Mr B got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.
No, I mean that quite literally, I am not talking about his mood.
When I tripped downstairs to answer his call (yell?) at eight o’clock of the morning, I found him sitting at the end of his bed. Which was impressive in that he hasn’t had the strength till now to pull himself into a sitting position, but less
so in that he was sitting on the wrong side of the bed, leaving not sufficient room to wheel the ambiturn into place for the purposes of Safe Transfer from bed to wheelchair.
I was, in my defence, still half asleep so it took me a while to think about moving the bed. As in that ancient proverb about Mohammed and the mountain, if the ambiturn can’t come to the bed, then the bed must come to the ambiturn. Releasing the
brakes on the bed isn’t that easy so I needed to find where I’d put my shoes, all the better for kicking off the brakes on each wheel. And, just to remind you, I was half asleep…
It’s so lovely to have Mr B back home from hospital, even when he does get out of the wrong side of the bed. It’s going to take us a while to work out a new daily routine but, as we keep reminding each other, we
are good at this. I also had the advantage of trying out our new pieces of equipment with My Boy, who arrived on Saturday to spend a couple of nights with us. Experimenting with the ambiturn with My Boy aboard is as near as I can get to transferring his Dad:
he even indulges in a few well-chosen words about my ineptitude at driving anything with wheels - including cars, wheelchairs and ambiturns - to make the experience as realistic for me as possible.
He also, bless him, made it possible for me to have some “Time Out” while he sat with his Old Man in hospital watching footie on the IPad, enabling me to enjoy a trip to the cinema to see The Greatest Showman.
There are 101 seats in the Dome cinema 2 - and I bought the one hundred and first, that is, the very last ticket available. It meant I was seated at one end of the very first row, so developing a slight crick in the neck as I craned to see the screen but I
was too thankful for securing the Last Ticket to feel like grumbling. Later, My Boy and I took in a fish supper at the Fish Factory, where we indulged in Deep and Meaningful Conversations of the type you rarely have the opportunity to share when there are
grandsons around, demanding their own brand of Deep and Meaningful Conversations. I did, however, have a chance for a few words over the telephone with my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys including discussions on such important subjects as why I hadn’t
bought popcorn to eat while watching the film (James) and who had been the “best boy” for his mother while his Dad was otherwise occupied looking after Mr B and me (Morgan - though we only have his word for it.)
The whole discharge from hospital business was extremely traumatic and it seems best to cast a veil over it - it will have to be a veil because unfortunately, in the course of transfer from ward to
discharge lounge to ambulance to home, we have lost a rather beautiful rug / blanket which was a present from my brother one Christmas. He had carried it on the train, together with one for my other brother and one for my sister, all the way from Scotland
which somehow made it all the more precious to me. I have phoned here, there and absolutely everywhere but it has not turned up.
I must remember, mustn’t
I, that it’s only a rug that hasn’t returned from its sojourn in hospital.
Mr B, most importantly, wasn’t Lost in Transit.