This morning, just now, before six, 'Ama wakes me from cozy slumber with urgent whisperings. My father had soiled himself, tried to get the diaper off to clean himself, and only succeeded in getting all the blankets filthy (and the mattress), then falling off the sofa bed. She needed help cleaning up the mess, wiping his ass, and getting him back up onto the bed. Whoa, bit of rude awakening there - literally.

'Apa got out of the hospital yesterday evening or afternoon, I'm not quite sure which. Since I got out late, I didn't have a chance to see him until just now. He was sitting naked on the floor, smelly and adamant, much like Angel gets sometimes. I stripped the bed of the damp, soiled sheets while 'Ama went to get a basin of warm water and a towlette for my father's arse. We tidied up the bed first, to have a clean surface with which to work with when we swabbed Pifas clean. Then came the process of lifting the old bastard. He is one heavy old bastard. And even then, not so much that. It's just unnerving trying to lift him up as quickly as possible without hurting him while at the same time trying to keep all his weight on me so he won't spare too much of his waning strength... all the while trying not to retch from the stench of old man shit and keeping a firm footing after stepping in said shit that was smeared invisibly on the floor beneath his ass. In my bare feet.

Needless to say, nursing is not my choice of career. That's why I work in a damn warehouse, okay?

I've got a lot to learn about caring for an elderly person. The Dud didn't even flinch in her sleep; but then again, I don't think she heard Mom and I grunting with the effort. Still, it worries me that she slept so deeply through it all. She wants to take him to El Paso, see, to live with her and the kids. She says he'll be better taken care of there. But hell, he might be reverting to a toddlerish behavior, but that doesn't mean that 'Apa is just like Angel, at least not when it comes to diapers. Angel is content to waltz around the house in a dirty diaper. In fact, little twerp runs from us when we try to change it, usually screaming: "No! No! No!" P'fas, on the other hand, is a fully grown man, who's been house trained, but just can't go on his own anymore. He's still highly independant, at least in his mind, that is, and he resents having to have his ex-wife and two children tend to him and see his old, wrinkled nads. He wants to move, just can't do so very well. So, like this morning, he tries to tend to himself alone. Took a shit in his diaper? No problem! He'll just get himself on up there, reach for that package of diapers just over there, just out of his reach from the bed, and - WHOMP! There he goes. He's on the floor again. See? If the Dud can't wake up to his feeble curses and protests from the jumbled, bruised pile of elderly sick man in the next room... then no. No, this ain't gonna work too well.