The game we play, my father-in-law and I, has no written rules, no tiny hour glasses filled with sand, buzzers, or points to be counted. Well, that’s not exactly true, there is a type of score.
This time the score is 7 days, 4 hours and 27 minutes.
That’s 7 days, 4 hours and approximately 27 minutes since Griffy’s last shower.
The first move is always his.
“Sharon, I think I’ll go for a shower.” …although he has started calling me Karen…
“Ok Griffy,” my reply.
Let the game begin.
The announcement comes mid-afternoon, never in the morning, never at night. He declares his intent, shuffles off down the hall, slippers buffing, scuffing all the way. One does not need to watch, you can hear his progress, down the hall fainter and fainter until he reaches his room, opens the door and goes inside.
The shower isn’t in there.
There is nothing he needs to retrieve; supplies and towels are ever ready in the master bath. Do not ask me what he is doing, there are some things I just don’t care to know. A few minutes later, the door opens, he comes out empty-handed, and heads for the master bath.
The next move is mine.
I sit and count to 100, not too slow, not too fast, 1 -1000, 2-1000, 3-1000; like a game of hide and go seek only now there is no seeking, just me hiding out of sight.
I take my cell phone and into the master bedroom I go, taking my place just outside the bathroom door and wait.
Well, not just wait exactly. I listen.
I listen for the sound of the water being turned on, and when it starts, I look down at my cell phone and start the stopwatch.
It started out just listening, listening for trouble. The plastic shower seat, hand rails, and hand-held shower were there to assist, make it easier, but the mommie mind raced, never at ease waiting on the other side of the house for his return. He can barely keep upright walking on a solid dry surface, never mind on a wet soapy one. So instead of waiting out of ear shot heart racing thinking every noise is a sign of distress, heart pounding call the paramedics! I started sitting in the bedroom listening for trouble just outside the bath room door.
The proximity eased my worry.
I don’t know why that is, why being closer seems to alleviate the fear. It just does. It’s the same with all my children, as long as they are near, as long as they are close, as long as they are under my roof, in my house, they can come to no harm.
The simple nearness is a strange comfort, but it works. So I sit, just outside the bathroom door assuring that no harm will befall the tottering 75 year-old man just beyond the door, nothing can happen, because I am near.
That’s when I first noticed it. I noticed that despite the fact that the water takes a while to warm up to even body temperature, it never seemed to run for very long.
So I started timing it. The water did shut off almost as soon as it was turned on.
Less than two minutes. As in you have got to be kidding there is no way you are soaping up and rinsing off anything in that amount of time, soon.
That’s how the game began.
It started off with me just listening, making sure he didn’t fall in the shower, and evolved into me playing some sort of hygiene monitor. I now arrange the soap, shampoo and even his tooth-brush and when I check them after his almost weekly attempts at personal hygiene they have not been moved.
His tooth-brush is never wet.
That’s the game we play, Griffy and I.
He pretends that he washed.
And I pretend not to notice he was in the shower for less than 120 seconds.