The Bumblebee

Today, we went over to Grandpa's house to continue cleaning up spare rooms; if he comes home, he'll need live-in help of some sort, and if he doesn't come home the house needs cleaning anyway. When we got there, I saw a bumblebee of significant size - not the largest I'd seen, but decently big - lying on the windowsill next to a vase of silk tulips. Nobody had been in the house for a day; it must have come in then and, having failed to find nectar in the artificial flowers, succumbed after beating itself against the glass.

Not a great sign, given Grandpa's continued downward slide.

He hasn't eaten voluntarily in three days. He rocks with nausea and stomach pain. Yet the staff still declares he's eating well. They even asked him if he was fine; he said yes, as he often does to any question put to him, especially questions he doesn't want to answer. So he must be fine. Never mind that he's shaking with hypoglycemia, that he can barely swallow what food my uncle coaxes him to try. Never mind that everyone who sits near him at meals knows he's falling asleep in his food and hasn't eaten. Never mind that one glance can tell you he's sick.

The whole family is getting exceptionally hacked off by the way the staff keeps brushing us off. Something's clearly wrong. He probably needs to go back to the hospital. At the very least, he needs someone to pay attention. This is not the same man who was doing so well in therapy. This isn't even the same man who left the hospital to begin with. This is a sick man, maybe even a dying man.

We'd been cleaning for a few hours when I heard something buzzing in the living room window. It was a bumblebee of significant size. A look at the windowsill revealed that the immobile, seemingly dead bee was no longer there. It had sprung back to life, and was now doing its best to escape the flowerless confines of Grandpa's house. I helped it out the door, where it buzzed about angrily for a moment before taking off.

I can only hope Grandpa will be as lucky as that bumblebee...

TUESDAY UPDATE: Mom went to see Grandpa today. The other day, my uncle got in touch with a social worker who would see to it that Something Was Done, so she wanted to see if they were following through. She called from the rehab center a while ago. Grandpa's on his way back to the hospital proper for a urology problem. So, maybe they'll figure out what the heck's wrong with him and actually Do Something About It. (Seriously, one of the chief reasons we went with this rehab center was the fact that they had a hospital right below them if something went wrong... why did it take something this bad to make them actually take advantage of that proximity?)
UPDATE OF THE UPDATE: Grandpa's back in the rehab center after an excursion to the ER at the original hospital. (Turns out they don't have a urologist at the ER in the rehab building basement. I thought urology issues were pretty common problems, especially when you're dealing with older men, but whatever...) Anyway, they finally got a catheter in and drained him; it'll be a couple weeks before they can figure out if he'll need one permanently, or if there's any permanent kidney damage from the backup. Yes, this has been coming on for at least 24 hours, probably since he went off his food to begin with. Grandpa was apparently in so much pain he was crying last night - and this is a man who used to calmly sew up his own fingers if he cut them too deeply. Evidently the rehab staff was much more helpful today after complaints were made over their heads... guess you really do have to be the squeaky wheel, after all. So, it's been a long and stressful day, but it's over now. I hope.