CAREGIVING EXCERPT FROM WORK IN PROGRESS

My caregiving days ended the morning I came downstairs and found Ken laying still in his hospital bed.

Very still.

I was suspicious.

A large red circle nearly two feet in diameter stained the bedspread drawn up to his chin. What. The. F?

Walking into the room with Grandpa Ken dead was inevitable, that’s what happens with home caregivers at the end. That’s what happens in assisted living when there’s no more assistance to give.

I knew he wouldn’t get better and go home, but what was the circle of red stuff over his chest?

A man dead in the bed separates people. Caregivers talk about this stuff. Would I be a shocked bystander in the moment and shrink back at, ‘Oh my god, Kenny’s dead?’

I might have except for the big red circle. What was that it? I walked in to investigate.

Okay, I slow walked.

We’d been together five years as caregiving caregiver and Ken. I did everything for him from brushing his teeth to cutting his hair, from helping him eat to encouraging him to take walks with me.

Luckily our house had a circular floor plan around a center staircase which led from room to room so we could take laps and clock times to see if he was getting any faster.

I lied every time, telling him he was faster, or slower depending on his mood, and needed to make a better effort. I liked coaching him on what to do, then convincing him it was a good idea.

With kids in high school, I used the same caregiving tactics on them.

On Grandpa Ken’s final day, I cleaned him up, folded the bedspread away, and pulled a clean sheet up to his chin before going upstairs to tell Elaine. I woke her up.

“Honey. Elaine. Elaine. Kenny died,” I said.

“What?” she stretched out.

“Ken is dead,” I said. 

“How do you know?” she asked.

Between my wife and I, we liked evidence. Verification. And we liked to witness things ourselves. At least that’s how I tried to understand my wife.

“Because he’s not breathing?” I offered.

She jumped out of bed, wrapped a robe around her, grabbed a mirror, and ran downstairs. I followed. All she did was prove which of the people she was when confronted by a dead body.

She stood over Ken and put the mirror in between his sealed lips and nose.

“Honey, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, feel his hand. He’s dead,” I said.

“He could still be breathing.” I hoped she wouldn’t start CPR on the poor guy, that she wouldn’t straddle him on the bed and start pounding on his chest with a closed fist. 

“He’s been dead awhile, honey. Lift his arm,” I said. 

I wasn’t ready to break out the bedspread just yet to show her how dead he was. Wherever that big red stain came from, it looked like stuff you’d need to live.