7 February 2021
Not one to squander an opportunity, I carefully planned this Sunday alone as a caretaker's holiday.
I got a head start yesterday by cleaning the bathroom and kitchen. I even dusted Joyce's room, which hasn't been attempted since 2003. Had I known what I was getting into, I would have dressed more appropriately, probably in a Hazmat suit. As it was, I was able to swirl the dust around to other locations, freshening it up a bit.
But today, no such death defying feats.
Instead, I vacuumed the rugs, although I had to use the hand attachment to scrub the fibers back to their original color which, thanks to the accumulated dust, had been preserved from fading in the sun.
Then there was the laundry. Darks first and then whites. They took care of themselves in the marvelous new Whirlpool machines I waited six months to acquire. All without the aid of a lawyer.
And there was breakfast to prepare for the resident caretaker. Scrambled eggs, green onions and smoked salmon parts. With half a bottle of prosecco, the remainder to be consumed in celebration of Patrick Mahomes and the Kansas City Chiefs blow-out victory over that Guy Who Is Not As Great As Montana.
I did talk to Joyce today. Briefly again. She's not really following what's going on. She thought she was being released but hasn't been. And realizes she has an appointment with Dr. Tong to do the dressing change Monday (which, I pointed out to her, is tomorrow). But that's about it.
And I also heard from Salwa the LVN, who asked how Joyce was doing. I gave her the Caretaker's Short Version and she sent back her wishes for Joyce's speedy recovery. On her day off.
It is only a few hours before the damp laundry dries and the aforementioned Mahomes cements his name in history in a special duel arranged particularly for the amusement of caretakers.
I calculate it will take that long to prepare the snacks.