When in critical care units, elderly folk sometimes get a little crazy. Or a lot crazy. When one is a little crazy to start with, it can be . . . really interesting. And not always in a funny way. My father does not suffer from dementia, but he is a little crazy. At the best of times, he manages OK. He's able to find the pause button.
The past two days, not so much. While he has a better side, can be quite engaging and charming, he also has a mean side. With the "ICU psychosis" going on, he doesn't bother with the pause button.
He is very angry today at me; and being very mean about it. While I know this is about him, and not about me, still it ain't easy to take for long. He has dismissed me from court; "get your queer ass outta here." Oh, well, OK.
The angry looks, and words, and gestures are all coming from his anger over life, the universe, and everything. It's not about me. In fact, I have been told that I have a really nice queer ass of which to be proud. (That is not an observation he has made, nor do I wish to hear from him).
Nonetheless, I need to take care of me. While my head understands, my heart hurts. The well-trained, very kind, and competent staff in the critical care unit can take of him for now. I'm taking care of me.