you a manicure, and you’re getting a manicure!”
A stranger sitting in a car in the adjacent parking spot looked over, surprised, and then laughed. I must have seemed like the worst granddaughter ever, raising my voice at a poor helpless old man. I admit this was completely inappropriate behavior from a caregiver. But I was driving to his house, getting him out of bed, bathed, dressed, medicated, fed, and entertained seven days a week. I’d found that being reasonable with him was ineffective. Yelling was what needed to happen.
He got the manicure. As usual, when he finally sat down in the cushioned chair and put his feet in the warm sudsy water, he enjoyed himself. The pretty lady on duty always cooed over him before kneeling at his feet in a low-cut shirt, and he always fawned shamelessly over a nice pair of tits. At long last, after the struggle, insults, and fussing, he would sit quietly for 45 minutes, mollified by the cleavage presented to him.
* * * * * * *
One afternoon, Roland, George’s son-in-law (whom George referred to as “the big, dumb Swede”), pulled me aside to tell me the story about how it was when George moved into their spare bedroom. It was in the early 90s, and George’s wife had died the year before. George’s daughter Dana and Roland were concerned that George was too isolated in his big house in an affluent part of San Francisco. So, he moved into their small, but pleasant, downstairs room, where he could be close to the family, but also removed — like having his own apartment.
For the first fifteen years or so, he acted like the kind of housemate everyone likes to have. He was engaging, convivial and generous — a pleasure to be around. He was home each night, but he also drove his big Chrysler into the city to play cards and go to dinner with his cronies — many of whom he knew through his family’s very successful restaurant. Thus, he wasn’t hanging around the house too much.
That all changed once he got to be 85 or so. He stopped driving and only accepted the occasional invitation from his myriad friends, cousins and second cousins to come pick him up. He preferred to hole up in his room and watch telenovelas. His interest in politics and world events fizzled. His mind stayed sharp, but his body atrophied and ballooned. His appetite for pasta, eggs and red meat never once waned — even as his desire and ability to exercise, or to even take a stroll, all but evaporated. His sweet and good-natured personality shriveled up into a husk of cranky, vague bitterness. He was still a very decent man, but like many old people, his mental and emotional eyesight has become very myopic. He could not see outside his own immediate experience and had lost the desire to try.
They certainly never thought that the arrangement would go on for twenty years. They thought George would have died at, say, 93 — which exceeded any projection anyone would have made for a man who almost never ate a fruit or vegetable and who sat staring at a television for 13 hours at a time. And here he was, almost 100 years old, still buoyed by a diet of butter and white bread. Roland said that they thought about putting him in a home because he had gotten too big, fat and physically unstable for anyone else in the family to handle. He also said that, if they had put him in a facility, they would be sitting on the couch every night thinking about how bad they felt. Now, George sits in his room just outside the basement. It had gotten to the point where he’s so heavy and so incontinent, he may need care 24 hours per day. Roland said it was like watching George deteriorate in slow motion.
He went on to tell me that I was “very special” to be able to handle him day after day. It was moving because I never know if people appreciate me or if I’m doing a good job. It was a nice moment in a profession where nice moments were a little hard to come by.
