Screenplay of the intermediate place

Not for the first time, I got off the phone with my father and pushed the VHS cassette of "Amadeus" into the VCR. I'm writing another scene in my imaginary screenplay, and F. Murray Abraham is playing the lead role.

Dad fell again today, but wasn't injured. He "screamed bloody murder for a long time, waking people up but getting no help". Eventually he pushed his call button. Once the aide arrived, the nurse had to be called before Dad could be lifted off the floor. Dad seems to have read the riot act to the poor aide about the sorry excuse for an "intermediate place" he was in. For Dad, assisted living probably feels like an intermediate place, a sort of limbo. I can only begin to imagine Dad's internal discussions about his current abilities and ultimate mortality.

The aide took Dad's temp, blood pressure, and pulse. Dad ranted because his socks weren't even a real pair. One sock was a Gold Toe and the other wasn't.

I started to say that the aides can't move him when he falls so they don't aggravate a break. Dad started swearing at me, that yes he understands this. Eventually he told me he was embarrassed now about his reaction and behavior. He is glad they were taking care of him, but it was pretty exasperating at the time.

I'm in the doghouse. I contacted the church to change Dad's mailing address for the pledge statements. Because of that, I "sicced" the visitation minister on him. The minister visited Dad today. They seem to have conversed about postage rates. I pray it was not like the priest's visits to Salieri in the mad house.

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder