"Double Murder? No Your Honor, It Was Justifiable, Trust Me. (a.k.a. My, but these Orange Jumpsuits Don't Flatter My Figure At All")

Well, I'm back. And everyone is still alive. Granted, if I had those nifty mind powers like Carrie, it would be a different story, but you don't need to know about my imaginings. I'll try to tell the short version of my weekend. For those of you who read regularly, you know that I use the term "short" loosely. Every post is practically a novel. It might take more than one post, so deal with it.

Things went fairly well on Thursday. I had to load everyone's crap myself, because Old Man River is doing good to get himself, a cane, and his handicapped sticker into the vehicle, and Mom is still in a neck brace and the doctor told her she couldn't carry anything. We stopped along the way to pick up another lady, and since she is also crippled (and 75), I packed up her stuff too. It's sad that 4 days' worth of luggage for the 4 of us filled the entire bed of my mom's Dodge Dakota. I swear I loaded the kitchen sink at one point. Plus, my grandpa had to take along his oxygen machine which weighs just short of a ton, and he also brought about 350 little oxygen bottles to carry in his "holster" on his hip.

By the time we got our eating & shopping done and got to the motel, my grandpa was exhausted. He decided to stay at the motel and have me bring supper back for him. So I got his supper at Long John's Silver at the drive-thru. There was an enormous black guy wearing a beanie at the drive-up window. He looked like that guy in Men In Black 2 that worked in the post office and had a face like a hippo. The first thing he said to me rhymed, and I had a little chuckle in my head. But after he continued talking, suddenly I realized that it was intentional on his part. He spoke only in rhyme! "Would you like some sauce? You're the boss!" "Here's your sack. Please come back!" I thought about saying something smartmouth back to him in rhyme, but I figured it would only encourage him. Friggin' weirdo.

Anyhoo, I left the grub off at the motel and picked up the rest of the motley crew (get it?). We did some shopping after we ate, so we didn't get back to the motel until about 10:30. There was a note in my door and this is what it said:

I cut my tounge and it won't stop bleeting. It's ben 3 hours.

I suppressed my urge to either leave immediately and buy my grandfather a dictionary, or laugh hysterically at the thought of him "bleeting." Instead, I went to his room, only to find him freaking out over the blood that was "soaking into the pillow and going everywhere." In reality, it was about three drops of blood on the pillowcase. Yeah, he's gonna have to go into protective custody over that one, or that hotel staff will string him up. I sighed inwardly, rolled my eyes when he wasn't looking, and changed the pillowcase.

But when I walked into the bathroom, it looked like someone had been murdered. He is on medicine to thin his blood, so even a small cut bleeds profusely. He had cut a blood vessel on the underside of his tongue, and it had apparently been gushing for quite some time. He said he felt a little lightheaded even. And clearly, my grandfather is unacquainted with the idea of a trashcan, so there was bloody napkins everywhere. I entertained the idea of leaving everything the way it was, and putting a steak knife in one of the drawers, but knowing my luck, the maid would have a heart attack and I'd be held responsible.

I called the Nurse on Call at the local hospital. She instructed that pressure and a dry cloth/towel needed to be put on it. Well, when you're in a motel, you use what you have. He didn't have his own towel to use...but he had a clean pair of dry underwear. You see where I'm going with this. The bleeding finally stopped about midnight. But it started up again the next morning when we went to breakfast, so we decided a towel was necessary if he was going to be in public.

Something always happens to him when we go to Lincoln. Last year, his oxygen machine quit working, and he went for hours not getting any air before we found a place open that could loan us a regulator. The year before, his throat closed up and he couldn't swallow. I think he lost about 15 lbs. on that trip. This year, between his bleeding like a stuck hog and the other lady running into my ankles with her scooter every step in Wal-Mart, I was ready to park this Senior Express and turn in my keys.

I'm tired of typing. More on the rest of the insanity tomorrow.