Shortly after Grams moved into the assisted living facility, I popped over for what I deemed as laundry day. Before she moved in I had put a laundry basket in her bathroom and when she came I told her that is where she should put her clothes. It had been about 10 days since she had moved in but there was no laundry in her basket.
Me: Grams, where are your dirty clothes.
Gma: I washed them.
Me: Where is the washing machine?
Gma: I don’t know.
Me: Then how did you wash your clothes?
Gma: I washed them.
Me: Where?
Gma: In the washing mashine.
Me: Where is the washing machine?
Gma: I don’t know.
Frustrated, I started going through her closet and drawers. She wearing the same shirt that she was wearing the day she moved in. Had she really done laundry? She didn’t seem capable to me. I found one item of dirty clothing in a drawer and decided to wash some of her shirts because they smelled funny. Suddenly, Gma handed me a dirty item of clothing.
Me: Where did you get this?
Gma: Over here.
She signaled to a suitcase in her closet. I prayed, “Please, God. Please, let me find at least one pair of dirty underwear. Please! Please!” God answered my prayer. Grams leaned over the suitcase then straightened and forced something into my hand with a “Here, wash this.” As my hand made contact with the item, I felt a squish and smelled a smell. NO! No! She wouldn’t? I looked down and saw that my hand was covered in fecal matter. I closed my eyes. I knew I couldn’t react as I wanted to. Our relationship was still too shaky at this point and I needed her to trust me. I looked up at her and she turned away as though nothing had happened.
I simply walked to the bathroom rinsed the clothing she had handed me and washed my hands. After that, I stared in the mirror for a while and thought to myself, “What have you gotten yourself into?’
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