Let it be known that the Jackson women are not good nurses. It must be passed down from generation to generation. My Grandma almost electrocuted my Papa when she got a bucket of warm water to soak his feet and then thought it might be a good idea for him to shave with the electric razor. Jess and I would complain about our stomach, head, left pinky, etc. hurting before school started and Mom would tell us exactly how we would spend the day in bed. . .with no TV. . .no music. . . no coloring. . .no play-doh. It’s a miracle! My left pinky feels better. I think I’ll go to school. And don’t even think of getting sick on a Wednesday.
Now Mom has had her fair share of nursing Dad over the years. I would have thought Dad would have learned by now, but he must really love the care he gets from my mom. I hope that’s not interpreted as a sexual reference because. . .yuck. Dustin has learned about this family trait and knows that if he gets sick, I do not have sympathy. I will follow you around with Lysol and make you stay in one designated area. I will not boil a chicken for chicken noodle soup. He’s lucky he got a better job because I’ll buy Progresso soup rather than Campbell’s chicken noodle. Dust would rather fight the flu for three weeks without medicine, but in the process get all of us sick. I don’t want to hear that you have coughed so hard your back hurts. I think he knows this statement just irritates me. But in my defense, it’s not my fault. Really.
I’ve spent a few days this week over at Dad’s to “take care of him” when Mom has to go get something. By taking care of him, I’ve got him some water with lemon, some fruit and I’ve fetched a walker. I must be doing a good job because he’s only called me Nurse Ratched one time. I’ve never seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but something tells me that being called Nurse Ratched is not a compliment. Besides the fetching I have done, I have got to have some good conversations with Dad and watched quite a bit of Food Network.
So all in all, this week has been a lot of fun for me. Maybe not so much for Dad or Nurse Nana, but I’ve enjoyed myself. Ellie can’t wait to go over there and see Dad’s leg. She’s all about the scars and blood or lack there of. If there ever was a nurse in our family, it would be Ellie. Wait, I’ve seen her throw her babies down when they cry, spank them for being bad or step on them if they are in the floor. We might have to re-evaluate that career choice. I think if you asked her right now what she wanted to be when she grows up, I’m pretty sure a puppy or a kitty would be at the top of her list. She just came in from outside and said she wanted to be the Tooth Fairy. I wonder if they have a good dental insurance. . .okay that was lame but pretty funny!
Dad has to give himself a shot twice a day. Ellie’s fascination tells me that someday in the future, my child will come home with a tattoo and I will experience what Mom and Dad went through with me. I know, paybacks a b*%$@#.
I’m surprised Ellie didn’t offer to give Papa the shot. At this point, if Emma were in this picture, she’d either be dry heaving off the edge of the bed or passed out on the floor.
Papa at work and Ellie getting settled in for the afternoon.
Ellie hard at work while Papa is at the “office.”
Papa and Ellie
In the previous post about Dad, the doctor went through his knee to “pound” out the shaft. Here is Dad’s bandage for that one.
He has 20 staples in his knee. . .
and 64 staples in his hip. Funny story about Ellie after I had my surgery. The doctor wrote on my chest with a marker so he would know where to cut. I couldn’t take a shower for a couple of days, so I had marker still on me when the girls came back home. One day I noticed that Ellie had marked on her chest like Mama. We had to have a conversation about staples and how they only go on paper. I bet not too many 3-year-olds have this conversation with their Mama?!?
Nurse Ratched, I mean Mom cleaning Dad’s hip incision.
This kind of makes my toes tingle.
The modesty police. . .aka Mom. . .kept telling me not to get Dad’s hiney (I have small children, therefore, I have not used the word butt in about six years). Ironically enough, the word “crap” flows freely from my mouth???
Ellie was holding Papa’s hand and making him feel better while Mom doctored him up.
Me being the curious one in the family got a tape measure for Mom to measure Dad’s new scar. Straight across it’s 17″ but following the curve of the scar it’s about an inch or two longer.
If you take into consideration that Mom has changed Dad’s bandages twice a day for 10 to 14 days after surgery for the past six hip replacements, she has done this approximately 120 to 168 times.
The “AB” on Dad’s leg is his doctor’s initials. That way when he gets into the operating room, they know who’s patient he is. I’d just check the chart, but that’s me. I also like to sign my handy work too!
I don’t know what hurts more. A hip replacement or taking off a sticky bandage twice a day. You can’t do the count to three and rip really fast approach. That’s a toss up. Or maybe eyebrow waxing. Geez Louise, now that’s painful.
Dad’s mysterious bruise. I’m not sure if it looks better or not?
A good one of Ellie and Dad. She told Papa she would pray for his bruise on his arm when she went to bed that night. He said, “What about Papa’s leg?” and Ellie was like, “Okay, I’ll do that too.” Ellie’s thinking, “Nevermind Papa’s hip, did you see that bruise?”
Nothing like a hug from your granddaughter to make you feel better.
I love Ellie’s face. This is her “Ohh me goss” face. (oh my gosh)
When you’re as crafty as Nurse Nana, you learn a few tricks over the years. She uses saran wrap or a ziploc bag to keep the gauze in place while she pulls the stocking over it. Once the stocking is in place, pull the saran wrap slowly and the gauze stays in place. I tell you what. Mom’s handier than a pocket on a shirt. And in the words of Mom, “This isn’t just a stupid face.” Yah, she said stupid rather than pretty. We’ve never let her forget that one. I love my Mom. 🙂