The grueling wait in the ER ended with a diagnosis of torn rotator cuff and a referral to an orthopedist. The appointment is tomorrow. (See July 9th post)
Meanwhile, Bill is in a lot of pain and is letting the whole world know about it. He complains non-stop about how he was adjusting to "those meds that’ll help you remember when you’re 80 what you did yesterday." He's talking about Namenda, Aricept, and Seroquel.
Now since the fall he rails against his poor quality of life: "If this is how things are going to be, I might as well just lay down somewhere and let them experiment on me ‘til I die." And he usually ends it with, "I can see why people don’t want to go on, don’t you?"
Of course, I can’t answer that. I turn away so he won’t see the tears. I hate to mention my son in every one of these blogs, but damn it, his suicide is so much with me, every single day; more so with Bill cleaning his pistols and taking up target practice in the back yard.(Don’t tell me to take his guns away. I might as well go after his car keys.)
A biblical principle is: to feel better yourself, do something for someone else. So this morning I went to the animal shelter and adopted a gorgeous silver tabby cat and a min-chi, Miniature Pinscher and Chihuahua mix, who looks for all the world like a tiny Doberman.
The cat is meant to stay outdoors, taking care of mice in Bill’s building, and the min-chi is to keep him company when he is watching NASCAR, when I’m somewhere else. The other two dogs are no company to him. Lily is mine and stays within sight of me at all times. Her job is to guard my safety at all costs. The other dog, Sally, is just a big ol’ goofy dumb 60-pound lapdog, if anyone had a big enough lap. Sally followed Bill home from the dump and never left.
Since Bill fell, he has become more and more self-centered. Pain will do that. And I hope this little guy will take his mind off himself.
