Sands of Time

This past Sunday, the relatives and I visited the World Sand Sculpting Championship, once again hosted in a scenic area parking lot between a deserted Target and a deserted Toys R Us. It was a little smaller this year - no teams larger than pairs - but, if nothing else, it would give me an excuse to inflict more photos on the blogging community.

"Relatives" included the usual immediate family, my uncle, and Grandpa. This being a flat and relatively small venue, and something he actually seemed to enjoy last year, we thought it would be an ideal place to get Grandpa out and about for a while.

For a while, he was getting himself up to walk three times a day at the group home where he's been living. He'd been reading the paper (or at least skimming it), and commenting on it.

But, as we've learned too well this year, it's impossible to take anything for granted at his age, in his condition. They finally got the catheter out, but he still has lingering infection issues. He also keeps building up too much fluid, requiring numerous games of doctor tag before anyone will adjust his water pills to deal with it.

All of this takes a toll on his increasingly fragile stamina, not to mention his increasingly cloudy mental state. Between one day and the next, he can go from relatively alert and lively to glassy-eyed and weary. Sunday, the day of the Great Sand Sculpture Excursion, was a weary day.

For a while, Grandpa managed to walk with the use of his walker, but the effort told on him. Though we were there while the sculptors were still working, fielding questions and putting finishing touches on their incredible creations - including patiently affirming one clueless man's question as to whether the sand being wet had anything to do with how they were able to sculpt it - he hardly seemed to notice them. Just staying upright consumed most of his attention.

Before too long, it was time to switch off to the wheelchair.

The group home has an annoying habit of removing the foot rests of Grandpa's wheelchair, and storing them far away from the wheelchair itself. My uncle didn't check, before he left, to see if the rests were on or off. (Of course, this is a man who never remembers sunscreen or a hat, despite repeated scorchings...)

Without foot rests, pushing him in the chair requires some cooperation on Grandpa's part; he has to lift or "walk" his feet, or they catch on the ground or snag the front wheels.

For a while, it worked out. Freed from the effort of walking, he even seemed a little more alert, though his eyes tended to wander about, unable to stay focused on any given sculpture for long.

Before too long, though, he was letting his feet glide along, unwilling or unable to lift them. Even sitting down was proving strenuous for him. Since he couldn't be pushed, my uncle had him get back up on his walker as we headed toward the food court (or rather, three tents selling foodlike substances and cold liquids.)

Grandpa managed to get to the tables, even navigating hoses left in his path. (People don't realize how difficult it is to deal with hoses until they have a relative in need of a walker or wheelchair; that inch or so of lift to clear one's feet becomes a monumental task.) But that was about it for the day. He was asleep almost before he'd sat down. Even the temptation of chocolate milk failed to rally his stamina.

Before the final judging started, we headed off. Grandpa had to be rolled backwards; once more unable to participate in his own transportation, it was easier to roll him backwards, letting his heels skim the ground, than push the whole length of his foot on the asphault.

The final sand sculpture, on the last row, seemed oddly and eerily fitting for the day.  Its title, appropriately enough, was "The Sands of Time."