^^^
"Frank, can I change you?"
The question caught me off guard and I responded, "Excuse me."
I didn't recognize the young fresh-faced woman. I put her age at eighteen or nineteen. She was wearing pink scrubs covered with cartoon pictures of cats.
The outfit I recognized. She was a CNA, a certified nursing assistant. They wear playful outfits. The cleaning crew's uniforms are covered in flowers, and the nurses wear single-color medical scrubs.
You learn these things when you visit nursing homes as often as I do. My mother and father have been in care for years. My mother passed away last year. It was a blessing. She suffered so much in her last few months.
My father, Frank Sr., is still going strong at eighty-two. I visit him once a week. Sometimes he recognizes me as his son. When he doesn't, I'm just one of the guys and we talk about sports, hunting, and fishing. If his favorite teams, the Eagles or Phillies, are on television, I sit and watch the game with him.
The people working at the home change often, but not the uniforms. It helps to know who does what so you can go directly to the right person when you need help.
If Dad spills his drink on the floor, I go find a person, usually a woman, wearing flowers. If he spills his drink on himself, a CNA will help him change his clothes. The nurses only get involved in important health-related matters, like pain management and handing out medicines.
As I mentioned, the staff turnover is high. I didn't recognize the cute slim brunette. She must be new. She didn't recognize me. I didn't hold that against her.
For my whole life, I've been told that I am the spitting image of my father and namesake. We have the same build. The same nose and eyes. Now that I'm fifty-eight, we have the same color hair: gray.
It doesn't help that Dad and I are partial to wearing plaid hunting shirts and jeans.
I wasn't offended that she thought I was my father. He looks good for his age. I don't. A life spent outdoors has taken its toll on me.
I own a landscaping business. My job takes me outdoors a lot. My hobbies do too. I hunt and fish. All that time in the sun has given me a weathered look.
So back to my story. When I responded to the eager teenager with 'Excuse me', she probably thought, 'This old man is deaf and, like half of the old folks in the facility, he's not wearing his hearing aids'.
So she spoke louder and said, "FRANK, YOU MAY NOT RECOGNIZE ME. I'M NEW. MY NAME IS JEN. CAN I CHANGE YOU?"
I was about to say something flippant like, "You can try to change me. The fact that I have two ex-wives argues that task is impossible."
Instead I thought, "What the hell? I'm going to have some fun." I nodded and shuffled toward her. I purposely stumbled. She gasped and reached out to steady me. I gave her an embarrassed smile.
She said, "Careful, Frank. Let's go to your room."
My father, Frank Sr., was outside sitting in the sun, baking his old bones, where I had left him, so I knew we wouldn't be disturbed. I asked, in a weak voice, "May I hold onto your arm?"
Of course, the sweet thing said yes. I put my right hand on her left forearm and we walked slowly to my dad's room. Sick bastard that I am, periodically I stumbled and used that as an opportunity to cop a feel. I pressed the back of my hand against one of her firm young breasts.
As I'd hoped, she was focused on keeping me from falling, and didn't object to a little 'accidental' contact.
She led me to my father's room and assisted me as I sat on the bed. She went to close and lock the door for privacy. While she had her back turned, I grabbed the vase off the nightstand.
That day, I'd brought my father a cutting off the large honeysuckle bush my mother had planted beside the house. She loved the fragrant flowers. The scent would come through the window above the sink and fill the kitchen.
Whenever the plant was in bloom, I brought him some of its flowers. I knew the smell would bring back pleasant memories of the home he shared with his wife of sixty years.
