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 Cleaning Up GrandpaPosted 07.20.2003 by doniker (1517)
June 18, 2003, marks the day that my grandfather would have turned 100 years old, had he not died in 1995. To honor his birthday I have decided to dishonor him by telling a poop story about him. I sure he would understand. Not.
I haven't thought about Grandpa's pooping during the final years of his life for quite some time, probably because I have subconsciously tried to block it out, or maybe I just want to remember the good times. He lived with my aunt, who would leave for work each day at 6:30 AM and return around 5:00. By the time Grandpa reached 87, our family realized he couldn't be home all day alone. We had always promised Grandpa that we would never put him in a nursing home, and we stuck by our word. My mother would occasionally stop over during the day to check on him, but that wasn't enough. My aunt offered me $150 a week to pop in twice a day to check on Grandpa. At that time I was in my late 20's, working on and off for a guy who had a small business remodeling basements. For a two-to-three year period, most of the houses we worked at were in a development about four miles from Grandpa's house, and my boss was cool about me coming and going as I pleased -- as long as I brought a 12-pack back upon my daily returns. (My boss was also an alcoholic that drank 24/7, but that's a different story.) My first daily stop at Grandpa's house was usually around 9:00 AM. Sometimes he would still be in bed, sometimes he made it to his recliner in the living room using his walker, and sometimes he was on the floor because he had fallen and couldn't get up. Most days Grandpa had a surprise waiting for me: a big stinky load of poop in his pants. Well, actually, in his Depends diaper. Now, I was willing to change him, but no fucking way was I going to wipe his ass. That was my aunt's job. If he was in bed, I would undo the plastic tape on the diaper, roll him on his side, pull the diaper off him, lay down a fresh diaper and roll him onto it, without wiping his butt. Sure, he had some smeared shit on his ass, but the brunt of the load was out of his pants. If I found him in a sitting position, I would undo the diaper, stand him up, pull the dirty diaper off the chair and quickly put a clean one down, then plop his shitty ass down. Diarrhea was the bitch. On these days I couldn't leave him in that condition -- I would feel too guilty. I would have to get him to the tub and onto the bath seat to spray him down. Let me tell you -- slowly walking a naked shit-covered old man to the bathroom isn't easy, especially if you're hung over every morning. The smell would make me gag, and I vomited more times than I can count. After I would get his front hosed down, I would stand him up for the ass spraying, dry him quickly and walk him back to his room to diaper up. Wintertime was the worst -- with the furnace cranked up and the windows all closed, I had no access to fresh air. The smells were horrifying. I would actually feel happy inside if Grandpa's diaper only contained urine; the odor of pee sometimes burned my eyes, but it was better than fecal matter. There were so many gross episodes. One time while changing him in the sitting position, a large marble-sized turd fell out of his diaper and rolled across the carpet. The dog picked it up and ate it. Now that was nasty. (It didn't really shock me though --"Blackie" was one of the stupidest dogs that ever lived, but that too is a different story.) My afternoon visits were usually much easier. We often drank beer on the job and/or stopped for lunch at the corner bar and sucked down many drinks with our daily burgers and fries -- so with a little buzz on, visiting Grandpa was more tolerable. I could go on and on telling isolated gross Grandpa poop incidents, but you get the idea, and I am getting nauseous. God bless every nursing home worker and bedpan changer; you have a special gift being able to tolerate that job. I am now going to once again erase these Grandpa pooping memories from my mind. -- Doniker Post new comment
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