One of the reasons I remain anonymous is so I can write little vignettes that would be excruciatingly embarrassing if anybody knew who I was.
I spent last night at my parent's home. Dad had another episode of dehydration and falling. His condition was exacerbated by a virus; swollen lymph nodes made swallowing more painful.
We thought he was going to be in the hospital a while. The imaging showed all kinds of anomalies plus he was whistling and chuffing like a steam engine.
Finally, a doctor old enough to shave came on duty. "Is he stabilized?" Yes. "Does he want to go home?" Yes. "Do you promise to drink two liters of water a day?" Yes. "Men don't live to be 92 without getting scuffed up a bit. Send him home."
So there I was patiently waiting in my parent's dining room this morning. Dad was helping mom get dressed in another room. Her arms don't have the flexibility that they used to. The doors were open in case one of them toppled and I was needed to help them up. Even though I am not a total stranger to the sight of my mother's breasts, it has been fifty-eight years since I last saw them. Mom was far more comfortable having dad help her get dressed.
It was reassuring to me to hear that my dad, at age 92, is just as baffled by the intricacies of intimate, female garments as I am.
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