Have you ever seen the "clown car" at the circus, when the clowns come out of something like a Volkswagen and they keep coming and coming and coming out the door--a parade of clowns flowing out, one after another? You know, a ridiculous number of clowns emerging from a tiny car? I want you to keep that vision in mind.
Now, I want you to think about what a person with schizophrenia looks like. What's the first thing that comes to mind?
Okay, now I am going to put the clown car and schizophrenia together. How's that for an unusual blog? Stay with me. It'll be all right and no disrespect will be bestowed upon clowns or persons with schizophrenia. (Well, maybe on the clowns. I'm not a fan.)
I asked what you think of when you hear schizophrenia. I'm guessing some of you thought "psycho mass murderer" or "mentally retarded scary weirdo who is a danger to society." Perhaps you envisioned a homeless person, disheveled and talking to themselves. I highly doubt you pictured your accountant doing your taxes or the guy mowing your lawn.
The media tends to display the mentally ill as dangerous, unpredictable, damaged, hopeless. They don't show the person, the hope, the laughter, the antics, the gentle kindness, the normal. Because, there is lots of normal mixed in with the facets of the illness. Besides, there are accountants with schizophrenia and lawn guys with schizophrenia and neighbors with schizophrenia.....
I want you to laugh with me today in regards to the fun and antics of a particular episode from last week. I want to make sure your vision of a person with schizophrenia is more than psycho mass murderer. I want you to understand that what you see on TV is such an awful representation of mental illness; for every one person that makes the news, there are thousands more that aren't doing anything meriting media coverage.
So, picture me at the State Capitol with a group of people. The group happens to be comprised of those with mental illness-those that I serve at my job. We are at the State Capitol to take part in a mental health rally. I am standing with a man who happens to have schizophrenia. To be honest, if anyone can "look" like someone with schizophrenia, he is the guy. He's got three layers of clothing on, despite it being 80 degrees outside. He's laughing to himself and he's talking to a dog of which I cannot see.
He's friendly, gentle, kind. You'd like him. He has a great sense of humor and a good heart.
In order to get into the Capitol, one must go through security. Nothing out of the norm with that. I direct this fine young man to remove his cell phone and keys from his pockets so he can go through the metal detector. I inquire if he has anything else metal with him. He pulls out a set of silverware--metal knife, fork and spoon--and places them with his phone and keys. When asked why he has silverware in his pocket, he doesn't miss a beat. He says, "well, I have to eat lunch."
He walks through the metal detector. Buzzzzzz.
He pulls a metal lighter out of his pocket and again walks through the metal detector. Buzzzzz.
He pulls a bunch of change out of his pocket and again walks through the metal detector. Buzzzzz.
As we are now holding up the line, one of the officers asks him to step aside. The officer uses his wand to determine if the client has items of which could potentially be inappropriate for a visit to the Capitol (read: something dangerous). Buzzzzzzzz.
So, the man with three layers of clothing--this friendly, gentle and kind man--starts emptying his pockets. And, emptying and emptying and emptying his pockets.
This is where the clown car meets schizophrenia.
"My" man lines up the contents of his pockets on the counter, all the while the officer watching. He pulls out a wine cork.... some plastic lighters.... a calendar from 2011 (yes, 2011)... a red plastic ball... a toothbrush still in the package... a rain poncho... two empty water bottles... toothpaste... an empty eye glass holder... dental floss (guess he was planning on excellent oral hygiene during this trip)... his second of two wallets... cigarettes... the stuff went on and one.
He laughed and without prompting indicated, "I have a hollow leg--that's where I keep all this stuff."
Thankfully, the officer knew there was a mental health rally and that lots of people with serious mental illness where on the grounds. The officer remained polite, patient, appropriately amused. It WAS funny, after all.
As my guy is emptying his pockets, I ask why he has a red rubber ball. He answers, I kid you not, "to put in my butt."
(He knows me well and knows that I would love it if he said something like it was for putting in his butt. He was totally goofing around. Although the media doesn't tell you, people with schizophrenia can have a wonderful a sense of humor.)
He laughed more and then admitted the red rubber ball was for his dog (the dog of which I cannot see but is real enough to him). Makes sense, when you think about it.
It was like the clowns coming out of the car at the circus--the stuff just coming and coming and coming out of his pockets. I'm still in awe in regards to all the things that guy had in his pockets. Thank God he was wearing a belt, as I don't think he could've kept those pants on without it securely fastened. I'm not even sure how he could walk with all that crap he was carrying.
It took five full minutes for him to empty those pockets. I'm not sure he ever fully emptied them--I think there were a few clowns left in the car--but it was good enough that he finally didn't buzzzzzzz when checked with the wand. It took a bit longer to get everything back into the pockets.
He saved the silverware for last.... After all, he said, it was almost time for lunch.
******************************************************
So, THAT is the picture I want you to have. I hope you envision kind, gentle, funny when you think of schizophrenia, not another psycho mass murderer on the evening news. I hope you think of clowns exiting the car and a guy emptying out his pockets for a full five minutes. I want you to laugh WITH, not at, someone with schizophrenia. I hope you recognize why a red rubber ball makes sense as those clowns are spewing out of the impossibly small car.
I wish for you to understand why I love going to work every single day.
So laugh aloud when thinking of a guy with Schizophrenia telling me he has a red ball in his pocket so he can put it in his butt. It's really funny. Laugh with us. Life's too short not to laugh at something that smarty-pants silly.
And, I hope you, too carry a set of silverware when you know it's almost time for lunch.
After all, it makes sense, invisible dog with a red ball or not.
***********************************************************
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Saturday, May 19, 2018
They Say I'm a Dreamer
No disrespect--in any capacity--is intended in relation to this blog. Yes, I'm passionate. Yes, I am opinionated. And, yes--I am a strong proponent for the Dreamers. That is opinionated, indeed. As always, take it or leave it. You have been warned. :-)
I was sitting in the ICU with a certain family-in-law relation, chatting about mundane topics. The patient suddenly admitted he was scared. He was struck by thoughts of mortality. To his credit, he voiced--quite succinctly, I might add--his fears about dying, of not recovering, of the anxiety he was feeling.
Enter the nurse. Picture young, kind, compassionate, relaxed smile, clad in light blue scrubs, younger than not but not fresh out of school, with a demeanor so natural, genuine, casual, perfect.
Seeing the nurse, the patient immediately told her he was scared and worried about dying. She adjusted the dials, looked at his wrist tag, smiled a knowing smile. She then began an intervention that would make any professional counselor proud. I should know, being a counselor. She was magnificent, distracted her patient from his fear without effort.
Spontaneously, he asked her about her background. Specifically, about what she "is." This piqued my interest. I wanted to know where this would "go." The nurse used her distraction and compassion to talk about her heritage. She noted she was Mexican.
He said, "you don't look Mexican."
I grimaced. She smiled. She is a better person than me. I'm thinking "what the hell does a Mexican look like?" and she's smiling in a most authentic way. She is not one shred bothered by this.
He blurted out, "Mexican!" He was so surprised by this. He asked her if she were born in Mexico. She said she was born there but her parents brought her to the US when she was a very small baby. She was raised in the state of [insert name of state here]. He asked if she were a citizen. She smiled and said no. Sensing the next question, she added, "I'm an illegal immigrant."
This seemed to perplex the patient even further. He was now definitely distracted. Fear? What fear? This was a most unexpected, therapeutic thing of beauty. He asked lots of questions. This opened the discussion to DACA. He brought it up, quite to my surprise--I had no idea he would know anything about the Dreamers. As she talked in a most non-political fashion, he would blurt out statements like "so, you're a DACA!" and "you're a Dreamer!" At times, he'd ask questions or repeat his disbelief that this professional woman, working to save his life, was an illegal immigrant. He then said,
"You're one of those Dreamers Obama wanted to get rid of."
She didn't look surprised or upset or confused or anything. I'm frothing in anger. I want to scream and froth and flail. She simply stated, "I'm sorry, Sir. Our previous president is the reason I am here."
The patient strongly disagreed, insisting that Obama wanted the Dreamers gone, sent back to Mexico. He talked about how the Democrats were interfering with DACA. Each time he would assert a "fact," she would calmly reply in polite disagreement. She said nothing disparaging, nothing defensive, nothing of anything except kindness and facts. This lady was a pro.
The patient was incredulous. He couldn't believe this amazing woman, this lady who had worked diligently to save his life, was an illegal alien. I could see he was experiencing a most profound case of cognitive dissonance....
She had put a face to a concept. That, boys and girls, makes all the difference in the world. Once a face has been put on a concept, it changes things, usually in a very positive manner. He had a face to a concept. I could tell how he was trying to wrap his head around this. She wasn't a murder. She wasn't scamming the system. She wasn't looking for handouts or trying to get freebies that "real" Americans couldn't get. She was working in an ICU, earning an honest living. Never once had he knowingly met a "dreamer."
The patient, acknowledging her illegal status, argued that Obama (non-Obama fans NEVER say President Obama) and the Democrats had blocked the Dreamers and that they were the reason the Dreamers couldn't stay. He asserted that our current president (of whose name I won't say--I'm no better than the other pile of people) is trying to keep DACA but that the Democrats are against him and the Dreamers. Each time, in most non-partisan fashion, she provided educational tidbits (things I like to call "facts" but what do I know, I'm one of those wild snowflake liberals), all the while focusing on her medical duties and her distraction techniques.
He asked her if she'd have to go "back." She noted she hadn't been raised in Mexico so she didn't feel like she was going "back" if she were deported. She didn't know what "back" was. She had only been in the US as far as she knew. When he repeatedly asked if she'd be going back (he was really chewing on this), she'd respond each time with, "we'll see."
He asked why she hadn't become a citizen, like it was something akin to renewing your driver's license. It was blaming, like it was her "fault." As she performed her nurse-ly duties, she talked a bit about the process and then spoke about how one of her relatives had indeed become "naturalized." That was a completely foreign topic to the patient. "Naturalized?" He did not understand what this meant or why she wasn't "that."
I think he may have actually forgotten he was in ICU. He was completely engrossed.
Humorously, he asked if she had a boyfriend. It was a fatherly, honest question. She laughed, then nodded "yes." He asked if her boyfriend is a citizen and wondered aloud if they were going to get married. He was worried she'd be deported back to her country, a country of which she did not know. He wanted to know if she could stay in the country if she were to get married.
He tilted his head, deep in thought. She was a person, not a concept. He hadn't changed his mind about Obama's interference with DACA (sigh--he continued to insist it was all Obama's fault) but he had a face to the concept and that changed his view of what an illegal immigrant "is."
Oh, how I wished I weren't the only person sitting there. Oh, to have had a few of the far-far-right relatives in the room with me. Oh, how I wished they had seen the interaction as it unfolded between nurse and patient. Oh, to have a face to the concept that all illegal aliens are mass-murders who steal from hard-working Americans. Oh, to see them learn that the lady who was saving their relative's life was an illegal immigrant.
How do I know that this man's relatives want all those terrible illegal immigrants gone? Because one of the relatives did return to the room. When the patient noted that his nurse was a "dreamer," the relative immediately spouted off about illegal immigrants being nasty, vile freeloaders ruining our country and sucking our resources. It was disheartening but not surprising.
The moment was over. The nurse left to provide medical attention to another patient. I stayed in the room with the relative who continued to mutter about how people need to "go back to where they came from." The patient was relaxed, seemingly content, settled enough to shut his eyes and get some sleep. The relative scowled. Oh well, it's a work in progress. Ya gotta start somewhere.
God bless that nurse.
God bless the Dreamers.
God bless those who put a face to a concept, for you are the ones who change minds and make a difference.
God bless America.
God bless the uneducated, misinformed and hate-filled. In the words of John Lennon, "I hope someday you'll join us and the world will be as one."
****************************************************************
I was sitting in the ICU with a certain family-in-law relation, chatting about mundane topics. The patient suddenly admitted he was scared. He was struck by thoughts of mortality. To his credit, he voiced--quite succinctly, I might add--his fears about dying, of not recovering, of the anxiety he was feeling.
Enter the nurse. Picture young, kind, compassionate, relaxed smile, clad in light blue scrubs, younger than not but not fresh out of school, with a demeanor so natural, genuine, casual, perfect.
Seeing the nurse, the patient immediately told her he was scared and worried about dying. She adjusted the dials, looked at his wrist tag, smiled a knowing smile. She then began an intervention that would make any professional counselor proud. I should know, being a counselor. She was magnificent, distracted her patient from his fear without effort.
Spontaneously, he asked her about her background. Specifically, about what she "is." This piqued my interest. I wanted to know where this would "go." The nurse used her distraction and compassion to talk about her heritage. She noted she was Mexican.
He said, "you don't look Mexican."
I grimaced. She smiled. She is a better person than me. I'm thinking "what the hell does a Mexican look like?" and she's smiling in a most authentic way. She is not one shred bothered by this.
He blurted out, "Mexican!" He was so surprised by this. He asked her if she were born in Mexico. She said she was born there but her parents brought her to the US when she was a very small baby. She was raised in the state of [insert name of state here]. He asked if she were a citizen. She smiled and said no. Sensing the next question, she added, "I'm an illegal immigrant."
This seemed to perplex the patient even further. He was now definitely distracted. Fear? What fear? This was a most unexpected, therapeutic thing of beauty. He asked lots of questions. This opened the discussion to DACA. He brought it up, quite to my surprise--I had no idea he would know anything about the Dreamers. As she talked in a most non-political fashion, he would blurt out statements like "so, you're a DACA!" and "you're a Dreamer!" At times, he'd ask questions or repeat his disbelief that this professional woman, working to save his life, was an illegal immigrant. He then said,
"You're one of those Dreamers Obama wanted to get rid of."
She didn't look surprised or upset or confused or anything. I'm frothing in anger. I want to scream and froth and flail. She simply stated, "I'm sorry, Sir. Our previous president is the reason I am here."
The patient strongly disagreed, insisting that Obama wanted the Dreamers gone, sent back to Mexico. He talked about how the Democrats were interfering with DACA. Each time he would assert a "fact," she would calmly reply in polite disagreement. She said nothing disparaging, nothing defensive, nothing of anything except kindness and facts. This lady was a pro.
The patient was incredulous. He couldn't believe this amazing woman, this lady who had worked diligently to save his life, was an illegal alien. I could see he was experiencing a most profound case of cognitive dissonance....
She had put a face to a concept. That, boys and girls, makes all the difference in the world. Once a face has been put on a concept, it changes things, usually in a very positive manner. He had a face to a concept. I could tell how he was trying to wrap his head around this. She wasn't a murder. She wasn't scamming the system. She wasn't looking for handouts or trying to get freebies that "real" Americans couldn't get. She was working in an ICU, earning an honest living. Never once had he knowingly met a "dreamer."
He asked her if she'd have to go "back." She noted she hadn't been raised in Mexico so she didn't feel like she was going "back" if she were deported. She didn't know what "back" was. She had only been in the US as far as she knew. When he repeatedly asked if she'd be going back (he was really chewing on this), she'd respond each time with, "we'll see."
He asked why she hadn't become a citizen, like it was something akin to renewing your driver's license. It was blaming, like it was her "fault." As she performed her nurse-ly duties, she talked a bit about the process and then spoke about how one of her relatives had indeed become "naturalized." That was a completely foreign topic to the patient. "Naturalized?" He did not understand what this meant or why she wasn't "that."
I think he may have actually forgotten he was in ICU. He was completely engrossed.
Humorously, he asked if she had a boyfriend. It was a fatherly, honest question. She laughed, then nodded "yes." He asked if her boyfriend is a citizen and wondered aloud if they were going to get married. He was worried she'd be deported back to her country, a country of which she did not know. He wanted to know if she could stay in the country if she were to get married.
He tilted his head, deep in thought. She was a person, not a concept. He hadn't changed his mind about Obama's interference with DACA (sigh--he continued to insist it was all Obama's fault) but he had a face to the concept and that changed his view of what an illegal immigrant "is."
Oh, how I wished I weren't the only person sitting there. Oh, to have had a few of the far-far-right relatives in the room with me. Oh, how I wished they had seen the interaction as it unfolded between nurse and patient. Oh, to have a face to the concept that all illegal aliens are mass-murders who steal from hard-working Americans. Oh, to see them learn that the lady who was saving their relative's life was an illegal immigrant.
How do I know that this man's relatives want all those terrible illegal immigrants gone? Because one of the relatives did return to the room. When the patient noted that his nurse was a "dreamer," the relative immediately spouted off about illegal immigrants being nasty, vile freeloaders ruining our country and sucking our resources. It was disheartening but not surprising.
The moment was over. The nurse left to provide medical attention to another patient. I stayed in the room with the relative who continued to mutter about how people need to "go back to where they came from." The patient was relaxed, seemingly content, settled enough to shut his eyes and get some sleep. The relative scowled. Oh well, it's a work in progress. Ya gotta start somewhere.
God bless that nurse.
God bless the Dreamers.
God bless those who put a face to a concept, for you are the ones who change minds and make a difference.
God bless America.
God bless the uneducated, misinformed and hate-filled. In the words of John Lennon, "I hope someday you'll join us and the world will be as one."
****************************************************************
Saturday, May 05, 2018
ICU, Choodle Boodle
I was calling our dogs Scruff n Fluff.; now, I call them Choodle and Boodle. It appears Bandido is 75% chihuahua and 25% poodle. I do not believe this for one minute, but that's what the DNA test says. I keep staring at her.... and, all I can think is "that's not a Choodle." She remains bitter. I promised her we could do another test in the future, with a different company.
Big news about Bitty Bichon, the small neighbor pup attacked by a coyote. She got her ports and stitches removed--and, she's definitely on the mend. She seems no worse for the wear, considering the trauma endured. She doesn't even seem fazed by the back yard, which is a miracle in itself.
Speaking of miracles, the wife's dad had two strokes--although his cognitive processing is a bit delayed and he stumbles over his words at times, he shows no other outward "signs" that something so serious happened. It is a true miracle that he is doing so well after such traumatic events.
Looking so "good" is problematic--a parade of people have trudged through the ICU to see him and they don't see the signs that he isn't as healthy as he might first appear. Since he looks good (actually, remarkably good), people miss the cues like he starts stumbling for words, he starts touching his head or he even outright grimaces. The visitors keep yipping and yapping and laughing and ignoring all the very obvious clues.
It is so easy to see the pain and confusion and exhaustion but the visitors miss the signs.
Yesterday, I was there with the two other daughter-in-laws (no one dares mess with three daughter- in-laws sitting in a row) when this stranger-to-us walks in. We turned to each other, wondering who this lady is. She sits down on the bed (the bed in an ICU!) and starts yapping. Then, this guy walks in. We don't know him, either. It's obvious the wife's dad knows these people but I can't say he looks very excited they are there. Being the polite man that he is, he smiles and tries to stay in the conversation. Next thing we know is a couple walk in, again strangers to us....
Okay, wait a minute. I thought ICU was for family and recovery and serious stuff. I didn't think people could just walk in. Hell, I'm from the days of ICU visitors were limited to 15 minutes every two hours. It appears anyone can walk right in to ICU and not sign in or say who they are or anything. Since both Sister-in-law #1 and I have both known the wife's family for more than thirty years, we know who the friends probably include. These people are not close family friends. I texted the wife to inquire, just in case we were wrong. Nope, she didn't know them, either. Sheesh.
Sister-in-law #1 and I decided to spring into action. We both very loudly started talking about how dad looks very tired and how he is grimacing in pain and that we are going to step out so he can get some rest. We talked about how he needs to limit his visitors and how too much stimulation was leading to his increased symptoms. We walked out, thinking that the lady would follow us.
Nope. She stayed there, yipping and yapping, all the while missing the absurdly obvious signs that this visit was over about 15 minutes earlier.
We went and found the nurse, who was a godsend on a variety of levels. First, we alerted her that the patient was back to grimacing and in pain. We then explained we knew none of the people in the room and that the increase of symptoms appeared related to the visitors and stimulation. We asked if there were a way to limit the circus, especially those that were obviously not good friends. (We were able to confirm this later, so we felt good about our decision to take action.) She agreed that this was inappropriate and that she'd get some signs to post. She asked us for a list of people to allow in without question. I asked about how an ICU works, explaining how I was stunned by the visitors just coming in unannounced and unchecked.
The immediate result: two signs on the door (excellent deterrents, I might add) and a list of people to let in. The parade slowed to a trickle.
At first, our little patient was miffed. I think he was afraid that we were going to keep everyone from seeing him. He complained that we should let everyone in. I pointed out how he had been complaining just a few moments earlier about one of the visitors (he said that he doesn't even like the guy and that he's a bore who stayed for FORTY FIVE MINUTES)... and, he agreed. No more non-friend bores to be allowed.
The wife's mom was also a little miffed, as she thought we were saying no one could visit. That was easily sorted out. (We are a force to behold--the daughter-in-laws suffer no fools gladly. I think we may have scared away everyone with in a 20 mile radius.) All we wanted was to give the patient time to heal.
I want to talk about the nurse but she's worth an entire blog so I will save her for the next entry. Suffice it to say she was nothing short of amazing and was a great learning opportunity for the wife's dad. I cannot say enough good about her. Blew me away.
Although it's kind of weird to compare a human's recovery to a dog's recovery, I have faith that the wife's dad will have just as full recovery as Bitty Bichon. Both are on the mend. Both require us to be cautiously optimistic. Neither are out of the woods but both are on the right path.
For today, I will worry about the bitter Choodle and how to help her process her heritage. I will trust the ICU to do its job and that the family members present today will help their father recover surrounded by peace and quiet--not add to the circus or allow such nonsense to transpire.
Don't make the daughter-in-laws come back to town. We'll whip you all into shape. We may not be able to do anything about Bandido's choodle-dom but we can throw you out of the ICU.
I've done worse. Heh heh.
***************************************************************************
Big news about Bitty Bichon, the small neighbor pup attacked by a coyote. She got her ports and stitches removed--and, she's definitely on the mend. She seems no worse for the wear, considering the trauma endured. She doesn't even seem fazed by the back yard, which is a miracle in itself.
Speaking of miracles, the wife's dad had two strokes--although his cognitive processing is a bit delayed and he stumbles over his words at times, he shows no other outward "signs" that something so serious happened. It is a true miracle that he is doing so well after such traumatic events.
Looking so "good" is problematic--a parade of people have trudged through the ICU to see him and they don't see the signs that he isn't as healthy as he might first appear. Since he looks good (actually, remarkably good), people miss the cues like he starts stumbling for words, he starts touching his head or he even outright grimaces. The visitors keep yipping and yapping and laughing and ignoring all the very obvious clues.
It is so easy to see the pain and confusion and exhaustion but the visitors miss the signs.
Yesterday, I was there with the two other daughter-in-laws (no one dares mess with three daughter- in-laws sitting in a row) when this stranger-to-us walks in. We turned to each other, wondering who this lady is. She sits down on the bed (the bed in an ICU!) and starts yapping. Then, this guy walks in. We don't know him, either. It's obvious the wife's dad knows these people but I can't say he looks very excited they are there. Being the polite man that he is, he smiles and tries to stay in the conversation. Next thing we know is a couple walk in, again strangers to us....
Okay, wait a minute. I thought ICU was for family and recovery and serious stuff. I didn't think people could just walk in. Hell, I'm from the days of ICU visitors were limited to 15 minutes every two hours. It appears anyone can walk right in to ICU and not sign in or say who they are or anything. Since both Sister-in-law #1 and I have both known the wife's family for more than thirty years, we know who the friends probably include. These people are not close family friends. I texted the wife to inquire, just in case we were wrong. Nope, she didn't know them, either. Sheesh.
Sister-in-law #1 and I decided to spring into action. We both very loudly started talking about how dad looks very tired and how he is grimacing in pain and that we are going to step out so he can get some rest. We talked about how he needs to limit his visitors and how too much stimulation was leading to his increased symptoms. We walked out, thinking that the lady would follow us.
Nope. She stayed there, yipping and yapping, all the while missing the absurdly obvious signs that this visit was over about 15 minutes earlier.
We went and found the nurse, who was a godsend on a variety of levels. First, we alerted her that the patient was back to grimacing and in pain. We then explained we knew none of the people in the room and that the increase of symptoms appeared related to the visitors and stimulation. We asked if there were a way to limit the circus, especially those that were obviously not good friends. (We were able to confirm this later, so we felt good about our decision to take action.) She agreed that this was inappropriate and that she'd get some signs to post. She asked us for a list of people to allow in without question. I asked about how an ICU works, explaining how I was stunned by the visitors just coming in unannounced and unchecked.
The immediate result: two signs on the door (excellent deterrents, I might add) and a list of people to let in. The parade slowed to a trickle.
At first, our little patient was miffed. I think he was afraid that we were going to keep everyone from seeing him. He complained that we should let everyone in. I pointed out how he had been complaining just a few moments earlier about one of the visitors (he said that he doesn't even like the guy and that he's a bore who stayed for FORTY FIVE MINUTES)... and, he agreed. No more non-friend bores to be allowed.
The wife's mom was also a little miffed, as she thought we were saying no one could visit. That was easily sorted out. (We are a force to behold--the daughter-in-laws suffer no fools gladly. I think we may have scared away everyone with in a 20 mile radius.) All we wanted was to give the patient time to heal.
I want to talk about the nurse but she's worth an entire blog so I will save her for the next entry. Suffice it to say she was nothing short of amazing and was a great learning opportunity for the wife's dad. I cannot say enough good about her. Blew me away.
Although it's kind of weird to compare a human's recovery to a dog's recovery, I have faith that the wife's dad will have just as full recovery as Bitty Bichon. Both are on the mend. Both require us to be cautiously optimistic. Neither are out of the woods but both are on the right path.
For today, I will worry about the bitter Choodle and how to help her process her heritage. I will trust the ICU to do its job and that the family members present today will help their father recover surrounded by peace and quiet--not add to the circus or allow such nonsense to transpire.
Don't make the daughter-in-laws come back to town. We'll whip you all into shape. We may not be able to do anything about Bandido's choodle-dom but we can throw you out of the ICU.
I've done worse. Heh heh.
***************************************************************************
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