How I earned my medical degree and cried in a store

This elder care thing is not for the faint of heart. It's not the for the weak-kneed, the squeamish or the namby-pambies, either. Nope. You gotta go full in, guns blazin' and it's going to get ugly...fast.

This past week, we ended on a down note. As much as I hate to reveal super personal things about my parents, I'm doing so today only to help somebody that might end up in this situation. I'm paying it forward, so to speak. I know I said I have standards. I do. But sh*t happens and it might help you prepare if I tell you about ours.

I mentioned the other day that Dad yelled at me. To be more specific, when I asked what hurt, I expected that he'd either say his tailbone or his arm hurt. Instead, he very specifically said, in a very loud voice: MY ASS HURTS. Again, thinking it was his tailbone, I further inquired, fully prepared to dismiss this constant phantom tailbone pain. "My skin is raw and it HURTS."

Oh crap. What now? But I still didn't panic. I figured it was hemmorhoids, which, I figured would happen. So, I asked Mom to take a look, trying to preserve some of Dad's dignity. Now, I know. This was a ridiculous request. Mom has macular degeneration. She can't see a damn thing. But if somebody's going to look at my Dad's butt, it should be his wife, first and foremost, right? She looked, as best as she could and confirmed the raw skin complaint. I told Dad that we needed to see the doctor so that this didn't turn into an infection.

The next morning, I was asking Mom further about the "area in question." She was trying to describe it, but was doing so very poorly. Not her fault. I finally got frustrated and decided that I needed to look. Yep, I had to go there. Look, I don't care. I need to see what we're discussing with the doctor. Truthfully, I was a little scared. We were crossing over a line. But I had to put on my big girl pants and get right in there and find out what the problem was. And then I diagnosed it...perfectly.

We went to the doctor - all three of us - me, Dad and Mom. We are now like an old person train. We take FOREVER. Mom sat in the waiting room and I took Dad in. The doctor was trying to figure out a way to get a good look at the "area in question" and Dad just dropped his pants. Totally cracked me up. The doctor looked at it and then said, in his adorable Argentinian accent: "You have what we call pressure ulcers." He then gave a long explanation. I cut to the quick and said: "Is this the sitting equivalent of bed sores?" He quickly answered: "Yes, exactly."

Yes folks. I called it. I told Mom that I believed that Dad's problem stemmed from sitting on his ass all freaking day long watching TV and not moving. As my Mom later asked me: "Are you sure you don't have a medical degree?"

*Pats self on back.*

So the doctor prescribed this bizarre combination of bandages (for a place that is virtually "unbandageable") and diaper cream. Yep, if Dad thought he had any dignity, the tube of diaper cream I brought home was going to rip that away.

But here's where pathos plays into my story and restores my faith in humanity: I went to a medical supply store. I thought I was just going for the weird/quirky/expensive bandages. I explained the problem. (Surely these people have heard worse.) The first person grabbed a guy who worked there. I reexplained the problem. He patted me on the back and then said: "My dad had the exact same problem." He then gave a perfect description of what was going on and explained why it was happening (because Dad sits slouched) and what I was going to have to do to fix this or it was going to get worse. This man not only explained what was going on, he also talked about the phantom tailbone pain and the need to watch TV constantly and the lack of motivation to do anything.

And then I started crying. I kinda held back, but right there, right then, in that medical supply store, I was getting all weepy because this one person in the entire world understood this craptastic mess we were in and how difficult it was. He told me how to deal with it (screw the weird bandages and diaper cream) and it seemed, miraculously, manageable. It wasn't going to be pretty or fun, but those days are behind me.

Today, on a Sunday, a visiting nurse will come and tell us whether what we are doing is a waste or perhaps, at least, pointing us in the right direction. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. It's not perfect, but it's the best we've got.