Woody Cavenaugh

At nine this morning we walked in to find dad up in a chair watching TV. He had eaten a good breakfast and was feeling very upbeat and happy. By 10:30am he was asleep. At about 11:30am someone came in and said that dad would be discharged at 1pm. Excited by this mom and I rushed out to do some shopping and to get our last good meal out. We arrived at one expecting dad to be unhooked and ready to ride.

At about two O'clock the first person came in to discharge him. One talked about what would have to be done to be checked out. One checked his blood pressure, temperature, and O2 level. One had him sign some papers. Two giggling schoolgirls talked to him about nutrition. There was some confusion about what they were going to do about the crown they knocked out. By 4pm they summoned the "Gray Ladies".

Now I've seen Grease, I know about the Pink Ladies. Clearly they grew up and got good jobs.

But then I started thinking that perhaps these were actually some sort of spirits that carries the hospitalized from the land of Medicade to the land of the living and back. I was creeped out enough that I grabbed dad's plant and headed to the car. Car equal safe place.

He stepped from the wheel chair driven by either someone's grandmother or Death I couldn't quiet tell, and dad entered the safety of the car at 4:30pm. If being admitted is as bad as being discharged I think I'm just going to schedule my heart attack with them a day early so I can be settled in a room before I code.

I have this whole image of some Gray Lady steering me away from the light while I sign the entrance exam forms. NOT a happy place.

The next couple of days will be spent chasing my father from one appointment to another while reminding him that no he can't mow the grass, and no he can't go fishing yet. My reward for being a good son will be having to mow the grass. I just know it.