If I go to check on him, he will just say that he does not have to go right now.
Or,
I may have to sit with him until he feels the urge. That could prove to be a very long endeavor.
I am not cruel or impatient.
Sometimes, I just don’t know how to be.
I chose this line of work because I enjoy ensuring that the elderly, especially those with Alzhiemer’s/Dementia, are well cared for.
The time has arrived.
He rings my portable phone.
I spring to his room. I announce myself.
I proceed through his entrance room and into the bathroom. I disinfect my hands. I grab a pair of latex gloves.
I grab his hand-held urinal. He welcomes me over into the middle of his bedroom. He stands there with his night pants and boxers pulled just underneath his testicles. They hang very far down given his age.
There he barely stands. Rocking about as if he lacks the desire for equilibrium. His body cannot stop the movement. It is involuntary. A gift from the “Gods of Aging.”
I place his penis inside the plastic urine bottle. He will not fill it with liquid, but it will certainly take him at least 10 to 15 minutes to empty his inefficient bladder.
His prostate was not his friend either. He had surgery, but the surgeons could not make him totally well again.
So, night after night, we found ourselves in the middle of that room.
I held the bottle while he tried to relax and push. And push. And push a bit more.
Mere drops. Or mere tiny spouts of urine with each push.
Sometimes we stagnate into a strange silence. Sometimes we permit some intermittent chatter. Sometimes we exchange strange eye contact.
I could see his body working hard to expel the liquid.
At times, a wonderfully toxic gas would expel from his rear.
Sometimes gas-letting is not funny.
He could never actually tell if he was finished urinating.
We had to wait. We had to make sure that this last push was the final one.
But no. The sensation would always return.
Eventually, we have to call it quits.
I ensure that he is clean.
He pulls up his adult diaper and night pants.
After proper disposal of the pungent beer-colored urine, I would ensure that he is safely tucked in his bed.
The entire ordeal made me think. A lot.
I could not shake the many thoughts or questions that would flow through my mind.
Could this be what is waiting for me in the future?
This equipment that has been appointed to my body could one day malfunction in such an unwanted manner?
What is life like through the eyes of the old man that barely stood before me?
This seems to me to be misery.
The grunts. The moans of unpleasantness.
The loss of independence. The loss of control over one’s own faculties.
The thought of having to deal with this for the rest of your elderly life-span.
I could feel the sludge of depression slowly creeping inside of me.
I had never imagined that my mind could become so jaded by a man taking a simple piss.