Today it took five attempts before they could Grandpa’s catheter past his enlarged prostate. Three people held him down and I tried to keep him calm while he screamed. Husband was in Europe – lucky for him, perhaps, but a wee less lucky for me. What was impressive about the catheter incident was that Grandpa never once swore during the many botched tube-up-the-urethra attempts. I would have sworn. I would have invented new %$#@ing expletives that would have made “%$#@” blush. But not Grandpa. And not Husband. Not liking to swear is one of the things that Husband has in common with his dad. That said, Grandpa DID call the doctor and the nurses disgusting rats who he promised to murder with a knife, no a shotgun, no a pickaxe.
I encouraged the murder fantasies, prodding him for specifics. Would he chop off this nurses’ hands first? Go for the back of the doctor’s head? (FIVE! %$#@ing attempts to jab a tube up his penis, remember!) Oh no, Grandpa was going for their penises, each and every one of them. Good for Grandpa, I complimented. An eye for an eye – or in this case – manhood for manhood. Never you mind that two of the four were lacking the appropriate appendages…
Also published on Medium.