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I'm talking about incontinence.
Will we ever be able to discuss bladder weakness with the door open, in an audible volume? Depends...
OK - now that I've dispensed with the requisite soggy undergarment humor, let me impart a bit of wisdom gleaned from the past 18 months as a part-time caregiver to my elderly, wheelchair-bound mother-in-law and the daughter of a woman whose urinary frequency exceeds the rate at which Lindsay Lohan has court appearances: Take care of your bladder.
The old saying for seniors is that you should never pass up an opportunity to go to the bathroom; in my mother-in-law's case, this applies whether or not there's actually a facility in which to go, as I will illustrate with this re-enactment from last year when she stayed with my husband and me for a month:
Me: "Honey...your mom's gotta pee. Your turn."
My Honey: "Huh? What time is it?"
Me: "Time to take your mother to the bathroom."
My Honey: "Zzzzzzz..."
Me: "Hey! Wake up! Your mom needs to go!"
Mother-in-law: "Never mind..."
Sadly, this problem has now become the determining factor in where she lives, where she can go, and who she can go with; it turns out her bladder is an unrepentant night owl. Momma's got a squeeze box, alright - and while it's playin' all night, it ain't on her chest.
My mother, on the other hand, is nothing if not practical about her indelicate condition. As a southern woman it takes her no less than two hours - with final pee - to prepare to go anywhere, including the mailbox (actually, especially the mailbox, as the likelihood of seeing someone from the caucasian-and-stucco retirement community where she lives is greatest there). My father is so well trained that he knows it's time to get the car keys when the toilet flushes. The second time.
Yes, there are various heavily advertised medications designed to relieve this issue (bouncy balloons and metal-pipe stick figures anyone?), but the side effects made them impossible for these ladies to tolerate. Which brings me to this: We're clever enough to develop a way to make Hugh Hefner a viable sexual partner (I didn't say desirable - a perfect storm of low IQs and high financial resources are required for that) but we can't fix a leaky human faucet. Kegels and cranberry juice are our only defense. Why is that?
Pardon the sexism, but honestly, I think it might be because for the moment most scientists are men - and like my husband, they're not the ones who gotta get up and take mom to the bathroom.
Again.
Posted: Wednesday, Jul 07 2010 at 7:09 AM
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