My nana does not garden, so that leaves….
Do old ladies even need to do that kind of stuff? The thought grosses me out even more when I remember Nana’s shopping list last month. I should have known when she’s asked for goggles, a pack of disposable razors, a hand mirror, and three cans of shaving cream that she was up to no good.
Long story short, I have two weeks to find an alternative care facility for Nana before the home boots her frisky ass to the curb.
“But…can’t I just talk to her? Please? She really likes it here, and I don’t want to have to move her again,” I beg, lying through my teeth, willing the woman to take pity on an old woman and by extension me.
The truth is, Nana hates this place, and every other one she’s been in, ergo her continued sexual harassment of the residents of the homes. It’s been this way since the day she went into a home, and no matter how many times I explain that I am not equipped to care for her from home, with my job and commitments, she still continues to do her best to get expelled from each one.
Short of a personality transplant and/or a large dose of mood-altering drugs, nothing I say or do will change her shenanigans.
“If I give her one last chance—”
“Oh, thank you!” I burst out, feeling almost lightheaded with relief.
Maybe I can slip some night time cough syrup into her apple juice. All that’ll entail is being here at least once a day. The idea bears further thought. Or a bribe-worthy nurse.
“This is the absolute last chance I’m giving her, Hannah,” she warns sternly, and I nod sagely.
“I understand,” I say wearily, rising to leave and go tell Nana her latest scheme has failed and that she’s still homebound. “Thank you so much for your understanding, Mrs Ludwig. I swear I’ll get her in line.”
What a crock. It would be easier to wrestle an alligator while painting my nails than it is to talk sense into Nana’s head. I love her, but seriously, she’s the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know how Mom lasted ten years corralling her, but I am obviously not made of enough steel to do so.
The last time I told her not to proposition a man she went on a hunger strike for two days. Meatloaf Monday had broken her of her ‘ideals,’ but I can’t be making meatloaf every day.
When I get to her room it’s empty, and I turn in a circle with a sinking sensation. Great, let’s hope I find her before someone catches her in a tricky situation.
Alas, my luck is not that great.
A feminine yell of outrage echoes in the air, and I race toward the sound, stopping dead in my tracks in the doorway of another room, my eyes watering, probably trying to climb out of their sockets as I see the most mortifying thing I have ever witnessed, next to the famous Sixth Avenue subway streaker.
I’d walked right by him once and gotten an eyeful of things that should not be seen. True story.
This beats that unholy sight by a mile.
“Oh Nana, no!”
There are some things you cannot un-see. Ever.
Nana is sitting buck ass naked on the edge of a twin bed with an equally naked geezer doing a good helicopter imitation in front of her. To her delight. And the horror of my bleeding eyeballs.
“Jesus,” I groan, and I swear I can feel Mrs Ludwig as she walks up behind me.
I close my eyes in defeat and take a deep breath, trying and failing to scrub the sight from my screaming brain.
“Strike three. Hundred,” Mrs Ludwig says dourly, and I just nod, opening my eyes to see a grinning Nana reaching for her…
I book it out of the room before I get another graphic view of my nana and her proclivities, and a chuckle escapes when I see the nurse and Mrs Ludwig shut the door quickly with twin groans.
I have to find amusement where I can right now, and seeing these women turn green is about as good as it’s going to get. You’d think they’d be used to this by now, the way they’ve been villainizing my poor defenceless nana.
“I guess there’s nothing I can say?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe a donation to the Christmas fund?”
Mrs Ludwig shakes her head, and I see the nurse grin widely. Apparently Nana has made no friends on the nursing front. Big shock.
“Sorry, kid.”
***
Three hours later, and a cab ride that will live with me forever, thanks to Nana’s descriptive talents, we make it to my apartment, and I slump against the door as she inspects my tiny apartment with a sniff.
“Is this it?”
“On my salary? You’re lucky we don’t have to bunk together,” I growl, lugging her suitcase to the spare room.
I do not know what I’m going to do about a babysitter, but that’s another worry that I just can’t deal with right now.