The two old folks at our house took a jaunt to Green Bay today, so that hubby could have eye surgery. While he underwent the knife … or laser … or whatever, his mrs. sat in the car in the freezing cold (because of Covid and the eye clinic not having thought ahead to winter and what to do with designated drivers).
They souped Paul up pretty good with I-feel-no-pain drugs. The problem is the aftermath. I have seen this before. We never know what he will do or say or how many times he’ll ask the same questions over and over before the junk wears off. It’s enough to make a body’s patience wear down to the bare threads.
I took him to a diner — almost the first time we have dared such a death-defying lapse of common sense since March of The Year that Will Never End. He hadn’t had anything to eat since the night before, and with his hummingbird metabolism, he would most likely have starved if we had waited until we got him home to feed him.
He ordered coffee — not the decaf, oh no! That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun as mixing caffeine with whatever cocktail of narcotics they already had in him. And he had to have more than one cup, which is never, ever a good idea if we don’t want him flying around the ceiling fans.
He tried to replenish the cup for himself. But his hand-eye neuro transmitters weren’t communicating well with each other. I tried to grab the pot and avert disaster.
“What are you DOING?” he cried.
“You were going to pour it all over the table. Let me help you.”
“I was just fine. I had the spout right over the cup. Is there something wrong with your eyeballs?” (Not mine, buddy. It’s you who had the surgery so you could see better.) “Why can’t I get any coffee out?” (It was coming out just fine and in the cup, as long as I wrassled you for it.)
He tried to take the top off the pot to make the coffee pour better. Fortunately, the granny who ran the diner saw the possibilities of a catastrophe right along with me. She convinced him to let her pour the coffee. End of impending calamity until he wanted Cup #3.
At that point we played the whole, who-is-going-to-hold-the-pot tug of war again, with Paul still as certain as daylight that I was the one having trouble getting the spout in the right place. He managed to start pouring — outside the perimeter of the cup. That’s the real reason they give us napkins I guess — to wipe up after under-the-influence seniors.
“You used my napkin! Now what am I going to use?”
“I will share mine. You don’t mind if it is slightly soiled, do you Paul?” (He did.)
I decided if I couldn’t hold the pot, at least I could move the cup under the spout where it belonged. Every time I moved the cup, he pulled the pot spout back outside the rim. We played that game a few times, until we both got tired of it. He gave in, still pretty certain I was the one having coordination issues.
It was a nerve-wracking drive home, what with answering the same questions five to ten times over and Paul’s pleas for me to pull over and let him drive the last half. (Not sure if he was teasing at that point, or if he was half-planning to grab the wheel from me.)
Then it was time to insert the eye drops. He almost put them in the unsurgeried eye by mistake. I yelped and grabbed for the bottle, but he recollected himself at the last second.
By this time I needed therapy, so I texted the daughters what was happening, all the while keeping an eye on hubby and wondering why the eye surgery place did not send a straitjacket home with us for my peace of mind. (They didn’t think of that courtesy, just like they didn’t think about the cruelty of making the designated driver sit in a cold car in December in Wisconsin.)
Things finally calmed down a bit. While I was still doing therapy by text with the girls, Paul decided to bake. It kept him from doing something more lethal. No telling how those muffins will taste.