Labor day dumpster fire 2020

I’m the responsible party for my father, his well-being, his health, his life. Over 2 years now, this role is still odd to me.  But I’m the kid!  Well, Dad doesn’t know squat, he just knows he’s lost, and I’m the last person he recognizes on sight.  Alzheimer’s Sucks!

So it’s been 3 months since I got to hold Miss Corey. Age 4 months to 7 months is a crazy growth time as humans blossom into well, humans.  Thank God for video chats and the internet.  Can you imagine waiting weeks for a polaroid to show up in the mail?  Or those posed on boxes shots from the JC Penney’s studio?

So the plan has been for months to go for a visit this week, September 12th, for my daughter’s 5th wedding anniversary.  Let her and the hubby go off like adults, without a baby, and celebrate, have a break.  Gratefully, my daughter does indeed trust me to act in her steed, I am humbled and grateful, because she’s an exacting task-master grammer-nazi, that one.

Helping me in my role of Dad-keeper is his younger sister, Aunt Angie.  She has her own health issues, but is just fine spending time with him watching Animal Shows on the Smithsonian network, holding his hand, cajoling him.

I’m the bad cop “mom” roll, and she’s the good one.  Whatever, that’s not new for me.

But her being physically able to cope with 24/7, well, it’s not really ideal.  We let the nurse from the agency come in for a few weeks in July, and welp, she exposed us to Covid19, we spent 2 weeks on pins and needles hoping and praying. (I did get 3 chapters of my book spewed out because I thought I was going to die, now that I’m not, at least not imminently, the writer’s block has returned.) The poor nurse girl, in her early 20’s, very sick, it turned into pneumonia. She is recovered now.  

Ok, so no outside nurses.  Check.  I’m going to lose my mind if I can’t be around that granddaughter I’ve been waiting a decade for!  Can’t put Dad in one of those places, I can’t even tour them, and well, nursing homes appear to be ground zero for death in 2020.  That wouldn’t be very responsible of me.

So I brainstorm options.  Bonus Mom, nope. She’s up in the mountains like a smart woman, where the high is in the 80’s, not 110, because her wonderful daughter bought her a bitchin’ house under a 200 year-old oak tree.  It’s fun to visit, and I wouldn’t come down here to hell either.

Well, the ex boyfriend circa 1984 and 2004-2012, he’s living in a senior-only facility in San Bernadino, and with Type 2 Diabetes and heart disease, his paranoia of getting the Coronavirus is in the same ballpark as mine.  So, I go get him.    I think, well, he cooks, he could stay with Dad during the daytime, and let Anigie take over mid afternoon, as we do most days.  

He also says, “I’ll meet you downstairs,  I don’t want you to come in, there’s been some bed bug problems in the building…”

You know how, someone tells you something, and you have an instant visceral reaction, but you rationalize “Ah, that’s someone else.  It’s nearby, but it’s not HIS apartment.” ?
Kind of like, when the anesthesiologist comes in your room in small town California in 1990, and says, “Oh we’ve been doing these epidural spinal blocks now since the first of the year. (It’s May.  5 months.  Hmm, big needle, my back, 5 months.) The ladies really like ’em.” And the botched block, the headache and drama that ensued…

If the bells go off in your head, LISTEN.

That’s big life lesson #1.  LISTEN.  Quit rationalizing.

Any way, so I get him.  I don’t tell the kids (the adults, the 30 and 33 year-old adults)  because they don’t like him,  I don’t know if it will work anyways, why invite judgement?  I’m not rekindling a romance, I’m trying to solve a problem, and make a win-win situation.  Safe help, he gets a few bucks to buy more video games (Guesses about why we didn’t work out?)

So I instantly wash all his clothes two times, with two rinse cycles each.  Throw out some shoes, buy him another pair.  

He spends way too much of his time in my room watching YouTube Jim Gaffigan clips.  Look, it’s hard to step in and “parent” a man you remember being the leader of my family.  It’s taken a lot of adjusting for me, that’s my Dad.  But, truth is, Dad is gone.  Late stages of Alzheimer’s, Dad doesn’t make any new memories, the two sides of the brain don’t communicate, reason has left the building, and a PET scan shows cottage cheese in the front cerebral cortex.  (Such a heartbreaking ending to a man with a 160 IQ and an MBA. Life is so unfair.)

So, we go try out camping with Dad.  It goes ok.  Worse thing, he’s a little confused about the bathroom, but it all works out.  In the meantime, bug bites are chalked up to two nights of camping.

Thing is, it’s been 6 nights the ex here, and even upon return from the mountains, the bites get worse.  What hell of a mosquito or “no see ‘um” is lurking in Phoenix when it’s the hottest summer in recorded history?  What lives through that?  Where am I getting these bites?  What the hell is going on??

So, I see this is NOT a solution, he’s not going to handle this Dad thing, so I have my answer.  Don’s got a huge bite on his forearm that’s getting infected.  I worry, but drop him back at his place.  I hug him, tell him I love him, because I do and will, just we’re not destined for forever.  There’s stuff love doesn’t fix. Two days later he’s in the hospital.

So it’s really bad now, Diabetes makes things worse of course, and he’s on an IV drip.  He spends 9 days in the hospital.  Is it MRSA?  I don’t know for sure, but it was BAD.

And I’m back home (it’s 600 miles of driving, that’s nothing.)  But I’m still getting bit up.   I end up at the doctor, I’m googling bites. I have a row of welts up my thigh that is NOT enticing or sexy in the slightest.  Bed Bugs.  Are you kidding me?  Bed bugs in my room where he laid that soft-sided suitcase thing. 

OMG I’m pretty hysterical.

So, like anything you avoid paying attention to the details about because it’s a nightmare, bed bugs.  They make cockroaches look wussy.  Bed bugs can live for A YEAR without food.  Their life cycle is instantaneous.  She reproduces in a way that makes rabbits look infertile.  

Swear words.  Lots of swear words.  I have a new favorite word.  It’s not eloquent. 

It begins with the letter “F.”

I pull back the mattress, find two things crawling, pop my next steroid to reduce the swelling and call.

Bed bugs only die if they’re in sustained over 120 degrees for at least 90 minutes.

I can’t have this spreading throughout my house, with my disabled Aunt and Dad.  Best rated Pest Management company comes to the house.  Identifies the little assholes.

It’s Tuesday.  So Saturday morning they’re going to be here at 7 am, we have to vacate, and they’re going to boil our house.  Ok.  They’re going to go into each room, mine in particular, and blow hot air in there for 90 minutes.  Heat it to 140. 

Die bitches, Die.

This takes place in the whole entire house.  I have to remove all stuff that will melt, bag up my clothes after scorching them in the hot hot dryer (so much for my delicate hand washing and line dry) and place them in big trash bags out in the yard.  I guess the Phoenix blazing 113 degree heat, comes in handy on this front.  Inside a car they can’t live either, because it gets so hot.  

I can’t believe I’m learning this much about bed bugs.  But I’ve heard enough to know they won’t go away unless big huge measures are taken.  I take them.  I don’t skimp.  I pay the pros.  I’m the neighbor with a big huge pile of black trash bags in my backyard.  I try not to make them look like a body.  

Ok so, even in the time of Covid, we have to leave.  It’s over 110 everywhere.  I get two rooms at what should be a nice place in Scottsdale.  The McCormick Scottsdale.  They have a “staycation” offer on their website.  Stay 24 hour period, check in flexible.  I talk to the girl, tell her the need to leave, special needs elderly, adjoining rooms, yes, please, a Lake view.  Seeing water after the year of locked in a desert home, sounds nice. Girl says 11 am, at least one room ready,  

We have a drive-thru McDonald’s breakfast, and go to the nail salon.  We all three have pedicures.  It’s noon fifteen by the time we arrive in Scottsdale.  Room NOT ready.  I explain again, situation, decide to go to the famous ice-cream shop down the road for finger sandwiches and coconut ice cream.

Get back, now it’s 2 pm.  Yes, rooms are ready, but we’ve been moved to a “mountain view” instead of the lake.  I’m not happy, but too late, too bad, so sad.  These rooms must have been the last vestiges of this hotel, because they’re where the sun beats directly on the upper floor. We, the people who don’t want to leave the room.  Worst rooms.  Then the Air Conditioning wall units just can’t stand it.  Maintenance changes out compressors.  Come 8 pm that night, he’s wheeling in a different unit all together to cool down my now 95 degree room, Dad and Angie’s next door is maybe 82, at least something cold is blowing out of it.

This time I let Angie handle the phone call, because I’m now near tears, and my new favorite word, that begins with “F” doesn’t elicit helpful people.  Aunt Angie explains, shuts up, and we get half cost rebated, and they’re going to sneak us dinner when they’re NOT doing room service.  I cased the place late afternoon, there was ZERO social distancing, the bar was packed, and I wasn’t having it.

So the AC made it almost 78, an extra fan blew air on me, and we got some semblance of sleep.  Got up and was out by 10:30, meeting my also immune compromised friend with a heart condition at US Egg in Old Scottsdale.

Every other seat was NOT enforced, and while the table we were sat at was OK, it was near the main aisle, and I said a prayer and hoped for no spread.   Breakfast was OK, but Angie only wanted fruit, and only melons.  I had a Mimosa, because I needed a Sunrise Mimosa. 

So the food comes, and the $6 fruit side is 3 slices of Canteloupe (half slices) and 3 slices of Honeydew, WITH THE PEELS STILL ON.
Germ paranoid mom-She is nearing apoplectic now (me) because if you know anything, it’s the peels that the Salmonella and Listeria bacteria live on.  Manager comes of, “that’s just how we’ve always done it.”

“Ok,”  Sip the Mimosa.
“All is fine.  Just fine.”

Now they start putting two tables together for a big party.  I’m taking deep breaths, please Lord, let us get done before this happens.  We’re paying, my friend gets the tip, I sign the card slip… and in starts the big party.  Chair now 6”, not 6′, from where we’re sitting.  My thighs do NOT fit through this opening, let alone my ass.  And here comes the group, 10 college-aged super spreaders, not a mask in sight.  I am handing Dad the mask, and up and OUT we are.

The song by EMP, “It’s Unbelievable” is now running through my head, and I’m practicing the deep breathing I counsel others to use.

Ok, in the car, bye to the friend.  Take the city streets home, stop by Krispy Kreme drive-through on the way, get a tour of Phoenix, across the Valley of Fire.  I’m saying a prayer, “Please God, let the house be cooled down.”   Said it outloud, reverent and all.

I park in the drive, leave Dad and Aunt…and walk in the door… It’s literally 110 in my house.  No AC at all.  Look, the sales rep, the tech, both there as I left knew what I was doing.  Knew I was going to stay away and with them overnight, and could see the situation.   They knew, and the rep had said it depends on how long it takes to cool the house down, hence my choice to go overnight.

I turn the AC on, swearing that favorite word of mine like the sailor I must have been in my last life, and I get back out to the car.  So we go to a friend’s empty place, where we can wait awhile.  I go over and check a couple of times, now it’s 5, it’s still 93.   So let’s go to dinner.  An empty restaurant in Sun City I like, family owned.

It’s 7:15 pm when we all return.  It’s 88 now.   The scathing voicemail I left at the Pest Control company does include my favorite word, conjugated with an “ed” on the end.

Apparently customer service lost it’s way during this pandemic too.

So now it’s been a few days.  The follow-up inspection showed nothing, which when it comes to bed bugs, is a good thing.  Now to get all those bags undone and to put my room back together.  Amazon is due to deliver a new mattress soon, because that old Serta went OUT. I can now speak about it.

So, remember.  Listen to your instincts. 

There’s a reason it ended 8 years ago.  Alone is better than going back.  It can’t be fixed.  Go forward.

I don’t need a man for any of this. (I’ve never “needed.” I just like them.)

There’s a lock on the pantry where all the medicine now resides.  This house is on lock-down.  Hoping Aunt Angie can handle this alone.   (And she did.)

Labor Day, #2020dumpsterfire