Decisions, Decisions

The sniff test

Lately, the key word in the SJG vocabulary is comfy.  The hospital bed was never called the hospital bed.  Everyone was under strict orders to call it The Comfy Bed.  There was a reason for this.  There's always a reason, unless you find yourself in limbo, and then there's no reason at all. But the reason for the euphemistic reference:  to trick a certain someone who didn't want a hospital bed.  It worked.

A tentative first step toward comfy

This whole journey with my dad has been all about keeping him comfy, right up to the end. "Does he look comfy?" I say, a thousand times a day. "Yes," whatever nurse is on duty tries to reassure me. "Does he look comfy to you?" I ask my brother John. "I think so." "Maybe he needs to be moved a little." This is the wrong decision, I've learned the hard way. An epic mistake. A blunder. When someone is comfy, particularly someone heading to another place -- and if you could please describe this place to me, and give me an approximate locale, I would be much obliged -- it is best not to eff with them, despite what the last nurse on call instructs.  The slightest re-positioning brings grumbling and otherworldly noises that will haunt me for quite a while. "I shouldn't have told you to move him.  He was comfy," I said yesterday.  John gave me a look. "Don't feel bad.  I'm booking you a guilt trip." "Great.  Put me in first class."

Full-out rejection

I'm learning so much about comfy. Everyone's definition is different. And some people, often the ones we love the most, the ones we can't bear to say goodbye to, don't want to let go of their comfy place, and honestly, can you blame them? Some people get so comfy they hang on for dear life. Until they finally lose their grip.