I believe in the adage -- "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." It doesn't mean I can do it, but I believe in it. Which means, I try to do it, but sometimes I, too, get caught up in the gossip train. Other times it is purely innocent. I just need to vent. If I don't take opportunities to vent, the proverbial last straw lands with a thunk on my shoulders and I lose it. Today was one of those days.
It's quite a stressful situation to take someone you know primarily as an acquaintance under your roof. I've never lived with a man, other than my brothers and my father. It's like I've taken a mail-order husband and I don't know what to do with him....but worse. I don't WANT to know what to do with him. Well, I guess it's not that bad. I do want to help poor George, but I feel I'm inadequate at the task. I'm a good caregiver when it comes to pets and to the female variety of the human species. I just don't know what to do with men. They are a whole other story. Pets are so much easier to understand, even without being able to communicate in English.
Today was one of those days when I should have just vented in some way right when the day began. It's been building for days. I should have just written myself a letter and thrown it away. It would have served its purpose and then I wouldn't have been such an emotional mess.
It was such a simple thing. George asked how long the mattress was on the day bed we bought today for him. A simple question that I answered through gritted teeth as I cleaned diarrhea from the carpet. Oh! This wasn't George's diarrhea. Oh, God no! It was from my elderly dog, Tinker. After doing my best to answer George's concerns about the day bed, and after cleaning up Tinker and her mess, I went to my bathroom and dissolved into a puddle of tears as I sank down onto the toilet.
I didn't mean to cry. It seemed so ridiculous at the time. But that proverbial, emotional straw wouldn't let me do anything else. So much was building up. For months we have been dealing with Tinker and her sickness. We can't seem to figure out what is wrong with her. Two courses of antibiotics, ultrasounds, urinalisis, lung x-ray, and loads of worries later, we are no closer to finding an answer. The third course of antibiotics is giving her diarrhea. After talking with the vet it was agreed to stop the antibiotics, give her a bit of Kaopectate and any food we could get her to eat, and start again on Monday.
If it was just Tinker, I could handle it. She's an old dog. I know she doesn't have much life left in her. I'm just trying to make her last days as comfortable as possible. And, if there's anything I can do to get rid of what ails her, I want to do it, within reason. But Tinker isn't my only problem.
In all the shuffle of people and possessions and such this week, I've lost a check...a work check...worth a good amount of money. I've been searching the house this weekend trying to find it. I asked George if he could look in his things, but he took it as an insult. He thought I was implying that he would take something from me. That wasn't it at all. I just knew I had the check sitting on a chair near his things right after I got it in the mail. It could have dropped into his things when one of the cats hopped up on the chair. He couldn't, and still doesn't, understand why I would think he had my check.
Then, there's the day bed. We need a bed for George to sleep in. He's been camping out on the couch since he's got here. That leaves not much privacy for George, much less, me and Whimsy. We've been working on clearing out an extra bedroom for him. The next step was to buy a bed. I didn't think George felt up to getting out, going to a furniture stores, and testing out bed. I'd asked him what firmness he liked and I had a pretty good idea of what he wanted in a bed, so Whimsy and I went shopping today. We found a bed that we thought was perfect. The mattress isn't too hard, yet not too soft. It should be easy enough to get up from, especially since its height is adjustable. The day bed frame has metal bars on three sides which will give George something to help pull himself up. Plus, he can bank up pillows against the sides and may be able to sit up comfortably in bed. At each corner, there's a wooden finial that is good and sturdy that will help George get up from bed.
While it seemed perfect for George, it also seemed perfect for Whimsy and me. We'd been shopping around for a day bed for that room a while ago. We want it to be a guest room/library at some time. Right now it can be strictly George's room. But, when he leaves, we'll be able to convert it back to a guest room/library easier with a day bed than with a regular bed. Win-win situation! It can't get any better than that.
Until you go home and face someone with entirely different expectations. George wasn't keen about a day bed in the least. I know he must not have been feeling well, but he wouldn't let me finish describing it. He was just immediately against the whole thing. After putting so much thought, concern, and compassion into the decision...and, of course, a chunk of cash, it was a bit hard to come home to a not-so-warm reception. I let it slide, or so I thought I did at the time.
It was just the darn questions later that hit me like a slap in the face. I tried to assure George that the bed was as long as a standard, single bed. He had nothing to worry about. He would have plenty of room. Honestly, I think his picture of a day bed is quite a bit off from what this actually looks like, but he's not one for details...unless it is in his own stories. Then he can go on and on for details and minutea and trivia till the cows come home.
After sopping up my bucket of tears, collecting myself, and returning to my home office to get a bit of work done, George came to me to apologize. He didn't mean to hurt me. I knew he didn't, but that didn't change anything. The bed wasn't even in the door yet and it stood as a separation. George, in tears, said we may find him sleeping on the floor. The poor fool thinks he's going to somehow hurt his good leg in this day bed. I don't know how...I really don't. But he's so afraid....afraid of something he hasn't even seen and won't let me describe. I tried once again to describe it but he just glazed over.
I can't believe how fear can strike in people some time. They get something set in their mind and they are SURE it's one way when it really is the other. Well, I get that way sometimes myself, but not over a silly old bed. I assured George that we have a satisfaction guarantee on the bed and if he doesn't like it, we can return it within 45 days.
I really doubt he will have any problems with the bed. I think it's just fear of the unknown. But, if he does, I'm not sure what I'll do. I want that day bed for our future guest room/library. Maybe I'll just take it down, put it in storage, and have George go buy his own bed. Maybe that will make him happy. Or, maybe we could get someone to move his bed from his house to our house....and back again when George is able to take care of himself. I don't know. I just never thought something as simple as a bed could cause such a ruckus!