HERO? DON’T LOOK FOR A BIG ONE, BE A LITTLE ONE

When you need a hero, where’s the best place to look?

Read a book? Watch a movie?

Or do something heroic?

Then the question becomes, “What exactly is heroic?”

I had this conversation recently by asking my workout partner if they’ve ever melted down to a screaming shitfit in public.

They said no. I asked how close they’d come, as in what happened, and how did they recover?

After a few more sets I waited for them to ask me the same question. Since it never happened, I asked myself and came up with this:

I volunteered to serve as caregiver for my father in law who was caught in deadly downward spiral of Parkinson’s and dementia. It was lethal combination, but slow.

How Long Does This Last

About three years in everyone needed a break. We found a reputable adult foster home for Grandpa, and left the country.

When we came back I learned the old man had lasted one day in foster care, took a fall, and ended up in a local nursing home. So I visited. The front desk area was AC cooled on a hot day.

They gave me directions to the wing the old man was in, and I scouted it’d out. Down the hall the temperature rose fast. An aide was in his room changing sheets. I saw what looked like a pile of bedding on a wheelchair. But, it was my father in law sitting with his chest leaned over onto his thighs.

When I recognized him, my thermometer spiked. Instead of lashing out like a showboat relative who visits once or twice a year, like someone the staff is trained to deal with, I took a knee.

I knelt by the wheelchair until the old man could see me. After I explained who I was, I told him I was breaking him out. Did it get through to him? Probably not, but I had a plan.

I made a doctor’s appointment for him when I got back home. Two days later I drove to the doctor’s office with my mother in law and waited for the medical van that did wheelchair transport.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

Once we were all in the office I asked the doctor for a word outside.

“Frankly, I’m not sure why you brought him in. I’m equally concerned the nursing home would allow him to be transported in his condition,” the doctor said.

“That’s right on point, Doctor,” I said. “I brought him in so you could call the nursing home and have him released to me and I’ll take him back where he belongs. At home.”

“His condition has deteriorated considerably,” doctor said.

“Yes it has, and that’s why I’m here. Could you call and tell them he’s not coming back,” I said.

“I’m not sure they will agree to release someone in his shape.”

This Was When I Entered The Hero-zone.

“If they don’t agree, then please call the police and have me arrested. I want that old man to know I’m doing something to help. He deserves that much,” I said.

“You must be kidding,” the doctor said.

“I’m not. And I haven’t told Judy. Maybe we could tell her together,” I said.

We both went back to the exam room with my in-laws. I explained my plan to Judy. Her enthusiasm was low.

The doctor left, made the call, then returned to say the nursing home reviewed grandpa’s status and wouldn’t cut him loose, which was probably the correct decision for most people. Just not this time.

“Then please call the police. I’m not going to make any noise in the clinic. Your patients won’t be disturbed. I’ll even leave out the back door with the cops. I just want this old man to know he’s not forgotten,” I said.

“David, I’m not calling the police,” doctor said.

“Then bring in a parking lot attendant or a janitor. I want someone in uniform to haul me out in front of Grandpa. I think he’d like that,” I said.

“That doesn’t work, either,” he said.

“Then how about calling the nursing home again and telling them you’re releasing Ken to a former Army medic with years of homecare experience,” I said.

We locked eyes for a moment while I nodded my approval. He made another call and came back with the news.

“They have released him to you, but you’ll need to arrange for wheelchair transport to your home,” he said.

“I can do that. Thank you, Doctor Ben,” I said.

The Getaway

We left on a high note, but the Parkinson’s meds were wearing off by then and Ken started leaning forward in the wheelchair. So we hustled out, transferred him to the front seat of the car, stashed his wheelchair in the trunk, and bolted.

On the way home I narrated the breakout, the hostage negotiation, and how lucky we were to have a dependable getaway car. I asked how the jailbird was doing, reminded him to keep his head down.

We yakked it up and yucked it up all the way home. Once there, I got him spruced up, landed him in his lift chair, and he took a nap. Then I explained why I did what I did to Judy. And why I didn’t include her in the plan.

After a while, she understood. What I didn’t say was that I wanted to avoid going to a nursing home, and I didn’t want her going either, that we could do better.

And we did. Maybe it wasn’t heroic, but it had some hero elements. The funniest part? Years later my in-laws have passed and their old doctor is my doctor now, and he looks the same. And he remembers that day, the first time anyone tried being a hero to a patient under his care.

My take? He’s got more than a little hero going himself.