So, if all goes well, The Curmudgeon should be in Good Shepherd rehab hospital by late afternoon.

How long he’ll be there, I have no idea.

I do hope that they can get him back to where he can take care of himself as he was doing before all this.

I truly fear that we need to sell this house and move to where we can manage more easily. However, to do that we have plenty of work that needs completion to get the house up to where we can sell it.

The Curmudgeon sounds like himself again. He called me a couple of times yesterday. He’s gone from death’s door to almost back.

I did not hear the weak old man voice rambling on about nonsense. I heard his old self.

Monday the doctors plan to redo all the paperwork to get him in Good Shepherd rehab. Seems that even though the insurance company had authorized him going there, when he had that set-back this past week, then they have to start it all over again.

Keep your fingers crossed!

I will keep on watching for him!

He’s coherent! I talked to him on the phone twice, once yesterday afternoon and again in the evening. They still won’t let him eat or drink because of his swallowing problem so he asks that you all have a drink and eat something for him.

He’s weak and tires easily, but would love visitors for short periods, to keep his spirits up. G and I will be going in to see him tomorrow, I think Rick will be in to see him too.

The doctors say they think he’s been having pseudo seizures. Nothing shows on his MRIs or EEGs. His blood work and all is good.

In other words: they still can’t figure out what is happening.

An ENT doctor will be checking on him about his swallowing problem and who knows who all else will be dropping in so his insurance company can pay them.

The Curmudgeon and Gavin

I was wrong.

Went to the hospital with The Curmudgeon’s oldest and dearest friend Rick today. I felt that Gina needed a break.

The Curmudgeon’s brain seems fried and beyond reach. Yeah, he didn’t know me.

The doctors don’t know what’s wrong. They’ve put him back on EEG telemetry.

I know I should be there with him each day, but it’s hard to go and see him like this. He’s not there. That’s some stranger in that bed. I don’t think he’s coming home.

G and I went to the hospital to see The Curmudgeon. We found a shadow of him in the bed. Incoherent talking nonsense completely scaring me out of my mind strange.

This wasn’t the same man we saw the last time we went in. This was someone who had gone beyond the weird.

I am crying my eyes out. I am afraid. I need to be surrounded by people who care, but that’s not gonna happen.

G is my only anchor. She’s kept me from going off the deep end and I hate weighing her down with it.

Sometimes that deep end looks far too inviting.

As soon as we walked into his room (the third one since he’s been there) I knew something was terribly wrong.

A nurse was feeding him and he was gibbering away about spies, strange machines, and other sorts of nonsense. His hands shook as he plucked at his hospital gown and he looked years older, thinner, and not like himself at all.

My heart shattered. I couldn’t stay in the room with him for more than a few minutes at a time, I’d have to go out into the hall and cry.

Dad is gone, Mom is gone, and three sisters are also gone. The Curmudgeon is an only child and his parents are also gone.

Again, my heart shatters.

I didn’t know I could cry so much.

I didn’t know I could feel so alone.

I didn’t know that I could feel so lost in a room with people.

I don’t think he’s coming home.

Now, according to the last doctor who called me, we are dealing with Sundown syndrome.

Sundown syndrome is a term that describes the onset of confusion and agitation that generally affects people with dementia or cognitive impairment and usually strikes around sunset.

Where the hell is my lottery win so I can make sure he gets the care he needs that I am not capable of giving him?

He looked so much better when we saw him and then I find out that later that evening, he exhibited these symptoms.

I need a padded cell.

Lucy and Gavin miss their Daddy.

So Good Shepherd rehab phoned me and a nice lady was telling me all about how they are going to work with The Curmudgeon if things go through. Sounded good and she promised to call me back and let me know…I never did hear back from her.

Fifteen minutes later some other place called (the woman slurred the name so badly I couldn’t understand it and she wouldn’t repeat it) I stopped her two minutes into her spiel.

“Um, Good Shepherd just called me. Have you actually talked to my husband’s case worker or anyone?”

“Well not actually.”

“Not actually? Really?

Tell you what, you call his case worker at St. Luke’s and between you, the case worker, his doctors, Good Shepherd, and all the rest of you money-grubbing vultures maybe y’all can actually talk to my husband and make some sort of arrangement. Then one of you call me when y’all have all your little yellow duckies in a row. How about y’all do that?”

Yeah, that southern influence sort of comes out of me when someone pisses me off by assuming I know what the fuck is going on with this shit.

OMG what a cluster fuck this is. I didn’t dare drive out there for fear they’d transfer him somewhere while I was en-route. It would be just like them to do that.