We’re cleared to bring Dad home Wednesday. Full disclosure: I’m so nervous I wish I had a permanent catheter, ’cause I want to pee myself. I keep telling myself it’ll be fine. I turned the living room into a functional hospital room when Mom came home, and Dad is in much better shape than she was in, so it’ll be fine. That’s my new mantra: It’ll be fine.
The nurses will finish teaching me how to change the colostomy bag Wednesday. They’ll tell me everything I need to know to take care of the catheter. They’ll tell me how to bathe him to prevent the catheter from getting infected, and where to go to buy all of his supplies. They’ll give me prescriptions for all his new medications. I’ll get the wheelchair and bathtub chair off of Amazon if Medicare won’t cover them. The home aides are set up and ready to go. Still need the weekend aide, but that’ll get done in time, too. I'll do the food shopping, since no one's been living in the house for almost three months. It’ll be fine.
Most of the time I feel woefully incompetent, like: “Who the hell put me in charge of this? Shouldn’t we get an adult over here?” And then I’m like, “Wait, I’m 32 years old. How the hell did I get to be 32 years old and know so goddamn little?”
I was promised wisdom! Understanding! I’ve been robbed!
It’ll be fine.